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Time for Prom

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"Come out, Sam."

"No."

"Sam, we're going to be late."

"I said no!"

This was one of the things that made life difficult. Sam Puckett, meat love extrodinaire, hiding in her room because I was pulled into taking her to prom. Yes, prom, the one night of your high school lives where everyone came together into one big, dancing mob. Carly was going with Brad, but I had told her "Why can't Sam go with Brad, and I go with you? Don't you think that's a waaay better choice there? Seriously? Me? And Sam?" Going anywhere with Sam wasn't any easy feat. But because selection was getting low and even the creepy girls were getting taken, I figured after a lot of persuasion that it wouldn't be so bad. I was wrong.

One, Sam was picky. Very picky. She was almost as picky with her dresses as she was with her meat. Two, she would never let me see her in her dresses. How was I supposed to coordinate? And did I really just think that? Was I turning into a dulled down male version of my mother? Third, I got beat up alot.

Luckily, I had at least squeezed out what color the dress was from Sam. And apparently, it was gold. I didn't own anything gold. What the heck? Come on. What guy owned anything gold? I just found the traditional black and white tux, and a gold tie to go along with it. It was the all I could do.

"Saaaamm...come on! God, Sam, if you don't come out right now I'm going to--"

"Alright, alright! I'm coming out! Jeez, why can't you freaking wait?!"

The door opened.

I didn't know what happened to Sam, but it was good. Waaay good. Did I really just say that? When did Sam ever equal good? But, god, this look was good. Her hair was straightened, and she had this little bow thing in her hair. There wasn't alot of makeup, which was good. I hated girls who piled it on. When they did, they looked like clowns. Sam didn't need it anyways...Oh god, I just practically called Sam pretty. Not that she was ever NOT pretty...

Her dress was amazing too. It was strapless, and it had these little gold rhinestones along the top, and there was this kind of silky, shiny material for the skirt...

I was over-analyzing waaay too much.

"What? Stop staring at me, Benson."

"...Dude. You look..."

"Like a dude? Thanks."

"No! I meant, you look really good."

"...Whatever."

I handed her her jacket, and we walked downstairs to my car. I had no idea what was going on, either it was just the excitement for prom night, or something was seriously wrong with my hormones.

This is a terrible place to stop, but I've gotta get off. Cheers!

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