Boum: La

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.

At some point, Clara caught her eye from across the room and gave her a huge, knowing thumbs-up. La Boum

Adrien’s house was a two-story with a creaky gate and a living room emptied of furniture. Someone had pushed the sofa against the wall and hung a disco ball from a ceiling hook that was probably meant for a plant. The music was already loud—a French pop song she didn’t recognize, then something by Depeche Mode, then a slowed-down Cure track that made everyone sway. The disco ball spun

The invitation arrived on a folded sheet of pale blue paper, smelling faintly of cheap vanilla perfume. It wasn’t the perfume’s owner that made Sophie’s heart stutter—it was the place: Chez Adrien . They just moved—clumsy, close, laughing when their knees

Sophie leaned her head against the cool window. Outside, Adrien stood on his porch, waving.

“My parents let me,” she said, then winced. Stupid. He doesn’t care about your parents.