1 Senior Year

IT'S PROM NIGHT, and Lance is the most beautiful boy in the room. Lance, the captain of the football team, star quarter-back and prince charming extraordinaire. Yeah, that Lance. Through the dazzling twinkly lights in the celebratory hall, I can't stop staring at him. All six feet two of him. His perfect smiling mouth. His lush blonde fair falling softly over his forehead into his sky blue eyes.

Oh god.

Lance should be a cliché. The dream boyfriend I graduate and enter college with, smiling into each other's eyes as we head into our happy ever after. The perfect fantasy. Except in my case, the fantasy is missing a prodigiously large part. Me, aka, the princess. Rather than have me as the equally gorgeous girlfriend in his arms to walk up the steps to wear the prom king crown—he will undoubtedly win, Lance has Cheyenne the cheerleader—of course. It's not that Cheyenne isn't stunning. She has legs like a cheetah and fair skin soft enough to bite. It's not that the—their fantasy isn't completely perfect. It is. God no. It so is—with Lance, the shining football player going off to college on a fully sponsored scholarship, along with fierce Cheyenne at his side; highschool sweetheart with the magazine smile. I can almost see their future.

They'd get married and have blond-haired biracial babies who'll all probably have Lance's big blues.

The perfect cliché. Oh god, I shiver. The problem isn't Lance. It isn't Cheyenne. It's me. Alessandria Irene Forsythe. In my head, the fantasy is only perfect if in the space of sixty seconds, Cheyenne somehow pukes all over Lance's prim tuxedo, they fight over it, they break up, he walks across the dance floor to the dark corner where I'm perched, takes my hand and pronounces me his girlfriend before all and sundry, we win prom king and queen, and then blissfully ride away in his limo into our forever. I sigh, and it's a deep sigh. Without a fairy godmother nearby, I don't see any of it happening.

Lance is still standing far off, looking glorious in his pressed Greyhound blazer, twirling Cheyenne in the center of the room to Taylor Swift's You Belong With Me. I stare pointedly at them. Now to anyone watching me, I'm the nerdy looking girl in horn-rimmed glasses and a flowery yellow gown stalking the most dazzling couple on show. But the whole school will tell you I'm also the valedictorian, Eastcreek's student rep, and worst of all, Lance's best friend. Worst of all because I am his best friend, not his girlfriend. I want it so bad it hurts. And I can't even be jealous because Lance is well…Lance. You can't hate a man so fine. You can't hate your best friend for loving some other girl. Not with the history Lance and I share. And so my seventeen-year old virgin self watches the splendor of dancing teenage couples as my mind takes a detour to this shared history between the jock king and the geek girl. Behold, the two-minute lifetime original of Lance and I.

Born Lancelot Grimm, only son of his lawyer parents, Lance was the boy next door. And oh did he wear the title well? Tall, blue-eyed, broody, and handsome-as-sin. The Grimm family became our neighbors when I was five, and the first time I laid eyes on their somewhat silent son, I thought he was the prettiest boy I'd ever seen. Five years old and he'd made me wanna show him all my crayons.

His parents were outgoing. Lance was not. At fourteen, he was already six feet. Damn. I'd seen him fill out nicely. Growing up, both our parents were knit at the hip, rooting for us in every way. At the time, nothing made me happier than being the only one who could make him laugh out loud. He had a nice laugh, almost like a purr. When we were eight, he'd make the cutest pencil drawings and run all the way to my house to show me. At ten, he was waiting for me after school, twin cups of rocky road dripping down his fingers. During summer, he'd climb up my window to my room and we'd listen to records over and over. I grew into the introvertive straight-A student and he, into a daydream. When he walked the halls of Eastcreek, you could literally hear a pin drop. I wasn't blind to his looks. Despite being my male bestie, my knees still quivered whenever he would leave his circle of jock bros and casually stroll over to my locker to say hi.

Every single school morning.

We ran in different social circles, but he was letting the entire school know I was forever his dayone. It hurt. Why? Because every single soul at Eastcreek High knew Alessandria Forsythe was Lance's best friend. That was it. Nothing to it. And then came Cheyenne, and it hurt more. Seeing the object of my desire since childhood liplock with the hottest girl in school made me red and green at the same time. Knowing I couldn't help my feelings only made me want him more. God. If he wasn't so beautiful.

I remember on his sixteenth birthday, at his party, I'd fallen into the pool while staring at him in only blue boxer shorts. Cheyenne had being in his lap at that moment but it wasn't her that filled my vision. While everyone laughed at my obvious embarrassment, Lance calmly pulled Cheyenne off his lap, stood and strolled to the pool. And in the purview of every dumbstruck teenager present, he walked right in and lifted me wet and dripping into his muscular arms. I can't forget Cheyenne's huge eyes as she watched him carry me off. We were meant to be. Everyone could see it. If only he could. Several foggy minutes later, in a dark closet, I still rested in his arms, a dry towel turbaned over my hair. And for the first time since we were five, I'd dared to kiss him. My fingers had being absently stroking his defined pecs and I was leaning in, my heart on overdrive, when Lance abruptly pulled back.

"Allie," he breathed, the look in his eyes bringing instant tears to my eyes. And then he'd said it.

"You're like a sister to me."

At his words, I almost couldn't breathe. I just froze in his arms, my face an inch away from his. It's like I'm here, Lance, I wanted to scream. I've always been here. Why don't you see me? I wanted to pinch the tips of his ears like I did when we were little. Rather, I'd silently rolled off him. I remember the rest of that party night flowing in a teary blur. If there was ever a trace of chemistry between us, Cheyenne's arrival quenched it. We have spoken nothing of our near-kiss till this day.

The buzzing of a mic cuts through my reverie and I catch myself, falling back to reality. On the mounted stage ahead stands our Principal, Mr. Hopewell. As he clears his throat over the mic, he pulls open a folded piece of paper. Beside him stands his grinning middle-aged secretary, Mrs. Elaine Chandler.

"And so, students, our prom king and queen tonight is…"

There is a brief pause where the entire hall is silent. Principal Hopewell smiles, his gaze flitting for a second to the center of room, right where Lance stands and I know the rest of his sentence before he delivers it.

"…Lancelot Grimm and Cheyenne Vespers."

The hall burns with clapping hands. I roll my eyes. Whooping sounds and whistles go up as the royal prom couple mount the stage. Lance's smile is brilliant. The club lights hit him at the perfect angle and clothed in his gossamer blazers, he looks almost imagined. For the sake of my beautiful, beautiful friend, I clap also. Crowns are placed and I turn away when he leans in to kiss Cheyenne. I don't look back until the cheering subsides. It must've been a minute or two because suddenly I hear someone say.

"Allie?" That voice. That rumbly voice. Lance.

"Shit." I croak. Stretching up to all five feet seven inches of height, I sweep around, praying any telltale tears have dried. "Lance," I whisper.

I feel eyes on me. On us. Everyone is watching. Everyone. Lance stretches out a fine palm.

"Care to dance?"

I'm shocked still. The beauty of his towering form as he regards me is overwhelming. Lance, my sexy, sexy temptation is asking me to prom dance. He must have seen me turn from the stage. As he gazes at me, I see the sincerity in his eyes. I see myself mirrored in his eyes. Small silver stilettos to go with my ash-blonde hair. My modest informal gown that stops short of my knees. A svelte shape mildly showing out. Deep green eyes like leaves in spring. Lance is actually staring. He lifts a hand and his thumb runs up my cheek. He takes a lock of my hair between his fingers before pushing it behind my hair. I see his blue eyes light at the color. My hair has always been more white than blonde.

"Please, Allie," he says softly. "Dance with me."

Yes, my insides sing. Yes, Lance, fuck yes. My hand slips into his, and through the corner of my eyes, I see jaws drop. Cheyenne crosses her arms, planting a fake smile. In Lance's arms, I'm water. We are fluid. The DJ must love me because Britney Spears' Everytime fills the dance floor. I feel like my mom dancing to Doris Day on a Sunday morning. We alone are dancing, in the center of the hall, under the spotlight, with everyone watching. Lance's arms are careful around my waist; my fingers are linked behind his neck. Looking into his eyes, I don't trip. I don't fall—except into the blue of his gaze. We are in our own universe. Just the two of us. And so when he leans in and asks softly,

"In this moment, Allie, what do you wish for?" My reply is instant.

"To be transmigrated into a world where I can have you in any way I want with everyone powerless to stop me."

My words are a rush of repressed feelings over the years. Call it teenage love. Call it a wish spurned by my drawer of comicbooks. Call it whatever you want. Lance draws back a bit at my response. And then he grins. It's open, beautiful, like he understands. His teeth are perfect, alabaster white. His smile is a million bucks. And the feeling of being in his arms, my body against his, dancing, with him laughing to something I said is so heavenly I can't stop myself. Before my proactive mind has a chance, I pull his head down to mine and I kiss him. I kiss him hard and I kiss him wet. If this moment is all I have before he heads off to college with Cheyenne or whatever, you can bet I'll have my fill of him first. He doesn't pull away. His lips are divine. I think he finds mine lush too because I certainly don't imagine it when his fingers grip tighter at my hips. We kiss drunkenly, not giving a fuck about the mouths open everywhere. I think its shock that roots everyone to their spots.

Who would ever expect the Lance Grimm to mouth his BFF after just being crowned prom king? Truthfully, no one. When we finally pull apart, we are both breathing heavily. Lance's lips are pink from the kissing and I can't help the grin that teases my lips. I did that. I kissed Lance and he didn't pull away. Lance didn't—

A sudden yank at my hair causes me to stagger backwards. My ankle twists in my heels, I lose my footing and I fall just as I hear Cheyenne scream at Lance.

"What the fuck!"

A loud Ooh erupts in the hall and the music flatlines abruptly. The bitch had dragged me away from Lance—by the hair. In slow motion, I watch Cheyenne's gaze dart between me and Lance. Her hair is wild. Her eyes are crazy. She seems to finally choose me as the culprit and levels her gaze on mine.

"You whore!" she yells.

Yeesh.

"You little slut. Fucking bitch—" She screams a whole lot of other things but I don't catch it because as it turns out, I'd fallen towards the stage and before I can catch myself, I connect headfirst with the lowest step. With nothing to slow my fall, I land heavily. Another loud Ooh fills the hall. My vision blurs. I see Cheyenne striding and screaming for me like a lioness. But most of all, I see Lance. He flinches when I fall, and as my head hits the step, he rushes for me, hightailing behind a crazy Cheyenne.

Just before I black out, I see his eyes turn misty. A recognition of love I understand all too deeply. He sees me. Finally, Lance. Fucking finally. As darkness swamps me, I swear I could see strange fireflies dancing like magic in the air. Little do I know that everything is about to change forever.

Everything.

Literally.