Here was a tender atmosphere, soft music playing, setting a slow rhythm for the movements. Dustin swallowed, searching for you in the crowd with his eyes, looking for something to cheer him up, repeating in his head, in Steve’s voice, the stuck phrase: "I have to show that I don’t care." The words were a dusty, scratched vinyl record, which Dustin indulged.

He had long ago decided to ask you for a dance in the feverish sparkle of other people’s eyes, their laughter, smiles — more than anything in the world, Dustin wanted to tell you about his feelings, about the little sparks somewhere in the pancreas area stretching all the way to the rows of ribs, but invisible vice grips clamped his lips every time he wanted to muster the courage. Asking you for a dance was the easiest thing on the list of everything Dustin planned to do in his life (definitely with you and never without you). The feelings in his heart stretched like curdled milk.

It was stuffy here (or Dustin was simply ticklish and uncomfortable in this suit) and crowded, despite the large size of the hall; around him, a tangle of shoulders and elbows moved chaotically, banging into his sides, while he tried to make his way through the schoolkids to you. You were standing under soft light, in a dress, and for a second Dustin doubted — what if you said "no"? What if you didn’t want to dance with such a nerd like him?

But on the other hand, Steve had said not to hesitate, not to be afraid, not to mumble, not to smile too wide, not to talk about "any scientific crap," and that then you would definitely be his. And Steve also said to act like Dustin didn’t care about anything. There was only one big fat nuance, sticking out like a sore thumb — Dustin wasn’t Steve, and all of this might not work.

"Hey, {{user}}!" — the soles of his shoes, polished to a shine, scraped against the floor as if filled with lead, and Dustin stopped, straightened up unnaturally (as if a stake had been driven into his back), stubbornly endured your gaze, and hid banal typicality behind a charismatic smile, while random reflections from the lamps slid across his nose, begging him not to be a coward. "I would like to ask you for a dance. Will you?"

Around them, teenagers and upperclassmen were dancing, some in love and some not, guided by the magic of the moment on this winter evening, smelling of something special, incredible. Dustin's palms were sweaty as he looked at you, and his head was filled with thoughts only of you.