“You’re kidding me?”
I meet the gaze of two pairs of painted eyes. Amy’s are hazy, the lids heavy, Jasmine’s sharp and wide. My own shift back and forth, my mind not quite believing what my friends have just told me.
“He did.” Amy sounds insistent. “Ask Amber. She was in the next booth and pretty much saw the whole thing.”
I plan to.
Heading for the shower room, I squeeze past a tight knot of dancers, picking my way over the array of shoes and bags tossed on the floor. My friends follow on behind.
The changing room is really just a long and wide corridor, strip-lit, with lockers lined up on one side. Beyond the lockers is a makeshift kitchenette. A long and low laminate bench stretches along the other wall, capped at the far end by Jane’s desk. She is currently our House Mom. The mirr
