C12 Dancing queen

Date = 5 November

Strangely … even after a near-death event … life goes on.

Place = San Francisco (Stanford) and San Jose (Santana Row)

The best place to shop.

POV - Melaena

“My brother was released from the hospital this morning —” I break off and shake my head.

Nope. Too dramatic.

I tighten my grip on the backpack crushed to my chest.

“I fell on my ass, right in front of one of the hottest men in the world, who just happens to be the dog trainer of the team —”

Absolutely not. Abort.

“Prof, have I mentioned that you’re my all-time favorite —”

Ugh. No one likes a suck-up. Even if it’s true.

Anne Jones really is my favorite professor. She’s in her fifties, swears like a drunk pirate, and wields judgment with the precision of Dolores Umbridge on a caffeine high. You cross her once, and your soul needs therapy.

So why am I sweating like I committed a felony? I was only ten minutes late. Ten.

I’m sure she won’t make me write ‘I shall not be late’ a hundred times with a cursed quill that etches into flesh.

I rub my knuckles anyway, clear my throat, and knock.

“Come in!”

I slowly open the door a few inches and peep around it. She’s on the phone and gestures for me to come in. Like a skimpy mouse, I pootle to the lollipop-pink coach and sit my ass on the very end of it.

“I told you I have it under control.” She rolls her eyes — thankfully not at me but at the person on the other side of the phone.

“I already have someone in mind.” She pulls a skewed face. I try to be as still as possible.

“I know they have to win.” A different face.

“Yeah, I know it was my fault. I will fix it.” A third face.

She sighs. “I’ll call you later. I’ve got a student.” Yet another face.

“Bye.” She slams the receiver down, folds her arms on the desk, and stares straight into my soul.

“I can explain,” I blurt. “My brother got stabbed by a psycho stalker with revenge issues … and his twin … my brother’s not the stalker’s … is spiraling because he wasn’t stabbed, traffic was a nightmare, I tripped on the stairs, and I fell flat on my ass in front of a very beautiful man who also happens to be the trainer in my puppy group class —”

“Stop,” she interrupts, “Please.” I shut my hub and rub my hands together.

“Do you have one of those magic feathers that carves words into your skin?”

She pops her eyes and tilts her head. “Are you on drugs? Or in love?”

“Huh?”

“You sound like you left your head somewhere in the clouds.”

I inhale deeply and choose dignity. Or something close to it.

“I’m sorry I was late. It won’t happen again.”

Which is a lie. But a hopeful one.

“I don’t care about you being late.”

Huh? “… Then why am I here?”

“Because I need something from you.” That’s new.

“Do you still dance?”

Record scratch. Full system reboot.

“What?”

“I saw it in your file,” she adds quickly. “You were good.”

I WAS. Back when my joints didn’t creak, and life was simpler. Like … three years ago.

“I stopped in junior year,” I say. “But yeah. I guess I wasn’t terrible.”

“But you can still do it?” she presses. “It’s like riding a bike.”

“I guess.” I still can’t figure out what my dancing has to do with anything.

“Fantastic,” she beams. “I have a little proposition for you.”

I inch closer to the edge of the couch, ready for anything.

“My daughter’s dance class needs a new instructor. Someone who can take them to the top.” Okay, I was not ready for that.

“What happened to the old teacher?”

At that, she rolls her lips together and breaks eye contact. Bad sign.

“One of the mothers got … eh … a little too enthusiastic during a lesson. She threw a shoe, and now the teacher’s out of action for 6 weeks. With nationals coming up.”

“She was taken out by a shoe?” I ask slowly. A giggle claws its way up my throat. I barely suppress it.

“No,” Anne snaps. “The shoe missed. But while dodging it, she fell off the stage and broke her hip.”

R.i.g.h.t.

Much better. Completely normal. Still terrifying.

“Listen,” she leans forward. “We need to win.”

My instinct is to say dance should be about joy, not trophies. My second instinct is to ask what happens if they DON’T win. Because these dance mothers clearly like violence.

She softens. “Please.”

Well. Damn.

I don’t really have anything to lose. It could be fun. A distraction. And maybe — just maybe — it’ll buy me some grace when I’m late for class on the odd occasion.

“Okay,” I say carefully.

Her face lights up. She claps like she just won the lottery.

“But,” I add, “I need to bring my friend. She’s the reason I always won.”

Anne nods. “Does she dance?”

“No … weak ankle. But she’s an incredible choreographer.”

She smiles at me like we’re sharing the secret of eternal youth.

I stand, relieved. No cursed quill. No detention. And — miraculously — no shoes thrown.

Yet.

My phone vibrates silently in my hand. I glance down.

D Stalker: Digging the dancing queen! 👑

My stomach drops.

How the hell does he know already? I flick my gaze around the room. It’s not exactly huge.

One door. One professor. One aggressively pink couch. No place for a grown man with boundary issues to hide.

Then I notice it.

Through the thin slit beneath the door, a shadow moves.

Someone was listening.

Adrenaline kicks in. I jump up and yank the door open.

The hallway is packed with students spilling between classes. Laughing. Shoving. Existing normally.

None of them looks remotely like a D.

And what does a D even look like, I wonder. Tall? Creepy? Hoodie-wearing menace with bad vibes?

“You in a hurry?” Anne asks behind me, amused. “Or is this a new trend?”

I bite my lip and quietly close the door again.

“Remember the stalker I told you about? The one who stabbed my brother?”

Her face drains of color.

“That was real?” Guilt flashes across her expression. She didn’t believe me. Not fully.

“Very real,” I say. “And somehow he knows what I’m doing. All the time. He sends stuff to my house. Chocolates. Flowers. Perfume.” I swallow. “The exact scent I wear.”

That finally lands.

“That’s … disturbing,” she says, then pauses. “Are the chocolates at least good?”

I snort despite myself. “I haven’t dared try them.”

“If they are, pass them on,” she mutters. “Waste not.”

She launches into logistics about training schedules, but my brain is already gone — floating somewhere between panic and paranoia. After the third time she has to say my name to get my attention, she sighs and waves me off.

“Go,” she says. “You’re no use to me today.”

I don’t argue. I practically sprint out of her office, down the hallway, and straight into Alejandro.

“Slow down,” he snaps, grabbing my arms to steady me. “Or you’ll land on your ass … again.”

My heart is hammering like it’s trying to escape my ribcage. He frowns. A worried look on his face.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“My car.” He nods, and without another word, he steers me towards the parking lot. He waits until I’m inside before he struts off.

Once inside, I slam my palms against the steering wheel.

“AAARGH!”

A few pedestrians stare. I ignore them, drop my forehead against the wheel, and squeeze my eyes shut.

Just breathe. One minute.

Knock-knock!

“Fuck!” I jerk upright as someone taps on my window.

Lucinda stands there, pushing her glasses up her nose and offering a hesitant little wave. She’s sweet in a dorky, overeager way — dark bob, chocolate eyes, and the kind of optimism that makes you feel guilty for swearing.

“You okay?” she asks when I roll down the window.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile as my heart rate slowly returns to human levels. “You heading home?”

She nods. “Finished for today.”

“Want a lift?”

Her face lights up like I just offered her a puppy and free Wi-Fi. She hops into the passenger seat.

My phone buzzes again. I tense — then relax when I see the name.

Kiara: I’m late. Meet you at our coffee shop in 30. ☕

Relief washes over me, followed immediately by realization — the dress hunt.

Of course. The freshman ball. The event Kiara has been planning for months — head of the organizing committee. Between the two of us, we own enough dresses to clothe a small village — mostly hers — but she insisted.

And canceling now would result in my slow, painful death.

“Do you want to come shopping with us?” I ask Lucinda. “We’re looking for ball dresses.”

Her jaw drops. “Yes. Oh my God. Yes.”

Lottery winner confirmed.

Mel: C U. Bringing a friend. 😋

“This is so lit,” Lucinda breathes, bouncing in her seat as her glasses slide down her nose for the fifth time. I resist the urge to adjust them for her and pull out of the parking lot, heading toward my favorite mall in San Jose.

Kiara is already there, caffeinated and determined. We dive straight into the shops.

An hour or three passes — Kiara hating everything. As we exit store number four empty-handed, my phone rings.

“Hey, Sis,” Ilkay says. “Where are you?” My brothers are keeping tabs.

“At Santana Row with Kiara,” I answer. “Dress shopping.”

A pause. Then laughter. “Kiara still picky?”

“You know she’s impossible.”

“Will you be okay driving back alone?”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” I say. Which is the equivalent of telling the sun not to shine.

“D is still out there,” he says softly. “I worry.”

I know. He always does. Ever since our parents died, he’s worn responsibility like armor. And even when it suffocates me a little … I love him for it.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Be safe. Love you. Text me when you’re home.”

“I will. Love you too.”

I hang up, pocket my phone, and straighten my shoulders.

Dress shopping. Friends. Noise. Normality.

Maybe — just maybe — it’ll be enough to keep the shadows at bay for a while.

When we step into the fifth shop, I silently bargain with every retail god in existence to find something my demanding friend will deem appropriate.

The boutique smells like expensive perfume and ambition. Everything is black, glossy, and intimidating.

A very thin man in a tailored gray suit glides toward us, lips stretched in a professional smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His hands move slowly, elegantly — like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra.

“Ladies …” he says in a monotone voice, his pitch a little higher than expected. His posture is razor-straight, like he swallowed a ruler and dared it to move. “How may I assist you today?”

“We need sexy, high-end dresses for a ball,” Kiara announces, vibrating with purpose. “We need to look dope.” And I wonder if he even knows what it means.

His eyes flick over us, assessing. Measuring. Calculating. Something like genuine amusement flashes across his face before it’s gone.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, scanning my body, “But short. I have something.”

He turns to Kiara, nodding slowly. “African queen. Tall. Elegant.” He hums approvingly, already drifting away. “Yes.” Kiara has that effect. She’s a walking confidence earthquake

Then Lucinda. “I can turn you into a princess,” he declares, as if it’s a scientific fact.

Lucinda’s shoulders stiffen, and she looks away, suddenly fascinated by the carpet.

“I want a high neck,” Lucinda says quickly. “With sleeves.”

“Modest,” he nods, stroking his chin. “Wait.”

He disappears into the back and returns carrying three gowns like sacred offerings. He hands one to each of us, gestures toward the curtained dressing area, and vanishes again without another word.

Mine is deep violet plum, soft as a whisper. I press it to my cheek and nearly sigh. It feels like hugging a cloud with expensive taste.

“Strip, ladies!” Kiara crows, already toeing off her heels.

I hang my dress, tug off my boots and jeans, and peel off my sweater.

“Oh my word,” Kiara gasps. “This fits perfectly. How did he know?”

“Black magic,” I mutter.

She’s already in a bottle-green mermaid gown that clings to her like it was painted on. Lace panels skim her skin, showing off every unfair, goddess-level curve.

“Wow,” I say honestly. “Bitch … you look … illegal.”

Lucinda nods. “Very illegal.”

Lucinda herself stands in pink cotton underwear and an unbuttoned shirt, boyish and lean, glasses slipping again. She’s tall — only a touch shorter than Kiara — but carries herself like she’s trying to disappear.

Kiara spins, admiring herself.

Lucinda turns away quickly, back towards us, to slip out of her shirt, and that’s when I see it in the mirror — an ugly burn scar across her shoulder. Pale, jagged.

Oh.

So that’s why the sleeves.

“She turns back before I can react, and I pretend I saw nothing. Her wine-red A-line halter dress floats around her, sheer sleeves softening her edges. She looks stunning. Quietly devastating.

Lucinda studies herself, smoothing the fabric down her sides.

“I think,” she says softly, “we found our dresses.”

Kiara struts up and down the length of the mirror.

“Now all I need is a date,” she laughs. “And shoes.”

I roll my eyes — she’s got hundreds of pairs of shoes.

“You could always ask one of the dickheads,” I say, tugging my dress over my head.

The fabric slides into place like it was waiting for me.

I look up — and suck in a breath.

Holy hell.

The bodycon cut hugs me perfectly. Silver lace kisses my hips. The neckline drapes just right. The slit climbs my leg with sinful confidence and stops exactly where it should — above decent but not illegal. A knife-edge balance.

Kiara laces me up, steps back, and whistles.

“Damn, now that’s what I call dope,” she breathes. “Some silver heels and you’re committing crimes and breaking some green-eyed hunk’s nuts.”

I give her a look. She knows the look well.

“What? Just saying as I see it.”

“She’s right, your boyfriend’s eyes are going to fall out,” Lucinda adds.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I confess. Her expression flickers. Something unreadable passes through her eyes. A strange bode.

“Well,” Kiara jumps in cheerfully, “she has an asshole on standby and a stalker on the side. But I’ll bet my left pinky fingernail that she’s going to end up with some hunky badboy who likes speed.”

Lucinda’s eyebrows nearly vanish into her hairline. The look she gives me is … intense. Like I somehow commit a crime against her. And then it’s gone.

“I swear you’re on something,” I mutter at Kiara.

“That’s rude,” she pouts. “And you know I’m right.”

Maybe. Unfortunately.

“Ladies?” the man calls from outside. “May I enter?”

Kiara whips the curtain open.

“O la-la,” he squeaks. “DOPE.” He sets down a basket. “Extras.” Then he’s gone again.

Inside—perfection. Gold heels for Kiara. Red for Lucinda. Delicate silver wedges for me. Jewelry. Bags. Lipsticks. All flawless — color-coordinated, fitting, and exactly the right size.

“How,” Kiara whispers, reverent, “does he know?”

“Witchcraft,” I say again.

“Now that’s a man with excellent taste,” Kiara says, impressed. “Maybe I should ask him to be my date,” she titters.

We pay. We leave. We laugh. The mall hums around us, bright and loud and normal.

My phone buzzes.

Stalker D: Nice dress.👗

Cold slithers down my spine. He’s close.

The lights suddenly feel too bright. The crowd too close.

I shove my phone back into my pocket.

Argh. I hate this guy.

Kiara clamps onto my arm like she’s afraid I might escape and points with the subtlety of a malfunctioning traffic signal. Full extension. No shame. No filter.

“Look.”

“Ow. Bitch — use your words, not your claws.”

She doesn’t even blink. “The guys from puppy class.”

I follow her finger and, yep. There they are. Alejandro and Ken. Casual. Unbothered. Existing in public like they’re not about to derail my mental stability.

Ken spots us first and lifts a hand in an enthusiastic wave, all golden-retriever energy and friendly vibes, before steering them toward a store. Alejandro doesn’t wave.

Of course, he doesn’t.

For one stupid, suspended heartbeat, his eyes lift — and lock onto mine.

Icy blue. Sharp. The kind of gaze that feels like it’s assessing you and judging you at the same time, just to keep things efficient. The noise of the mall fades, the air feels thicker, heavier, like someone turned the gravity up a notch without asking my permission.

There’s something about him. I can’t place it. Something unsettling. Something … familiar, maybe. The kind of presence that makes you feel safe and exposed in the same breath. Like standing in the doorway of a storm — half sheltered, half about to get wrecked.

Then Ken nudges him, says something, and they turn into the store and vanish behind glass and mannequins and bad lighting.

I exhale. Apparently, I’d been holding my breath.

Kiara grins like a demon who just found her new favorite hobby. “Ohhh no,” she says, delighted. “You felt that, didn’t you?”

“I felt nothing,” I lie, rubbing the spot on my arm where she nearly dislocated me.

“You didn’t feel the tension?” she asks. “That Ken dude was literally beaming it over here.”

I shake my head. We’re not on the same page.

She snorts. “Ug … look who I’m asking.” She rolls her eyes.

“He’s definitely good for an orgasm or two.”

The mall noise rushes back in — voices, footsteps, music — and yet something lingers. A chill. A hum under my skin.

And it’s not sexual tension from Ken. It’s from his friend.

Great.

Just what I needed. Another man-shaped complication.

“Want to grab food and drinks at the club?” I ask, already fishing my keys from my bag. I’m absolutely not in the mood to go home. I am, however, deeply and passionately in the mood for alcohol. Preferably, the kind that burns a little and makes bad decisions feel like excellent ideas.

The added bonus? My brothers’ club doesn’t card or ID me. Perks of shared DNA.

“Sure,” Lucinda says instantly, a little too eager, like I just offered her a backstage pass to life. “I’m not in a hurry.”

“I have a date,” Kiara chirps, sliding into her car with the effortless grace of someone who’s never overthought a single flirtation in her life. She gives a quick wave and peels off.

How does she do that? Casual dating like it’s a hobby. Or a personality trait.

Lucinda watches her disappear before glancing at me. “How’s your brother doing?”

The question lands unexpectedly. Soft. Careful.

“Oh, he’ll live,” I say lightly, because if I think about how close it was, my chest might cave in. Then, without fully meaning to, I add, “Broken boys don’t die easily.”

Lucinda studies me for a second longer than necessary. The parking lot hums. A car alarm chirps somewhere. Night settles in like it’s listening.

I turn the key in the ignition.