Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down by Ethan Cutler
It was homecoming, sophomore year of high school. She wore a short green dress, hung up by two small straps over her shoulders. Her feet were bare, she didn’t want to spend money that she didn’t have to wear fancy shoes for the first two minutes of the night, only to take them off indefinitely. It must have been so gross to walk barefoot across the school floors, dirty and wet from the rain tracked inside. I took off my dad’s huge dress shoes too, but left my socks. day?”
“God you look good,” she said. “Can you wear this every
“I’d rather die.” Some friends showed up behind me, and I turned to greet them. As I waved them down, she reached around behind me and put her hand (in that small place) on my back between my spine and my hip, just below the rib cage where my frame gets thin and you can feel the tense muscles that hold the weight of my posture. I was very still. My friends, not knowing who she was, acknowledged my presence and then went on to the dance. I’d like to think that I was unaware of what she meant, oblivious to her intentions. But I think I knew. I came along anyway, walking the long hallway leading to the cafeteria and gym, where the dance was being held, in silence. It was lowly lit, with balloons and decorations covering the walls. I long outpaced her (bare feet), and she had to thoroughly compensate in speed just to keep up. Sometimes she would run ahead and dance on the cold wet tile floor, spinning and leaping, then wait for me to slowly catch up.
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