The living room shimmered under twinkling string lights. Streamers hung from every corner. Laughter bubbled from the kitchen.
The front door burst open. There she was — a tiny ladybug in bright red spots, antennae perched atop her head. She struck a pose.
She spun. Once. Twice. Her friends gasped. "Ooooh!" "You look amazing!" The room erupted in happy cheers.
Then — BRRRRAAAAAP! A thunderous fart boomed from the snack table. She jumped. The plastic cup flew from her hand.
Her face flushed crimson. All eyes locked onto hers. Then one friend snorted. Then another. Soon the whole room shook with giggles.
She crossed her arms and pulled her costume tight. Her fuzzy antennae drooped low. She stared at the scuffed toes of her shoes. Then — gurgle.
Her stomach rumbled again. Pffffft — a soft toot, like a deflating balloon. "NEW RECORD!" someone shouted. She peeked through her fingers.
She uncovered her face. Stepped forward. Let out a loud, squeaky TOOT that made the rubber chicken on the snack table vibrate. Her friends cheered.
Laughter rose — warm and shared now, not sharp. Her friends clapped. They grabbed her hands and pulled her into a spinning circle.
She led the conga line, her little feet marching in time. Antennae bouncing. "Ladybug, lead the way!" someone called. She grinned.
The party roared on. More giggles, more music, more happy noise. The young ladybug kept marching, her friends right behind her.
She didn't care about the toots anymore. She cared about the dancing. And the laughing. And the friends who laughed with her.