Ohh I wanna dance with somebody!

I wanna feel the heat with somebody!

I wanna dance with somebody,

with somebody who loves me!

The voice of Whitney Houston blares through the gymnasium's ancient loudspeakers as we jump up and down together, shaking each other by the arms and screeching along to the music. Some of our classmates give us the stink eye, but it doesn’t matter. They wanna have a miserable time? Go ahead.

Me? I give Jack a twirl which he promptly returns, smoothly spinning me into his arms as the song ends and turns into something marginally slower. I prefer to enjoy myself, and he makes it pretty easy.

"Oh my gosh, Tory," he growls and fistpumps the air, eyes lighting on fire at the first note. "I love this song."

I stretch my hand out to him with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish. "May I have this dance, m'lord?"

"Why, certainly, m'lady," he chuckles as he takes my hand. I sweep him farther into the center of the dance floor a little too hard and we almost knock over the only other dancing couple.

"Sorry!" we apologise simultaneously before quickly returning to our absolutely extra selves. My hands, and kind of everything else, are really sweaty at this point of the night—nearly two dozen songs in, all of which the two of us have danced without so much as a toilet break. He looks drenched too, but it kinda makes him sparkle.

Why don't we kiss goodnight?

It might just end my life...

"...I'm pretty sure that it's riight—"

"Riiight!"

"Why don't we kiss good—"

"Night..?"

After a couple unhinged minutes of impromptu duets and dancing a weird mix between salsa and waltz (don't ask; we're baptist—we can't dance), the last song of the night finishes and we dissolve into a giggling mess.

The "DJ," who’s just the PE teacher with Spotify premium, cranks the volume way down on an instrumental version of Señorita and speaks into a trashy karaoke mic.

"Alright everybody! Hope you kids are tuckered out from all the fun you had ‘cause it's ten o'clock, which means it's time to get outta here! Thank you all for coming, we'll see you on Monday, so good riddance—I mean goodnight, and enjoy your weekend!"

The sing-songy murmurs immediately turn into a regular schoolday cacophony as the lights buzz brighter and everyone rushes to leave the bedazzled sweatbox. I grab Jack’s hand to keep close in the flood of our peers.

Although the quad of a public highschool might not particularly be known for smelling nice, I feel like the fresh air should have been sweeter. Regardless, it was definitely a relief when we finally got to Jack's car.

Some friends were supposed to meet us to carpool to Denny's, but a violent text alert told me at least two of the girls wouldn't make it ("undisclosed reasons," which translates roughly to "I'm hoping to get laid." Gross, but not my business). Two more texts and a chaotic phone call later inform us that another girl and three of our guys had left the dance early and were already wasted. Idiots. So that left me and Jack in the front seat of his 2007 Subaru Forester.

"We're still going to Denny's, right?" I ask, though it wasn't a question.

"Pfft’course," he scoffs, already gunning the engine, stalling twice, and backing over the curb.

"I cannot believe your mom still lets you drive this poor thing. You are insane," I squeak.

"Mm, at least I can drive." He taunts me about my lack of license or permit, sticking his tongue out only for me to poke it back into his mouth. "And don't complain, or I'll dump you on the side of the road."

"Fiiine," I huff, rolling my eyes because he's not really that bad of a driver.

Actually, nevermind; the car stalled again. "Bruh. You are gonna give me whiplash one of these days."

"Like I haven't already. You wanna drive instead?"

"Yes, actually, I would love to."

I’m only slightly sarcastic, but we both know we won’t actually do anything illegal. As much as we joke, he and I are straight enough arrows to be way more bark than bite.

"Too bad," he says. "You want hashbrowns, I'm driving."

"Hhh, ‘kay. If you insist. But I get to pick the music."

He sighs as my phone's bluetooth is already connecting. "Long as you don't play trash."

"I won't," I say with a mischievous grin, scrolling through a playlist till I find The Song I'm looking for and hit play.

Thanks for listening to Spotify.

"My eardrums!" I screech, reaching frantically for the volume dial.

I only succeed in turning it up.

NO, REALLY.

"Tory! Turn it down!" Jack yells yet I barely hear him.

YOU COULD'VE SPUN SOME VINYL.

YOU COULD'VE PLAYED A CASSETTE TAPE.

YOU COULD'VE LISTENED TO AN 8-TRACK TAPE. IF YOU KNEW WHAT AN 8-TRACK TAPE LOOKED LIKE.

BUT YOU LISTENED TO SPOTIFY.

THANKS FOR THAT.

AND YOU STILL HAVE HUNDREDS MORE PLAYLISTS TO ENJOY.

"My eeeeears, they're bleediiing ahhhhh!!!" I barely even have time to recover before—

FOR ME, I REALLY LIKE CORN

—blares through the speakers and jars my spine, temporarily turning my vertebrae into a xylophone.

IT'S CORN, A BIG LUMP WITH KNOBS!

IT HAS THE JUICE!

(IT HAS THE JUICE)

I CAN'T IMAGINE A MORE BEAUTIFUL THING!

"Turn it oooooooff!" he screams, speeding up to beat a red light and swerving to avoid a bicyclist.

"I'm trying!" I scream back, just barely grasping the dial and turning the volume nearly down to zero.

It's corn, I could tell you all about it

I mean, look at this thing

When I tried it with butter, everything changed

It's corn!

We drive in stunned silence for a few blocks.

Finally it's too much for me and I start to laugh so hard, my eyes water.

"I'm so sorry," I wheeze.

"It's okay," he giggle-cries. "Just don't do it again."

We both laugh our butts off the whole rest of the way, completely out of breath by the time we make it to the diner.

I try to push open the door but fail to see the giant sticker that says PULL and absolutely lose it when he points it out to me. We walk into the restaurant clutching our stomachs, just a ridiculous pair of sweaty, hysterical, sleep-deprived dorks.

The hostess quirks her eyebrow and holds up some menus with a tired smirk.

"Party of two?" she asks. We nod and she leads us to a small booth near the back.

I manage to choke out a thank you before Jack and I collapse, laughing like crazy people, into our seats.