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“Mom, stop,” I say. “We need to go before the dance is over.”
“Just a few more.”
I groan.
“Alright now, go have fun! We’ll see you there.”
They may be chaperoning the dance, but I hope they don’t make it awkward. Ethan waves on our way out the door. A huge, black limo is waiting for us in the driveway. Ethan opens the door and I climb in, careful not to step on the bottom of my dress.
“Hi, Emma.”
“Hey, Emma.”
“I love your dress.”
Everyone smiles at me. I recognize most of them from our Netflix night at Taylor’s house. Speaking of which. “Where’s Taylor?” I ask, after Ethan takes a seat beside me.
“She chose to go with a different group,” he says.
“She just doesn’t like me.”
“It’s because she’s never gotten to know you,” Ethan says. “Listen, it’s her problem_not yours.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and brushes my skin with his thumb. He doesn’t make a big fuss about it this time, but he does mouth, “Wow” when I glance at him. I nudge his shoulder and laugh.
The limo stops in front of an Italian restaurant and all ten of us climb out. Ethan leads the way inside and tells the hostess we have a reservation.
“What’s the name?” she asks.
Ethan looks right at me when he responds. “Prom Queen,” he says, winking.
I stare at him. “You didn’t!”
Ethan nods, his smile growing bigger by the minute.
The hostess grabs a large stack of menus. “Right this way,” she says.
She takes us to a private room in the back of the restaurant, reserved for bigger parties. We all sit around a large banquet table. One of my fears with choosing Ethan as my date, was having to spend the whole evening with his pop friends. Butwe talk and laugh during dinner as though we’ve all been friends forever. Having Taylor absent sure makes the group seem more welcoming. Towards the end of dinner, Ethan whispers something to our waiter.
“What?” I ask.
Ethan just smiles. “Nothing.”
“Ethan, what did you tell him?”
“You’ll see.”
I don’t like the way his eyes are laughing at me.
A few moments later, our table is surrounded by half a dozen waiters and waitresses. They place a small bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup in front of me, light the yellow candle that’s standing in it, and begin singing Happy Birthday. I don’t even have time to tell them it’s not really my birthday, and soon everyone at the table is singing. Ethan is doubled over with laughter while my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
As soon as the waiters walk away, I cover my face with my hands. “It’s not my birthday!” I say.
Ethan is still laughing.
“Why do you like to embarrass me so much?” I ask.
“Because you’re adorable when you blush,” he says.
