Disclaimer: I own nothing. Title is from the song "Sway" by the Perishers.
Note: Spoilers through 2x22 (Not Pictured). A little AU. Enjoy.
The second Mac steps out of her mother's Volvo, she regrets it. Crappy pop "music" blasts from Neptune Middle School's gym and she is assaulted with the unmistakable odor only belonging to pubescent boys (seriously. Have they never heard of deodorant?) She sighs, pulling a few crumpled dollar bills from the pocket of her jeans and heading towards the entrance.
As a rule, she hates school dances. Judging by the number of air-headed adolescents hanging around this evening, she's in the minority on that one. "Come on, Cindy," her mother had urged her that Wednesday. "It's the first dance of the year, and you should at least make an effort to be social." In any other circumstance, Mac would have just rolled her eyes and retreated to her room, but she decides that it's probably best not to alienate the woman on whom the prospect of a new laptop depends. So she goes to a dance, just this once. But she still refuses to let her mom do her hair.
Mac forks over the six dollars to her art teacher (she's always pitied the young, first-year teachers naïve enough to agree to chaperone) and walks into the gym. There's a deejay set up in the far corner, and her classmates are crowded around the source of the sound.
Suddenly, she's uncharacteristically self-conscious, standing awkwardly while everyone else gyrates ridiculously. Mac half-heartedly tries to convince herself that her peers are the ones that should be feeling stupid, not her, but that doesn't stop her from feeling overwhelmingly conspicuous in her black hoodie and doodled-on Converses.
She pushes her way through the sea of people and finds herself filling a plastic cup with 7-UP at a nearby table. As she sips the cold beverage, her eyes the room, hoping to find someone normal to talk to, but she sees no such person; truth be told, Mac doesn't have a lot of friends, and none of her casual acquaintances would dream of attending a school dance. With good reason, Mac concludes. This sucks.
Mac notices a pair of boys watching her. One, tall and blonde, she recognizes from her Spanish class as Dick Casablancas. He spends most of the class looking up the words for sex organs in the Spanish-English dictionaries, and Mac, even at 13, is old enough to appreciate how appropriate his nickname is. The other kid, who looks a little younger, might be Dick's brother; that sounds about right, she thinks. She's seen them together quite a few times.
Dick says something to his maybe-brother, who is still staring wide-eyed at Mac. Although her lip-reading skills could use some work, Mac can half make out what he's saying. Dude, just go talk to her. And, just like that, she's uncomfortable and nervous again.
Mac attempts to look nonchalant when the kid approaches her. She thinks he's kind of cute in the geeky way she so often finds endearing.
"Hey," he says. She half-smiles in response. "You're a great dancer," he jokes lamely. At first, Mac is confused, and then she realizes that she is, in fact, at a dance. At which the only thing close she's done to dancing is tapping her fingers on her cup. Ohh.
"Oh. Right. Yeah, this thing is getting pretty crazy…I wouldn't be surprised if the cops shut us down by eight-thirty," she deadpans.
The boy smiles. "I'm Cassidy." She suspects Salvador Dali (if he was still alive, that is) would have loved to paint this particular scene, in all its surrealist glory.
"I'm Mac," Mac says over the music. The loud hip-hop song that is playing ends and something much softer and slower begins. Teenagers immediately start pairing off, no one wanting to be stuck without a dance partner.
Cassidy bites his lip and looks over at Mac. "May I have this dance?" he asks dramatically.
"Okay," she giggles. She wants to kick herself. Because Mac Mackenzie is, in no universe, a giggler.
She puts her hands around his neck while he places his on her waist, and then they slowly sway, barely in time with the song. She's never danced with anyone before, and it's strange and awkward and his hands are sweaty. Mac doesn't mind; she figures most slow-dances are like this.
"I hate this song," Mac states, wrinkling her nose.
"I do too. Along with everything else classified as R&B," he agrees.
"Hell yes."
They move a little closer, and maybe dances aren't so bad after all.
When Cassidy leaves for a moment to go find a bathroom, Mac feels a tap on her shoulder. It's Dick. She raises her eyebrows at him in acknowledgement.
"Play nice with my brother," Dick tells her. "He's…delicate."
They both have no idea how right he is.
The next time they dance is the night Mac realizes something might be wrong. He plays with the red strands of her hair and avoids looking her in the eye. Mac prays that it's just the coffee they got on the drive over that's making him so jumpy, but she knows it's probably not. She sighs and rests her head on his shoulder.
Butters is talking to one of his weird friends, so Mac slips away and pours herself some punch. She laughs, somewhat bitterly, when it hits her that her party-going habits haven't changed in the slightest since junior high. Upon tasting her drink, it's obvious it's a little more festive and a little less innocuous than she originally thought, and she surprises herself when she doesn't mind. Whatever. Screw Alterna-Prom. Screw dances.
"What up, Ghost World?" says a loud voice beside her.
Mac knows she doesn't have to, but she tries to be civil to Dick Casablancas. She forces a half-smile. "Bitchin' party," she mumbles. He grins.
"Wanna dance?" Dick slurs.
A "no," is on the tip of her tongue, but what the hell? "Okay," she accepts.
Dick stumbles a bit as they take the now familiar stance. Mac prepares herself for the awkwardness she felt with Cassidy, but it never comes. Maybe it's just that they're both slightly tipsy (okay, Dick is completely wasted), but it feels less forced when they sway from side to side, mirroring the movements of all the normal people in the room.
"So you and the Beav broke up, huh?"
Mac cringes. "It was less us breaking up and more him dumping me on my ass." She cringes again when she realizes what just came out of her mouth. To Dick Casablancas. It was weird enough discussing her love life with Veronica. She resolves to never drink again.
"That's lame. But don't worry about it. Beaver can be weird about the ladies."
"Yeah. I got that."
Dick grins. "So, listen, Mackenzie," he begins. "If you ever feel the need for some of the famous Casablancas lovin', let me know." His drunken wink is so priceless it belongs on YouTube.
For now, she just smacks him lightly on the back of his head.
But one suicide, a few startling truths, and a lot of hours in therapy later, Mac takes Dick up on his offer.