I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 99: Two Left Feet and a Date
Jon's Perspective
Laughter bounced around the cafeteria like a pinball, ricocheting off tile and plastic chairs and echoing so loudly it might've set off the fire alarm. Jon reclined in his seat, soaking in the warmth of a story well told, the kind of warmth that came from making your friends laugh until their stomachs hurt. This was his favorite kind of spotlight—just enough attention to feel cool, not enough to be terrifying.
Terry was practically choking, gasping for breath between wheezes. Alex had to swipe under her eyes to catch the tears slipping free, her face red from cackling. Sam simply shook her head with that amused little grin she always wore when Jon was mid-story.
"So you're telling me..." Alex started, still laughing, "...the cursed necklace just teleported back into the living room?"
"It didn't teleport," Jon said, raising a finger like a professor correcting a student mid-lecture. "Ghost dug it up. You know, like it was some horrific toy he just couldn't part with. He strutted in, proudly delivered it like some demonic order from hell's own pizza chain. Jay nearly passed out, Gloria started muttering prayers under her breath, and Manny—"
He paused for dramatic effect.
"Manny wanted it to be immortalized in a documentary. Like The Blair Witch Project, but rebranded as The Pritchett Paranormal Files™."
That sent Sam over the edge—she snorted soda up her nose. She turned away, coughing into a napkin while still laughing.
"I would've watched it," she said once she recovered.
Jon nodded sagely. "We almost did. You forget: Manny cornered me, Gloria, and Jay with that 'rough cut' after dinner. Forty-five minutes of handheld footage, dim lighting, and dramatic sock puppet reenactments. I still have nightmares."
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified intel.
"Seriously. Sock puppets. One of them had Jay's receding hairline drawn on with a Sharpie."
That was it—another round of laughter erupted. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to this table, this group, this ridiculous shared history. Jon felt a sense of ease he didn't always get at school.
But then, like a needle scratching off a record, the lunch bell gave its first warning ring. And before the group could disband, Sam's voice sliced through the atmosphere—smooth, but calculated. Too smooth.
"So…" she began, carefully casual. "The school dance is coming up."
Jon gave a lazy nod, his smile still lingering. "Right."
"It's this Friday."
"Yep." He poked at a piece of questionable chicken on his tray, suddenly very invested in dissecting it with his fork.
"There'll be music."
"Makes sense."
"People usually go… with a date."
Jon blinked and looked up, his casual demeanor faltering ever so slightly. "Sounds about right."
Sam tilted her head and smiled, but there was a directness in her eyes now that wasn't there before. "Jon. Do you want to go with me to the dance?"
There it was. A simple question. No fireworks, no romantic music swelling in the background—just a sentence dropped in the middle of the cafeteria like a grenade.
Jon's brain scrambled. "Oh. Uh…"
"You're allowed to say yes," she added, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
"I—yeah. Yes. Of course." His voice cracked slightly, but he powered through. "Let's go to the dance."
Sam's grin returned, wide and unguarded. "Good."
And then, as if on cue, the bell shrieked for real this time, scattering students like startled pigeons.
As they walked toward class, Jon could feel it—that weightless, electric buzz that came from something you couldn't take back. Sam was walking just ahead of him, and behind them, he felt the unmistakable heat of Terry's scrutiny. The guy didn't say a word as they moved down the hall, but Jon could feel the silence, loaded and expectant.
They reached their lockers. Terry finally pounced.
"What was that?" he asked, folding his arms like an overprotective parent. "You hesitated."
Jon exhaled and leaned his head against his locker. "I'm not good at dancing, man."
Terry blinked. "That's it? Dude, you looked like she'd just asked you to enlist."
"It feels like enlisting. The last time I danced, I moved like a malfunctioning robot having a seizure. I never know what to do with my arms. They just... betray me the second music starts. My brain panics. My knees forget how joints work."
Terry laughed—hard. "Jon, no one knows what to do with their hands. Dancing is literally socially acceptable flailing. You fake confidence, hope you don't accidentally elbow someone in the face, and pray the lights are low."
"I don't want to flail in front of Sam. I don't want to be that guy."
"Then you need practice. Reps, my friend." Terry clapped him on the shoulder. "After football practice, empty classroom. Me, you, and your uncoordinated limbs. It's happening."
Jon groaned like someone who'd just agreed to public humiliation.
"Fine. But if I pull a muscle or dislocate a knee, it's on you."
"I'll bring knee pads," Terry said with a wicked grin.
Jon shot him a look. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Oh, absolutely. This is better than when you told me how you got those random flashbacks about the time you walked in on me and Suki."
Jon groaned again. "Low blow."
"Exactly what you should have said when you opened that door."
Jon narrowed his eyes. "I regret telling you anything."
"And I regret nothing." Terry gave a dramatic thumbs-up. "See you on the dance floor, ballerina."
Jon watched him saunter off, probably already brainstorming choreography. He lingered by his locker, mentally bracing for the disaster that was his future on the dance floor.
But beneath the dread, a small, quiet feeling settled in—relief.
Because even if he danced like a possessed scarecrow… he wouldn't have to do it alone.