Amy has no idea what to do. Acting on autopilot, she straps herself in, because safety first, and stares blankly at the floor, at her high heels, at her shaved and lotioned legs. She opens Jake's note again, reads it through again. It's no more illuminating the second time.
She's a little bit sad, and a lot embarrassed, but mostly she's pissed: pissed at Jake, for being a dickweed and standing her up, pissed at herself, for thinking that it was possible that he could have been taking this seriously, when she knew perfectly well that he never took anything seriously, pissed at Schur High for having a winter formal, pissed at Jake, because why not mention him twice?
And so now she has to show up alone, which should only be incredibly humiliating.
She spends the limo ride scrunching her face up to prevent herself from crying and smudging her makeup-because if she's going to walk into this dance dateless, she's gonna look fantastic while she does it.
Amy's neighbor Kylie, who goes to a different school, says that all their dances are in the gym because the administration's too cheap to have them anywhere else. But Schur High's gym is way too small to hold the entire junior and senior classes, plus external dates, and anyway their tuition is high enough (though Amy's on scholarship) that the school certainly ought to be able to rent out the ballroom of the Hilton, or whatever.
So the limo takes her across town, and lets her out by the front doors of the hotel, and she takes a deep breath and steels her nerves and walks in.
It's dark (which makes her wonder what the whole point of dressing up was, anyway), and the DJ's playing Daft Punk, and while her eyes adjust she scans the room for someone she recognizes.
Terry's there, but he's with his girlfriend on the dance floor, grinning like a maniac, and she knows even if she waved to him there's no way he'd see her.
She spots Gina grinding on some guy, looking like she probably had a beer or two at Hitchcock's "pre-party" party, the way her face is flushed and sweaty. She still looks great, though, for which Amy gives her full points.
"Santiago?"
She spins around to see Rosa and Charles standing behind her, scowling and grinning respectively.
"Where's Jake?" Charles asks, straightening his tie. "I want to show him my three-piece suit. We're gonna take formalwear selfies together."
"Yeah," adds Rosa. "I wanna see how dumb Peralta looks in a cummerbund."
Amy swallows. She knew this was coming-why didn't she spend the drive preparing a light and witty response, instead of feeling sorry for herself?
"He couldn't make it," she says instead.
"Is he sick?" Charles asks, alarmed. "Did he get food poisoning? I warned him about that hot dog stand, I really did…"
"I don't know," Amy admits.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" asks Rosa, while Charles pulls out his phone, presumably to text Jake. "You were his date. He had to tell you something."
"Yeah, well, he didn't," says Amy tersely, and Rosa, apparently recognizing that she wants to be left alone, lapses back into her trademark reticence.
"AMY!" Gina comes barrelling across the ballroom floor to them. "Girl, you look fantastic. I am so proud of myself right now. You were a little fashion-challenged caterpillar, in your hair-pulled-back cocoon, and now look, you're a beautiful sexually charged butterfly!"
"Thanks," Amy says uncomfortably.
"Where's Jake? Did you send him to go get you a drink? Because if so, fair warning, the punch is non-alcoholic and also disgusting."
"Jake's not here," says Rosa, and Amy shoots her a look of gratitude (though she's not sure how well it reads in the dim lighting), because if she has to explain that Jake stood her up one more time, she thinks she might throw up.
"Huh," says Gina, and raises her eyebrows in that I'm-smarter-than-I-seem way that she has, but leaves it at that. "Well, come dance with me then, butterfly girl! Fair warning, though, I may get handsy."
"I think I'll pass, thanks," says Amy, managing to scrounge up a weak smile. "I have to go to the bathroom."
She doesn't, not really, but she's only been there five minutes and already she's dying to leave.
It's all Jake's fault, she thinks, squirting the lotion that this hotel keeps next to its sinks onto her hands. If he hadn't asked her to this dance in the first place, she wouldn't be here right now in uncomfortable shoes and an uncharacteristically daring dress, feeling awkward and out of place.
What she doesn't quite admit to herself is the possibility that if he had shown up, she might actually have had fun.
On her way back into the ballroom, she bumps into someone.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaims, looking up-and it's Mr. Holt. "What are you doing here?" she blurts out tactlessly.
"I was asked to chaperone," he says, and, as usual, she can't tell from her tone whether he relishes or resents the situation.
"Are you having a good time?" she asks instead. "I mean, I can't imagine watching a bunch of hormonal teenagers gyrating on a dance floor is particularly amusing."
Holt's expression changes unreadably. "Isn't that why you're here, Miss Santiago?"
"Well…" she stutters, "I mean, it's a bit different. I'm one of those hormonal teenagers."
"Ah, yes. I imagine you have an escort with whom you are...ahem...gyrating?"
Amy can feel herself blushing. Discussing her romantic situation (not that her situation with Jake is anything remotely romantic!) with her English teacher is somehow both bizarre and typical.
"He, ah, didn't show up."
"Really? Was this Mr. Peralta, by chance?"
"It was," Amy says, surprised. Holt doesn't seem like the type to notice or care about who's dating whom.
"Such deplorable etiquette seems markedly characteristic of that young man," Holt explains in response to her quizzical expression. "I hope, however, that you will not let that constrain you from enjoying the event. Surely there are others who would be more than willing to socialize with you."
Amy glows at the compliment-clearly Holt thinks well of her!-and resolves to follow her mentor's advice. Why let Jake ruin her evening? She looks great (Gina said so), almost all her friends are here...there's no reason not to have a good time.
She thanks Holt, and joins Rosa next to the refreshment table, where she's shotgunning snickerdoodles with aplomb.
"Oh, good, you came back," is all she says. Amy nods, and takes a snickerdoodle herself.
"Excuse me?"
It's an unfamiliar male voice, and an unfamiliar face-but she takes another glance, and, on second thought, maybe she has seen him somewhere before.
"Are you talking to me?" she asks, and cringes at how harsh it sounds.
"Yeah," the guy says. "Amy Santiago, right? You're in my calc class."
"Oh yeah!" That's where she knows him from, of course. He sits two rows in front of her and doodles SpongeBob in the margins of his notes. "You're...Teddy?"
"Yeah!" he says enthusiastically. "Listen, I was wondering, do you wanna dance with me? They're playing a pretty good song."
"So they are," says Amy redundantly.
He smiles, and she notices that he has dimples. "You seemed like you had cool taste in music."
"Well, uh, sure, let's dance!" she says quickly, realizing he's waiting for an answer. "Fair warning, though-I'm terrible."
"Oh, I'm sure you're fine," he says.
Jake would have told you how horrible you were, a treacherous part of her brain says, but she quiets it, and, taking Teddy's hand (which is a little sweaty, if she's being completely honest), moves onto the dance floor.
The song's beat's in that awkward place between slow-dance and fist-pumping, and she's not sure exactly what to do, but she decides just to follow Teddy's lead; he's kind of just swaying his torso side to side, in time with the music, and she does the same thing, staying a safe distance away, just in case he, in Gina's words, "gets handsy."
It's actually kind of fun, and Rosa sends her a "yeah girl" smile from across the room.
The song ends, and switches to a slow one, and just as she moves to go back to Rosa, Teddy moves to put his hands around her waist, like they're going to keep dancing. Instinctively, she recoils.
"Oh-" he says, pulling his hands back. "Sorry. Did you want, uh, to stop dancing?"
She's way too flustered to consider getting that close to a guy she barely knows.
"No," she says, then realizes how he phrased the question. "I mean, yes. I want to stop. Not that it's not fun! I just, you know, need a break."
"Yeah, no problem," Teddy says, raising his hand in a sort of goodbye pseudo-wave. "See you in calc, I guess."
"See you in calc."
After that, the rest of the night isn't so bad. She sits in a corner with Rosa and makes fun of all the ugliest dresses, and dances in a circle with Gina and Charles and some other people during the upbeat songs, and eats a bunch more snickerdoodles.
"How was your night?" her mom asks, after Rosa drops her off at home.
"Good," she answers, and it's only kind of a lie.
On Monday, she breezes right past Jake on her way into AP English, fixing her gaze resolutely ahead of her and away from him.
"Hey, Amy," he says, sitting down in his customary place next to her, and she changes desks so they're no longer near enough to talk without attracting Holt's attention.
Jake apparently doesn't care about attracting Holt's attention, though, because he just says "Hey, Amy," in a louder voice.
"I'm not speaking to you," she says primly, still looking straight ahead.
"You just did!" he replies immediately, and even though she can't see his face she just knows he's got that wiseass grin on.
"That doesn't count."
"Oh, see, now you're obviously talking to me," he says, but she doesn't answer, because why dig herself deeper into this logical hole?
"Come on, Amy," he says after a moment of silence. "You can't be that mad. I sent you a freakin' limo! That cost all of the money I was saving for Jay-Z tickets. Do you know what that means to me?"
"You were saving that money for Taylor Swift tickets," she retorts without thinking.
"Aw, see, I knew you couldn't go without talking to me."
"Aberration," she says coldly.
"We're basically having a conversation! I know you're mad. I know what I did was a little bit of a dick move, okay?"
"A little?" she says, unable to contain herself. "Jake, I got dressed up and waited for you. I shaved my legs! In December! Do you know how frequently I shave my legs in December? Not frequently! I spent an unholy amount of money on a dress I'll probably never wear again! And it's not like I was all that sold on the idea of going to this thing with you in the first place! If you didn't want to come, why didn't you just not ask me? Or at least cancel, by, I don't know, calling or something, in the morning, not at seven the night of the dance, via limo-post!"
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "Honestly. I didn't know you'd be this mad, I swear."
"I thought we were friends," Amy says, turning to look at him at last. "And friends don't stand friends up with zero explanation!"
"I have an explanation, if you'd give me a chance to say it!"
"All right. Go ahead. Explain."
But instead of bursting out right away with some glib story, he falls silent.
"Well?" she asks, after a moment.
"Never mind," he mutters, and turns away from her to look at the front of the classroom. "Just-forget it."
"I'm not going to forget it," Amy hisses, but she has to do it under her breath because Holt's started talking. "I'm mad at you. And you can forget about borrowing my history notes anytime soon!"
But now Jake's the one not talking.