Sierra put her hands halfway in the air as if she was silently asking 'What'd I do?' The groundskeeper was already giving her looks, and she hadn't even been in class but a solid minute! Now, now, Mr. Stryker. You know we mean so harm. Sometimes.

"There's slow dancing," she said, raising her hand. "You know, like when you twirled me out here on the grounds last school year..." As in, ...he twirled her; and that was it. Done. Finite. That was all she knew about ballroom dancing. She was thirteen; not forty-eight.