The disco ball spun. Tiny shards of light slid over his face, over her dress, over the walls filled with posters of bands she’d never heard of. They didn’t really dance. They just moved—clumsy, close, laughing when their knees bumped.
The silence that followed was a living thing. Finally, her father said, “We’ll drive you. We’ll pick you up at midnight. No later.” La Boum
That night, Sophie didn’t ask. She just set the invitation on the kitchen table, next to the fruit bowl. Her father, a history teacher with kind, tired eyes, picked it up. Her mother, who always smelled of mint tea and worry, read over his shoulder. The disco ball spun