The Dance

1 - "Fancy Shoes"

I walk through the bland halls of my high school meekly. I am a senior, and am about to graduate in the next month, but I exert so little self-confidence and pride in myself that I could easily pass as someone who has never seen this place in their whole life. Also known as a freshmen.

As I walk, I pass many classrooms of teachers I had in the past. The deeper you go, the further the fresh meat is from you, and this is evident from how the students long more and more like young adults and less like tall middle schoolers. Someone might have stopped me from going to the back of the school to the senior sector, but no one does. 

Posters are all around me advertising the senior prom. I have half the mind to internally and cynically laugh at each poster I see; I am not a dancer. And yet it is rumored and known throughout the school that we have some very talented dancers among us normies.

It is somewhat sad to think I will not be going to my own prom, or the fact that I have never went to any of the dances my school provided—outside of the fall dance in my freshman year where I stood stationary leaning against the wall the whole time of the dance, I am too afraid to make a fool of myself on the dance floor. But that does not stop the school from giving the good ones a very spacious dance studio.

It's not that I don't like dancing, it's just an irrational fear of failure and embarrassing myself in front of everyone else. That, like other things in my life, holds me back from living an adventurous life. I don't know how people do it; facing fears. Even the thought is scary to me.

Before I know it, I clumsy bump into a wall or something. At first, I thought it would only be embarrassing for me to walk head-first into a wall or pillar, but when someone else says "ouch!" the same time I do, my embarrassment triples.

I immediately back up, keeping my head down and look at the stranger's strangely formal-looking shoes for someone going to school. I try to discreetly back away from the humiliating event, but it seems the stranger with the fancy shoes wanted me to stand in my shame.

"Hey, you scuffed my shoe! You cannot just walk away like that!"

I stop, but don't dare look up, or get closer to the angry stranger. But looking closer at his fancy black shoes, I notice a small scuff right front and center on his left shoe.

I decide to look up for the first time now, and practically a Greek god stands in front of me. He has short black hair, and despite his thinish figure, there is noticeable strength and muscles. Too bad I made someone like this angry. I might've had a stupid crush on him or something.

"What's your name? I'm going to charge you for this... damage."

By now, I am able to look around me at everyone staring at the two of us; mostly me. My face flushes, and I barely hear what the stranger is saying to me.

"Yo. Name, please?'

He snaps right next to my ear, which gets my attention, if with the added benefit of annoying me. That must be what waitresses feel when they get snapped at.

"Amara."

Stranger looks at me with an arched eyebrow, as if waiting for more. Does he want my last name? He has his phone out, and is supposedly typing my name down.

"Amara Conelly."

The stranger types down some more on his phone, and sits down on the floor taking off his shoes, talking to me the whole time.

"Well, Amara Conelly, this is what you are going to do for me—and you owe me for ruining my shoes, so you cannot back out like you were just open to. Take these shoes and bring them to Peter at Niesta. I will be waiting for their safe return in perfect condition by this time tomorrow."

And with that, the stranger pivots away barefoot, and leaves me all alone with his scuffed shoes.

Initially, I just stood there like an idiot, holding this guy's shoes, then I realized I still had class. For some reason, I kept the stranger's shoes with me, and left them in my locker, the thought of being late a more pressing issue than some person's shoes.