Again, But Better

than before? What do I do? Nothing, just be cool, keep doing what you’re doing.
I’m hyperaware of
my movements as this unknown magical song that made Pilot more smiley comes to a close.
I think this is flirting. It has to be flirting. The band starts up a new, more mellow song. I know it
—I gasp and break into a little happy dance as everyone starts singing along. “Yellow Submarine.”
Pilot’s smiling so big at the band. He starts to sing along and I start to sing along, and then his arm
comes to sit around my back.
I go full statue. He’s not looking at me this very second, but his arm is on me. His arm is
wrapped around me like we’re together. My heart is drumming too fast for the music.
Okay, it’s fine. Just keep singing. I can’t remember the words.
I can’t think of anything but his arm. His hand has settled around my waist. I look up at him.
He’s still singing. We sway together. He sways normally. I sway like a statue that someone’s
knocked into by accident. At least I’m moving.
He pulls me closer to his side, and my heart kicks up to light speed. 
Oh my god.
We’re smooshed
together now. Body contact all along my left side. His warmth mingles with all of mine.
Stay cool, Shane, stay cool.
What is staying cool? More swaying. Is the band still playing
“Yellow Submarine”? 
Concentrate on the song
. Yes, they are. The overhead lights keep whirling
over us, the band keeps playing, and I keep my movements to a minimum in an effort to ensure our
skin-to-skin contact stays intact.
I don’t know if he’s looking at me now. I haven’t looked over at him in ages. The idea of looking
at him now stresses me out.
You have to look at him, Shane. This is it, this is a moment.
Slowly, I’m talking at molasses speed, I turn my head to the left. He’s already looking at me.
Chills race up my limbs. It feels like when the band stops, this moment is going to stop, and I don’t
want this to stop. Anxiety shoots up through me, bouncing off the walls of my insides.
His green eyes study mine. We’re looking at each other, but I don’t even know what I would do
to initiate something. I’ve never kissed someone, and I don’t want him to know that. If we kiss, will
he know that? 
Oh my god, he’ll know.
How could he not know? I have no idea what I’m doing. I
don’t even know what I would do with my arms! Where do arms go when you kiss? Do I just, like,
grab him? I can’t just grab him! What if I do it wrong? Is grabbing him an invasion of personal
space? 
Oh my god, I’m going to stand still like I’m doing a pencil dive with my arms flat against my
side, aren’t I?
He leans forward a bit. 
His lips are right there.
Panic takes the wheel, and before I even realize
what I’m doing, I’ve raised the glass I’m clutching back up to my mouth, and turned forward to face
the band.

---

I chug a cowardly swig of water. Disappoint torrents through my system. My eyes glaze over as
I stare unblinkingly at the guitarist. He wasn’t going to kiss me, right? That wasn’t a big enough
lean, was it? Oh god. I don’t know how to reinitiate whatever almost happened. I have to pee. I have
to go. His arm is still there. I don’t know how long we’ve been like this.
Abruptly, I spin toward him. “Hey, Pies, I’m gonna run to the BR. I’ll be right back.”
I’ve startled him with my sudden transformation from unmoving statue back to living, breathing
human being.
“Oh, okay!” he projects over the music. “Do you want me to—” he starts, but I’m already
leaving, weaving back through the people to the hall off the end of the room where I saw restroom
signs earlier.
I plow into the bathroom. The stalls are painted black, and the lighting is all neon blue. I walk
over to the sink area, which is just a big trench across the front of the room, and stare at myself in
the mirror. My hair is wild and extra big from the humidity. Tears burn in the corners of my
eyelinered eyes.
What is wrong with me? A choked sound escapes my mouth. I take a few more deep breaths in
front of the mirror.