Another one-shot from yours truly (a.k.a. The General without a sense of commitment). I was inspired when I thought about how sucky my Valentine's Day dance was going to be and how, as a member of the SC (student council), I was going to be forced to go. Luckily, Pennsylvania came to my rescue, and the dance was postponed . . . until April 8th. Yes, I saw the logic there as well. Inspiration also due to The Office's Valentine's Day episode. Just because she's engaged, Jim, doesn't mean you couldn't have gotten her a card or something.Anyway, enjoy, or at least try to.

It wasn't my choice to come to the stupid thing in the first place. Getting dressed up and buying new shoes is nice enough, but I really didn't want to go. However, as both vice-president of the junior class and an automatic member of Student Council, my presence was required at the event.

I'm assuming, of course, that once again, the administration had managed to confuse me with Paris Hilton or something. You know how a party's just not a party until the diva of parties arrives.

Either way, I couldn't decide if I should be flattered that they even bothered, or offended that they picked her of all people to compare me to.

At first the idea of going to the Valentine's Day dance was a thrilling prospect. My boyfriend had, just a couple of months ago, come back to life, so it was perfectly acceptable to bring him out in public, and Cee was going to go, so there would be plenty of time to sit back, watch the scene unfolding before us, and shamelessly make fun of everyone there.

But then Jesse had an inescapable graveyard shift tonight, something that had happened more often than not since he got that paramedic apprenticeship with the local hospital.

And Cee Cee had been asked to the dance by Adam which, don't get me wrong, is absolutely fantastic, and I wouldn't have it any other way, but it was just that she had promised me we'd hang. Only, judging by the way the two were attached at the hip, our little mockfest didn't look like it was going to take place anytime soon.

BESIDES the fact that Cee had totally bailed out on the rules of sisterhood . . . ship . . . dom, with punch in hand, I had slinked off to one of the benches near an empty corner to hang. Trust me, from the passerby's perspective; I was the daunting image of the "Valentine's Days Yet to Come" outcast.

And, once again, I had overdressed for the occasion. Semi-formals always screwed me up because, yes, long dresses were formal, and shorter dresses were semi-formal, but which materials are suitable for which? Really, they should be giving hand guides to women, so we don't have one more thing to stress about. I am a modern girl of the twenty-first century trying to achieve self-actualization by the time I'm thirty. Couldn't I get just a little help? I'm certain that if Freud had to deal with trying to choose dresses for formals and semi-formals, he wouldn't have placed such a huge interest in self-actualization. He would have done something more constructive, such as write a guidebook for dress shopping.

Anyway, as I'm certain you all want to know; my dress was black and just an inch or so below my knees. The top half, a separate piece from the skirt, was very coursettesque in that there were thin straps, and the neck line didn't go straight across, more like the bottom of a heart or something. The strings in the back were criss-crossed which created a very chic design while resourcefully kept the top half from falling off. It stopped at the small of my back, but was high enough that it was socially acceptable. Down the center, in the front was the same design, only, there was a red slip of cloth sheathed with a layer of black lace behind the strings, designed in an identical fashion to the ones in the back. The skirt half of the dress was just a black silk that flowed just an inch or two below my knees. With a gorgeous pair of red heels and some thinly lined eyes, I was the epitome of Goth V-Day chic. And while I wasn't a huge fan of Goth anything, I had to admit: I did look rather stunning, if I do say so myself, which I had to, considering I didn't have a boyfriend to say it to me.

I had let my hair curl naturally, and at the hairdresser's they straightened it into a soft wave. It was piled messily atop my head, with a few strands falling out; two framing my face. With a chandelier choker and a fun black tiara, it was no wonder I was beating guys away with a stick.

You see, that's called verbal irony. I said the opposite of what I really meant. And, yes, for you prudes out there, it is also technically called lying.

Even though it is so cliché to go to the V-Day dance (or as Cee and I wittily referred to it: The Venereal Disease dance. We even went so far as offering to donate to the fund at the door. You should have seen Sister E's face when I claimed, "My heart goes out to those young teens with herpes. I'm battling a severe case of the clap myself. Thank you for your prayers."), there was that sappy romantic within that wanted the evening to be as cliché and romantic as possible. And the only way to achieve that was if my boyfriend was here.

But, alas, Jesse was unable to attend.

So that brought me to the part where I was the attractive loner in the corner at a Valentine's dance without a single dance proposal. Not that there was much dancing. It was mostly just horny teenagers grinding and dry humping each other to music where the lyrics are inaudible due to the pumping bass. Not really my cup of tea.

There had been one proposal. A senior football player, to be exact. He had come over to me and said, "I, uh . . . I think you're the beautifullest girl I have ever seen. Do you, um, wanna dance?"

I smiled kindly and replied, "Gee, I'm flattered, and I'm pretty sure that you are the attractivist guy I have ever seen, but I'm dan-sed out. Sorry."

I'm pretty sure he didn't get the point. Had his grammar improved, there might have been a chance. He wasn't retarded, just a jock.

The gymnasium had been pretty tricked out with streamers, balloons, and confetti hearts as far as the eye could see. It was a shame that Kelly had spent most of the funds for this dance when statistics showed that it is the least attended dance of the entire year. But to people like Kelly, who have always had boyfriends or dates, this was like the highest even of their high school careers, besides prom, of course. But did the Student Council take my idea of a costume dance for Halloween seriously at all? Nope. Why would they want to focus more on the fun part of dances than the aspect of being required to have a date?

I waved to Cee Cee haphazardly as she gave me a large smile from the dance floor. She looked absolutely radiant, and whether it was for her newly acquired accessory, Adam, or her deep violet dress, no one could tell. Violet was Cee's color. It called to her.

I sighed and took a sip of my punch, smiling and acknowledging my fellow peers who bothered to wave.

"Hey, beautifullest."

Oh no.

I exhaled calmly before setting my cup o' punch on the bench beside me. Whoever this guy was had a lot of nerve to ask me for a dance before he had fully passed Academic English-K. I'd have to do this the hard way.

Glaring, I spun around. "Listen," I began, but was cut off because my eyes hadn't met the deadpan look of Danny's (that was his name) face at all. Instead, they had locked target on Paul Slater's jovial, twice as handsome one.

I frowned in confusion. "How . . . ?"

He grinned. "I uh, saw the whole thing. Would have been entertaining, too, if he wasn't considering running for president at some point in his life. Never thought I'd see the day when the downfall of mankind is piled on the shoulders of a moron."

"Surely you can't be serious?" I asked, ignoring the fact that we hadn't spoken since the Winter Formal back in December. "About him wanting to be president I mean?"

"I am serious," he replied. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "And don't call me Shirley."

We both laughed nervously as if it were inappropriate to be in the other's presence; to be breathing the same air. We had never been nervous around each other, or at least he around me, and, yet, there we were trying to make whatever polite conversation was bound to follow the least torturous for both of us. Perhaps tensions ran high because not but two months ago, Paul had basically proclaimed that he wasn't brave enough to save me from a fire. For a guy like Paul to admit that he had flaws was a task he would most likely never recover from. For him to even make his way over to me had to have taken balls. More so than usual.

"So is that seat taken?" he asked, gesturing to the one in question.

I didn't even have to think about it. "Not at all," I replied. There was nothing for me to be worried about where Paul was concerned. We were cool with each other. At least, that's what I assumed we told ourselves. Whatever helps you sleep at night, right?

I couldn't help but notice that as Paul claimed his seat on the bench, I scooted over a few inches, ever so slightly. Whether out of old habit or something else entirely, I didn't know.

"So, uh, where's Kelly?" I asked conversationally when I couldn't take the silence any longer. Not that it had been necessarily long, but it was just so different from before. Before . . . you know . . . . Back then, we had never run out of things to talk about. Even when he was gagging me in that barn, I had had plenty of things to say. But things were different now. I had changed, and judging by the fact that Paul had had the guts to walk across that gymnasium floor, he had changed a hell of a lot too. More mature? Maybe. Better looking? Possibly. But I think the real thing was that we had grown up. When something occurs like the thing back in December, trivial facts like this guy had tried to off your boyfriend and maybe you too don't seem to matter any longer.

Well, it sounded more observational and wise in my head.

"Oh," Paul said at last, "her."

Her. He hadn't said it in a biting manner, nor in one of hopeless devotion. There was a mellow calm to the proclamation, almost as if I had asked the location of a random peer and not his girlfriend. I had always found it somewhat unfitting that Paul had ended up with Kelly. It always seemed too cruel; even for someone of his character. But perhaps I had been wrong in my thinking. Maybe when two people so narcissistic; so in love with themselves, get together, there's no need to even have a real relationship because they're so involved with themselves. Yeah. Kelly was a perfect match for Paul; one far better than I would have been. He was way better off without me.

"She's off in the bathroom with Sister E. again. Crying," he elaborated. "But not because her dress had to be altered . . . again, no, this time, all her tears were meant for me. Well, at least seventy-five percent of them, anyway. Kelly is a very shallow girl."

I restrained myself from laughing; however, I couldn't stop myself from asking, "You broke up wither her? On Valentine's Day?" I took a sip of punch. "God, Slater, just when I thought you couldn't get anymore inhumane."

He rested his elbows on his knees and cracked a smile. "I know, but seriously? I didn't break up with her. She's just angry because I'm wearing my high tops. Apparently, I am degrading the sanctity that is the Valentine's Day dance, as well as clashing with her dress or something. That was the gist of it, just with smaller words and a few grunts and moans which I took to mean independent clauses . . . or adverbs. I couldn't quite tell." When he looked my way, I was doing my best to be all straight faced, but I failed miserably. It didn't help matters much either that Paul was beaming just as brightly. "You know," he added thoughtfully, "I think she may have even argued that they detracted from my beautifullestness potential."

That took the cake. I snorted unattractively, was forced to put my punch down, and laughed uncontrollably for a few minutes. It struck me as odd that I couldn't think of a single other occasion where Paul and I had just joked around like this before. I went even so far to say that I liked it. This whole grown up thing was an adaptable change. I could get used to it.

"That is so ungrammatically correct," I said recrossing my legs and smoothing my skirts. "You do realize you're going to hell, right?"

He shrugged and stared straight ahead. "Yeah? Well, at least I know I'll be among good friends."

We both laughed nervously again; a group of people had actually flocked towards our corner, making it even more awkward than it had been before. Rumors were bound to fly and get to Kelly, or something, but somehow I felt we were hidden from the world in our dark, comforting little corner. Not that anything scandalous was happening in the first place.

"So, um, Converse sneakers, eh? I never pegged you to be one to wear them," I admitted freely. I could see why Kelly might have mad, I guess. While all the other guys had come in khakis and white oxfords, Paul had, like me, overdressed for the occasion. He was wearing a black suit, a black silk tie, a red shirt, a pair of red high tops to match the shirt, and pinned to his lapel was a blood red rose with a smattering of baby's breath. The shoes gave the outfit edge. Or maybe just a dose of irony.

"Really?" was his reply to my remark. He shrugged and whipped out a pack of Skittles from his breast pocket, popping one into his mouth. "Huh . . . well, people change you know."

There was an obvious double meaning to that remark; one that neither of us seemed willing to dissect. We were launched into another extreme silence. I reclaimed my punch, and stared everywhere but at my bench mate. I couldn't understand why I was so nervous just sitting there in the claustrophobic atmosphere. I tried to contribute it to Paul's history. How many times had he tried to kiss me before? Okay, so it was only twice, but still. The guy had changed, I mean, he hadn't mentioned Jesse once. So why did I feel like this meeting of ours was only going to end with heartbreak?

The silence this time around was suffocating. It wrapped its hands around my neck oh-so delicately and squeezed, pulling me under without a chance to pull myself out. The silence, without knowing it, was killing me. Somebody had to say something.

"So, um, what exactly are you doin' over here, Paul?" I finally asked, voicing what I had wanted to know since the beginning. I straightened my tiara. Really, it had been a cute gesture, and anyone that had a problem with it could kiss my white, Jewish ass. Well, half Jewish anyway.

He looked up at me and responded, "I had to find my fellow outcast. The grass isn't always greener on the other side, you know." He paused and leant back, supporting himself on his elbows. I took notice that he had worn a pair of golden yellow socks as well. I bet that hadn't pleased Kelly too much either. Or maybe she had been too involved with herself to notice Paul's socks.

"Like two peas in a pod, Suze," he continued, staring straight ahead, watching, as I was, the gyrating bodies out on the dance floor. One of the African American kids in our grade was being dragged away by Sister Ernestine. He had apparently started a break dance contest or something which, you know, is way unchristian. "I've always said," Paul continued, now staring directly at me, "we're not that different you and I." He laughed softly and shook his head. "It's a shame things didn't turn out differently."

I couldn't believe what my ears were hearing, and, yet, I found myself saying almost instantly, "Yeah, it is."

My eyes found themselves locked onto Paul's, whose were sparkling with surprise. There was so much in that look, but the dominant emotion breaking through, if I wasn't mistaken, was regret.

"Paul," I began. I'm sorry. That's what I had wanted to say. Somehow it just felt like whatever had been said at the Winter Formal had been forced and didn't mean anything. I felt like I needed to apologize for everything.

But I wasn't able to say anything because Paul had interrupted me. "Listen," he said, "I know this is probably stupid and overflowing with a sense of cliché, but I, uh," he struggled with pulling something out of his breast pocket, but managed anyway. He handed it to me, "wanted to give this to you."

An envelope. With my name on it. That's what he handed to me.

At the perplexed look on my face, he added, "You don't have to open it, I guess, but I'd really prefer if you did." He stood up and brushed his pants off. It could have been worse. Paul could have shown up in a red suit instead of a black one. "Anyway," he continued, "I better get going. Kelly has probably been searching for me for the past forty-five minutes," he paused. "Or not. But, um, yeah. Happy Valentine's Day, Simon."

I stared after him as he walked away, fingering the envelope in my hands. "Yeah, you too," I called after him, though barely audible above the music coming from the DJ's station.

I stared down at the envelope in my hands, both fearing and anticipating the contents inside. Against better judgment, I used a freshly manicured nail to slice open the envelope. Inside was a car, and upon further inspection, I saw a small red heart on the cover.

"Hey."

I jumped and quickly hid the card out of view, not before turning around to see who my assailant was. If it was Mr. Beautifullest, I swear things would turn violent.

It wasn't. Mr. Beautifullest, I mean.

It was Jesse.

"Jesse!" I declared in surprise, hiding the card further out of view. "Wh—What are you doing here?"

He smiled and walked over to my pathetic little corner. He was dressed in a pair of pressed khakis and a navy-blue oxford. That was my Jesse. Never out of place; always going with the current. "I managed to pull some strings; get one of the guys to take the rest of my shift." He took my hand, and lifted me from where I was sitting. "You look magnificent, querida." I managed a small smile. "What was that?" he asked meaning the whole Paul thing. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," I assured him. The man I loved, I mean. I began pulling him towards the dance floor. "But no more talking," I demanded, "A wise man once said, 'Sometimes you just have to be the boss of dancing,' so let's go."

Jesse laughed. I always loved his laugh. "As you wish, querida. I've had one hundred fifty years practice. I believe the boss of dance is before you as you speak."

"Ooh!" I squealed gaily, wrapping my arms around his neck, not letting him know of the card in hand. "Goodies. Now shush. It's cliché V-Day dancing time, so dance with me."

Jesse grinned and was only too happy to oblige, swaying me gently from side to side. I placed my head on his shoulder, though I had to admit there were ulterior motives involved.

As carefully as I could, I opened the card, almost dropping its contents onto the floor. I managed to catch whatever it was, turned it over, and saw it was a photograph. It was a photograph of both Paul and I, lying back on the hood of his car, making stupid faces at the camera that Paul was holding in his outstretched hand. I hadn't even remembered that short trip we had made to the beach before he took me back to my house on our only date.

After examining the photo, I looked back at the card. Near the bottom, he wrote something in his precise, all capitalized writing. It read:

Maybe this was just the way it's supposed to be. Hurts like hell, though.

—Paul

A single tear streaked down my cheek, and I batted at it angrily. Jesse, concerned, nudged me and asked, "Querida, are you alright?"

"Yeah," I assured him, "I'm fine. Just got a piece of dust in my eye is all."

I figured our meeting would have ended with heartbreak. Little did I know that the heartbreak would be of my own as well. I closed my eyes gently and allowed the second tear to slide down my face effortlessly.

Yeah.

Happy Valentine's Day.