“The students who surrounded and mocked their classmates tonight,” Dr. Morrison said, “will meet with me, and with their parents, on Monday morning. Before they participate in any senior recognition events next week. Including the senior awards banquet.”
The room murmured.
“This school will not celebrate leadership in public,” he said, “while ignoring cruelty in private.”
Chad looked around. Like he expected somebody to laugh with him. Like he was waiting for backup.
Nobody laughed.
Not one person.
Nathan slid his phone back into his pocket and looked at the floor.
And behind them, Ali shook his head. Slowly. And he stepped away from both of them. He walked over to the punch table by himself.
For the first time all night, the three of them looked smaller than the room they’d been trying to control.
When Noah and I came down the stairs off the stage, he stopped me near the edge of the dance floor. Away from everybody.
“Can I talk now?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I should have asked you before I put us on the ballot.”
“Yes,” I said. “You really, really should have.”
“I’m sorry, Damien.”
“I know why you did it.”
His eyes were shining under the ballroom lights.
“I just wanted them to see you,” he said. “The way I see you. Just once.”
“I love that,” I said. “I do. But next time you want me to stand up in front of a whole room, ask me first if my legs are ready.”
He let out a shaky laugh.
“Deal.”
Up on the stage, the DJ put on a slow song. Something old. Something my mom would like.
Noah held out his hand to me.
“May I dance with Prom Court royalty?”
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.