It happened to be exactly one year before, halfway through sophomore year. And it happened at a dance:
“I can’t believe you got me to do this, Jason,” I wispered to him as we walked into the decorated gym.
This night was going to suck, I could already tell. It’s pretty pathetic when your cousin asks you to go to his winter formal because he couldn’t find anyone else. It’s even more pathetic when you agree because you’re never going to go to one otherwise. They don’t even have dances at my school. Damn art school.
“Oh come on Brooke, it’ll be fine. You’ll see,” he answered in a completely normal voice which everyone could hear. Stupid Jason. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to slow dance with him.
And so the sucky night went on. About an hour into it, Jason ran off with some of his friends and left me standing by the punch. The idiot. I couldn’t even leave, he was my ride. I sighed and grabbed some punch.
Then some guy said from behind me, “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”