La Boum -

At 11:47, Sophie checked her watch. Her father would be outside soon, headlights cutting through the dark. She should have felt sad. Instead, she felt grateful—for the song, for the glittering light, for the boy who didn’t let go until the last chord faded.

When she climbed into the car, her mother asked, “Did you have fun?”

Sophie shrugged, pulling her cardigan tighter. “My parents will say no. They think ‘La Boum’ means noise, spilled drinks, and me coming home with a tattoo.” La Boum

“You’re going, right?” asked Clara, her best friend since the sandbox, already scanning her own invitation for dress-code clues.

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. At 11:47, Sophie checked her watch

That night, Sophie didn’t ask. She just set the invitation on the kitchen table, next to the fruit bowl. Her father, a history teacher with kind, tired eyes, picked it up. Her mother, who always smelled of mint tea and worry, read over his shoulder.

Adrien. The boy with the broken front tooth and the laugh that filled the school hallway like spilled sunlight. Instead, she felt grateful—for the song, for the

Clara snorted. “Your parents still think we’re ten.”