Travis Kearns asks Maddy, who’s pretty but shy. She stares at her feet the whole time. Even though there aren’t enough girls to go around, no one asks me. Andy Thornburg starts waltzing with an invisible partner because dancing alone is apparently better than dancing with me. My chest flutters, the first sign of panic.
Mr. Levine says, “Ask her to dance, Jack.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Jack looks at me and I look at him.
“Before the song ends, please.”
We keep standing there, and now my palms are damp—the second sign of panic. The next thing will be this strange compression in my chest and head, as if I’m being squeezed by a giant boa constrictor. Gradually, everything will grow dim and distant, and I’ll shrink until I’m a regular-size person, and then keep shrinking until I’m small enough to squash under someone’s shoe.
Finally, Mr. Levine pulls out this remote and clicks it, and the song starts over. Everyone groans. “I can do this all day. My phone is fully charged, and there are a lot more songs just like this on there. Worse ones, even.”
I look at Jack and he looks at me, and the lights are flashing across his face, turning his eyes green, brown, blue, gold, like he’s a chameleon changing colors.
He offers his hand. I take it. Because we have to. This is not the way I imagined my first school dance.
We fumble our hands together and stand as far apart as possible, like someone’s holding a ruler—more like a yardstick—between us. We shuffle back and forth as if we’re both made of wood, staring at the ceiling, the floor, the walls, the other kids, anywhere but at each other.
The song only gets cheesier as it goes on, and the lights are swirling and strobing, and his eyes are flashing green/brown/blue/gold, and suddenly I’m thinking about my palms. Like how sweaty they are. I can just hear Jack Masselin going back to his friends, telling them all about my sweaty palms and what it was like to dance with the fat girl.
Jack says, “This may scare me off school dances forever.”
My first instinct is that he’s talking about me or maybe my damp hands, so I go, “Well, I’m not exactly having the time of my life.”
“I didn’t mean you’re scaring me off. Although you’re kind of scaring me off now.”
“Sorry.” As I realize he means the song and the lights and Mr. Levine, standing there like the world’s most attentive chaperone.
We’re now kind of swaying, and it’s not so bad. It’s the first time we’ve touched where I wasn’t either punching him or stopping him from punching someone.
I say, “This is my first school dance.”
“Ah.”
“Well, it’s the closest I’ve ever come, at least. Not to put any pressure on you.”
“No pressure. Just extreme performance anxiety. Every guy’s dream.”
“You’re not a terrible dancer.”
“My confidence is soaring now.”
“It’s just not exactly how I pictured it.”
“Okay, so what can I do to change that?”
“Uh …”
“You look really pretty tonight.”
In the second it takes me to realize he’s playing, my legs grow into the floor like roots. Jack tightens his grip on me and kind of nudges me into motion again.
He says, “Especially in that dress. The color really brings out your eyes.”
“Uh.” Think. “The sales clerk called it Hershey brown.” Ugh. What?
“Actually more like amber.”
And he’s looking into my eyes as if I’m the only thing he sees. I tell myself, He’s such a good actor, as these little goose bumps spring out at the base of my spine and go shooting up my back, across my shoulders, and down both arms.
Suddenly we’re dancing closer, and I’m aware of not just his hands but each individual finger connecting to my body and his legs bumping against mine. I want to lean in and get a whiff of him and rest my head on his shoulder or maybe make out with his neck. Afterward he’ll walk me home and kiss me on the doorstep, sweet at first, and then hungrier and hungrier till we fall into the bushes and go rolling off across the yard.
All at once, the song ends and a fast song begins, and my eyes fly open. We immediately break apart, and Jack wipes his hands on his jeans. Ack.
Mr. Levine goes, “Don’t stop! It’s a dance-off. Go, go, go!” And he’s dancing like a crazy man. For a moment, all we can do is gawp at him. I mean, it’s a spectacle. The man is all legs and arms and flopping hair. “The longer you don’t dance, the longer we’re here. I’m getting at least three songs out of you.” And he starts it over.
Jack Masselin goes, “Shit.” And then begins to move. Of course, I think. Of course he can dance. Because he’s their leader, they all start dancing. First Andy and then Keshawn, Natasha, Travis, and even Maddy. Jack Masselin is not my leader, so I’m still standing there.
Once again, Mr. Levine starts the song over. “I’m going to keep doing that till we’re all moving.”
It’s one thing to twirl in the near-empty park with Rachel, but it’s another to start shaking and jumping on school property in front of my counselor and my fellow classmates, delinquents though they may be. In that moment, my Damsels dream wavers because the audition will be so much worse. The audition means Heather Alpern and her squad captains—including Caroline Lushamp—sitting at a table, watching me. If I’m able to get past the potential humiliation of that moment, how will I ever perform in costume for the school?