7
Under the soft melody of classical music, a man in a white suit limped slightly as he twirled a girl by the arm.
“Sorry, I stepped on you again.”
“Wait, wasn’t I supposed to turn left here?”
“Oh no, I’m about to step on you again.”
Five minutes later, I had stepped on Chris Langston’s polished leather shoes sixty times.
The forced smile on his face was barely holding up.
“Chris, maybe we should stop dancing. I think we’re just… not compatible,” I suggested, feigning innocence.
“Not compatible? Impossible. We’re a match made in heaven. Let’s keep going!”
I held back a grin and continued to “accidentally” land every step squarely on his foot.
By the time the song ended, Chris’s forehead was glistening with sweat.
I spread my hands apologetically. “I told you I couldn’t dance. Sorry about that! You’re not mad, are you?”
The vein on Chris’s temple twitched slightly, but he forced a smile. “Of course not.”
The part where he was supposed to teach me piano afterward was canceled because Chris had to go home to ice his feet.
As I watched him limp toward his car, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
In my previous life, I had spent hours desperately trying to learn to dance, terrified of stepping on him. I’d stood stiff as a wooden board, only for Chris to mock me online: “Even a log dances better than her,” “She tries to act all proper but fails miserably,” “So small–minded.”
He’d conveniently forgotten how many times I’d told him I couldn’t dance. He’d been the one insisting we try. Yet in the end, I was the one
blamed for everything.
This time, though? I’d beat them to it.
The next day, I uploaded my vlog documenting my transfer student experience. The highlights included Ethan Monroe’s carefully orchestrated breakfast confession and my disastrous dance lesson with Chris.
The comments rolled in:
“This feels like something out of a dream. Who confesses in less than 24 hours of knowing someone?”
“Am I crazy, or does it seem like they’re all in on something?”
“I heard St. Augustine invites public school students every year, but none of them ever have a happy ending.”
“The way she apologizes while stepping on him–I almost think she did it on purpose!”
12:43 PM
<
“She didn’t mean to! She even said she couldn’t dance, but Chris kept insisting.”
One comment in particular made me pause: “Every year, St. Augustine takes in a transfer student, and it always ends badly.”
Was I not the only victim? Had there been others?
I clicked on the commenter’s profile and saw it was a new account.
I sent them a private message: “Do you know something about the transfer students at St. Augustine?”
Ten minutes passed with no reply.
Just as I was about to give up and go to bed, my phone buzzed.
“I do. I was one of them.”
