The gym still smells like floor polish and the inside of a balloon. You are standing against the painted cinderblock wall with your back very straight, holding a plastic cup of red punch you will not drink, because drinking it means doing something with your face while people watch.
Nobody is watching. I promise you. From here I can see the whole floor, and every single person in it is looking at their own feet, sure that the spotlight is on them and only them.
You spend the entire song deciding whether to cross the room. You never cross it. You will remember this as a failure for years, and then one day you will just stop, because it turns out it did not matter at all which songs you danced to. What mattered was the fluorescent light on everyone's braces, and the way your friend laughed so hard she had to sit down, and the four of you walking to the parking lot after, shoes in hand, still buzzing about nothing.
You cannot see it yet, but you are already surrounded by exactly the thing you are waiting for.
Drink the punch.
It's terrible and I would give a great deal to taste it again.