The night of the dance arrived, a stark contrast to the quiet dread that had filled Martin’s week. He stood before his bedroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his best shirt—a dark blue button-down that felt strangely formal. His reflection stared back, and the sight was unsettling. The shadows under his eyes had deepened into pronounced, purple smudges, a physical testament to the sleepless nights and internal tremors. She won’t notice, he told himself, turning away. But the lie wouldn’t hold. He turned back, sighed, and left his room.

  He stopped outside Sadie’s door and did something unusual: he knocked.

  “Yes, Loria?” Sadie’s voice filtered through the wood.

  “It’s me. Martin.”

  The door opened a crack. Sadie peered out, suspicion etched on her face. “What? Why are you knocking? What are you mad about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You only knock when you’re mad. Or when something’s really wrong. It’s a documented fact.”

  “That is not true.”

  “It is.” She crossed her arms, her gaze analytical.

  “Fine. Whatever. Look, do you have mascara? Can I borrow it?”

  Sadie blinked. “I have mascara. What do you need it for?”

  “Just… help me out with it, okay?”

  With a long-suffering sigh, she relented. “Okay.”

  Later, as the clock neared six, Loria’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Martin! It’s almost time! You don’t want to keep Jenny waiting!” A pause. “And I’m giving Camilla a lift, so hurry up!”

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  “Coming, Ma!” he called back.

  He descended the stairs and stood awkwardly in the foyer, using the dark glass of the front door as a mirror to check his final appearance.

  Loria turned and saw him. “Oh, look at you! So handsome. Jenny won’t regret asking you at all.”

  He turned, a hesitant smile on his face. “Really?”

  The smile vanished from Loria’s face, replaced by wide-eyed shock. “Woah! Martin, what on earth is on your face?!”

  In his well-intentioned but clumsy attempt to mask the dark circles, Martin had applied Sadie’s mascara with a heavy hand. It was less “subtle cover-up” and more “raccoon who lost a fight with an inkwell.”

  “Nothing!” he said defensively, taking a step back.

  “It’s… let me just clean a bit off.” Loria advanced, a tissue in hand.

  “No!”

  “Just a little!”

  “I said no!”

  A brief, absurd scuffle ensued in the hallway—Martin dodging, Loria darting in with the tissue like a matador, until they were both breathless and the mascara was, if anything, slightly more smudged.

  The car ride was a tense compromise. Loria drove with Camilla Briggs in the passenger seat. As they pulled up to the school, festively lit for the evening, Martin made a swift exit to avoid another makeup attack.

  Camilla leaned over from the back seat to the front, calling through the open window as Martin hurried away. “Have fun, Martin! And remember—it’s just a dance. Keep it appropriate with my daughter.”

  “I will, Mrs. Briggs,” Martin called back, his voice strained.

  “Camilla!” Loria hissed, smacking her friend’s arm. “Don’t put ideas in his head! He’s still young!”

  “Okay, okay,” Camilla laughed, settling back.

  As Loria pulled the car away from the curb, the laughter faded. The silence inside the vehicle grew heavy.

  “You still haven’t told him, have you?” Camilla asked quietly, all traces of humor gone. “About his illness.”

  Loria’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I will. Soon.”

  “I think you should. Really soon. Because—”

  “It’s not just my decision, Camilla,” Loria interrupted, her voice sharp with stress. “His father and Andella agreed. We know Martin. We need to find the right time, or… he might not be able to handle it.”

  Camilla held up her hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just saying. He’s a smart kid. It’s possible he already knows.”

  Loria said nothing. She just stared at the road ahead, her knuckles white on the wheel, taking a deep, shuddering breath she hoped her friend wouldn’t hear.

  Martin pushed through the school’s main doors into a hallway transformed by strings of fairy lights. And there she was. Jennifer stood waiting, a vision in a simple, dark dress, her curly hair down. Her nervous smile transformed into open astonishment as he approached.

  “You kept me waiting,” she said, trying for playful but her eyes were glued to his face. “You’ll have to make it up to me. And… what is with the mascara? Did you use the whole tube?”

  Martin shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “Thought I’d go for mysterious. Vampire chic. Seems fitting.”

  A genuine grin broke through her surprise. “Indeed.”

  He felt a flicker of his old self then. He offered his arm with a slight, formal bow. “Shall we?”

  Jennifer’s smile widened. She looped her arm through his, the tension of the car ride, the smudged makeup, the unspoken diagnosis, all momentarily forgotten in the simple, electric touch. “We shall.”

  Together, they turned and walked toward the muffled beat of music and the glow of the decorated hall, stepping into the masquerade.