Chapter 5: Viral Dances & Secret Crushes

Cart closed—I’m going to the mixer.

I caved faster than I’d like to admit. What can I say? Sometimes, you gotta live a little.

I did my makeup, ready to meet my ab-tastic—uh, friends. While doing my eyeliner, my phone rang. The number wasn’t saved. If I don’t know you, you’re a scammer—my anti-spam app says so.

I ignored it, determined to nail my winged liner. But the phone kept buzzing.

I hung up. It rang again. My hand shook—my eyebrow got crooked. Annoyed, I found a car crash sound effect online, ready to mess with whoever it was.

I was in full troll mode. If you’re going to mess with me, you better be ready for chaos.

I picked up, blurting out, “Sorry, no money, love’s over, my mom needs saving, go ahead, just do it.” Then played the crash sound.

I waited for the scammer to hang up, but instead…

Just as I was about to hang up, a voice came through. “Maddie!”

That voice sounded familiar. Oh no. “Jesse?”

My heart skipped. He sounded annoyed, but weirdly relieved.

Once I realized it was him, even his voice sounded better. Such a magnetic voice—he really is my hero.

I tried to play it cool, but I was grinning like an idiot.

“Why aren’t you coming today?”

He sounded genuinely concerned, which threw me off.

“I have plans, I said in the group I’d take a day off.”

I tried to sound nonchalant, but my voice was a little shaky.

“You’re not sick, are you?”

He sounded worried, like he was about to drive over and check on me.

“I’m fine.” Tonight, I’m ready to turn on the charm.

I added a little extra blush, just in case. You never know who you’ll run into at a mixer.

When my roommate and I arrived, I was stunned—I’d never seen so many good-looking guys in one place. My heart skipped a beat—five at once!

It was like walking onto the set of The Bachelorette. I tried to act chill, but my jaw dropped.

A gust of wind blew through—ahh, my hairstyle I’d worked on for half an hour! Men can mess with my heart, but not my bangs. Priorities.

I did a quick fix with my fingers, praying nobody noticed.

A few minutes later, a guy from my cart’s group chat walked in. Within two minutes, the chat blew up. A user with a watermelon superhero avatar posted, “Girls, you’ll never guess what MacQueen Maddie is doing right now.”

I froze, mid-sip. This could not be good.

A bunch of people replied, “What?”

The suspense was killing me.

“Tell us, what’s our hon up to?”

Watermelon Superhero: “At a mixer. With me.”

I spit out my water. Traitor! Betrayed by my own team.

I wanted to rush over and make him delete it, but I accidentally hit remove instead.

Me: …

I stared at my phone in horror. Could this get any worse?

Jesse messaged, tagging Watermelon Superhero.

Jesse: You have 30 seconds to explain, or you’re toast.

I could practically hear the countdown ticking.

Something felt off—the vibe was weird. Nervous, I drank some water. But why did it taste so bitter and weird?

I frowned, but shrugged it off. Maybe it was just nerves.

One glass and I was done for.

The room spun, colors blurring at the edges. Oh no. Not now.

Through a haze, I saw someone walk in. I staggered over and hugged him. “Honey, you’re finally here! The parent-teacher meeting is over.”

He stiffened, clearly not expecting this. But I was beyond caring.

“Our son failed math again. That silly kid calculated Grandpa’s age as 18.”

I rambled, not even sure what I was saying. Everything felt fuzzy.

The person I was hugging stiffened. “Honey? Son?”

His voice was confused, but gentle. I clung tighter.

I hugged his arm tighter. “Honey, let’s have a second child—this one’s just too dumb.”

I heard laughter in the background. If embarrassment could kill, I’d be a ghost.

“Second child? When?”

He played along, bless him. The crowd ate it up.

I turned and saw a bunch of little marshmallows and jellybeans staring at us.

Their faces were blurry, but I could tell they were loving the show.

Jesse scooped me up. I protested at his carrying style. “Not like that! I’m bubble tea—I’ll spill!”

He cradled me like a princess, but I kept squirming, worried I’d lose my dignity (and my shoes).

The jellybeans and marshmallows all stared, wide-eyed. Bubble tea shouldn’t be stared at, so I hid my head in Jesse’s chest.

He smelled like soap and sunshine. For a second, I forgot how embarrassed I was.

He coaxed me gently. “Little bubble tea, be good. I’ll take you back to the dorm.” Okay, that was cute.

He shot a look at my roommate, who had no choice but to follow us. His voice was so nice—like my hero.

Even half-conscious, I knew I was in good hands.

I woke up with a pounding headache. My roommate filled me in on what happened last night.

She had a look on her face like she’d just witnessed a train wreck. I braced myself.

“No way, I don’t believe it.” I flat-out denied it. No way I did something that embarrassing. Slander, rumors, defamation—where’s my lawyer?

I was ready to sue the universe for emotional damages.

The next second, my roommate shoved a video in my face. It was me, outside the dorm, insisting Jesse dance a duet with me. The video caught my face and voice perfectly.

I groaned, hiding under my blanket. There was no escape.

“One, two, three, four, three steps left, three steps right. Two, two, three, four, clap and spin. Three, two, three, four, step forward, shake your leg. Good, hon, let’s do it again.”

I sounded like a preschool teacher on a sugar high. Jesse, bless him, actually kept up.

Jesse, my hero, you worked hard.

He didn’t complain once. I owe him big time.

“Maddie, you’re a campus celebrity now. Your dance video’s blowing up on TikTok and Instagram.”

She showed me the comments—some were sweet, others just roasted me. Fame is weird.

She grabbed my hand, congratulating me. “Maddie, you’re famous!”

She spun me around, and I tried not to hurl. Fame—ugh, it comes at a cost.

Help—I want to die.

I buried my face in my pillow, wishing I could disappear.

I glanced at the group chat—999 messages. Not even going to look.

Nope. Not today, Satan.

I quickly posted: MacQueen Maddie: Closed for today.

I needed a day to recover from public humiliation.

Within a second, a dozen people tagged me. Whatever—I’m playing dead.

I muted the chat, turned off notifications, and hid under my blanket. Self-care, baby.

I opened Instagram and saw a DM from From Your Moon.

My heart skipped. Was this a pep talk or a roast?

From Your Moon: Can I ask for advice on how to pursue a girl?

Excuse me? I’ve never dated—are you serious?

I laughed out loud. Me, the love guru? This was rich.

Who needs dating? I’m too busy hustling.

I typed it out, then deleted it. Maybe too much.

I replied: Call her hon.

It was the only advice I had. If it worked for me, maybe it’d work for him.

From Your Moon: Isn’t that just your snack cart gimmick?

He had a point, but I stood by it.

Me: Good ideas are universal.

From Your Moon: Got it.

I pictured him scribbling notes, determined to win someone over with a well-timed "hon." Good luck, mystery man.

Then I got a Facebook friend request from Jesse. Curious, I accepted.

I hesitated for a second, then hit accept. What’s the worst that could happen?

Jesse: Hon, feeling better?

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. Cute, in a stubborn way.

Tsk, so cheesy—he’s using the hon routine now, too. Can’t escape it.

Jesse: Hon, want to dance again? I’ll join you if you want.

He sent a little dancing emoji. I almost choked on my coffee.

I’m not big on smiling for the camera.

I sent a grumpy cat meme, hoping he’d get the hint.

Afraid he’d send something even more awkward, I replied: Thanks for last night.

I tried to keep it short and sweet. No need to relive the embarrassment.

Thanks for not smacking me to death.

I added a laughing emoji. Humor is the best defense.

From Your Moon messaged again: Calling her hon doesn’t seem to work.

From Your Moon: What kind of guys do you like?

He was persistent, I’ll give him that. I considered my answer carefully.

Looking for a template? No problem—I live to help.

I thought about it. The best-looking guy I know is Jesse. The richest is also Jesse. Plus, for a school bad boy, he never throws his weight around and has helped me out a lot. Handsome, rich, and a good guy—what woman could resist?

I realized I’d basically just described my dream guy. Oops.

No idea how many abs he has, though. Priorities, right?

I made a mental note to ask later.

I found a hot pic of Jesse on the campus forum and sent it to From Your Moon.

He looked annoyingly perfect in it. I almost didn’t send it out of spite.

Me: At least as handsome as him.

I hit send, hoping he’d get the hint.