But ahhhhhhh, this song. It’s so … I realize I’m kind of tapping my foot and bouncing my head. No, I think. Libby, you can’t. But the song is … oh my God. I feel my hips start to move a little. No, no, no. Don’t do it.
But I’m alive. I’m here.
We never know how long we have. We’re never guaranteed tomorrow. I could die right now, right here.
It could be over in an instant.
She woke up like it was any other day, just like I did, just like Dad did. We thought it was a regular, normal day. None of us knew we were waking up to the worst day. If we’d known, what would we have done? Would we have held on to her tight and tried to keep her here?
The song starts over. Keshawn goes, “Come on, Libby. Damn.”
What would Mom want me to do right now? If she could see me, what would she say?
And then Jack Masselin is suddenly breaking out these moves, Keshawn and Natasha are doing some sort of routine, and Mr. Levine is kicking his legs out like he’s Heather Alpern, former Rockette. Even shy little Maddy is shaking her shoulders.
Stay still. Wait out the song. Don’t you do it, Libby.
But I can feel my body taking over my mind, and this is what happens. The dance is in me. All at once I’m in there, waving my arms, waving my booty, swinging my hair. I jump a little, and when the gym floor doesn’t collapse, I jump some more.
Jack starts jumping too, and before I can stop myself, I spin off into a twirl. Jack shouts, “What’s that dance called?”
I say the first name I think of: “The Merry-Go-Round!”
I twirl and twirl, and then Mr. Levine is twirling and Jack is twirling and all the others are twirling, just like the lights, until the gym turns upside down.
Heather Alpern is still in her office. She says, “Libby, isn’t it?” Her voice is warm, like honey.
“I heard that Terri Collins is moving, and I wondered if there was going to be an audition for the Damsels.” I’m still flushed and entirely electrified from the dancing. I want to climb onto her desk and make it my stage and audition right here, right now, but instead I hand her my application.
“Thanks so much for this.” She smiles, and I have to look away because she’s just that lovely. “I’ll be announcing tryouts next week.”
Outside, it’s starting to rain. The parking lot is empty and my dad isn’t there, so I stand up against the building where I won’t get wet, even though the last thing I ever want to do is stand against a building like I’m fifth-grade Libby Strout, banished from the playground.
In a minute, this old Jeep-looking thing comes rolling up. The driver’s window rolls down and Jack Masselin says, “Need a ride?”
“No.”
“Do you want to at least wait in here?”
“That’s okay.”
But then the sky cracks in two and water comes flooding down. I run for the car, and he throws open my door, and I climb in as gracefully as possible, which unfortunately means I’m slipping and sliding all over the place, shoes squeaking against the floor mat, hair sticking to my face. I slam the door closed and here I am, panting and enormous and soaked to the skin, in the front seat of Jack Masselin’s Land Rover. I’m conscious of everything dripping. My hair, my hands, my jeans. This is one of those times when I can feel myself taking up too much space.
I say, “Nice car.” The interior is a kind of burnt orange-red, but it’s all pretty basic and rugged. One thing is clear, though: I am in the vehicle of a cool guy. “It looks like something you’d take on safari.”
“Thanks.”
“Truck? Car? What do you call it exactly?”
“How about the baddest mo-fo in Amos?”
“Let’s not go crazy.”
I’m getting the heater going and now the windows are fogging.
She says, “I thought everyone was gone.”
“I was driving away and saw you come out. I thought you might need a ride or at least some shelter.”
“My dad’s usually on time.” She pulls out her phone and checks it, and I can see the worry in her, even though she’s trying to blink it away.
“He’ll be here.”
We sit watching the rain pour down. The music is playing low and the windows are steaming. If this was Caroline, we’d be making out.
And then I’m thinking about making out with Libby Strout.
What the hell?
I tell myself, This is the girl you saw LIFTED OUT OF HER HOUSE BY A CRANE.
But then I’m thinking about making out with her a little more.
Stop thinking about making out with Libby Strout.
I go, “Let me ask you something. If there was a test you could take to find out if you have what your mom had, would you take it?”
She tilts her head to one side and studies the dash. “After she died, my dad took me to see a neurologist. He said, ‘I can run a battery of tests on you to see if you have any aneurysms in your brain. If you have them, there’s a chance we can pin them off so they don’t become problems down the line. But there’s no guarantee that they’ll be fixable.’ My dad and I went home and talked about it. I was too young to understand it all, so he was the one who made the decision.”
“Did you do it?”
“No.”
“What about now? Would you do it now?”
“I don’t know.”
And even though we’re talking about aneurysms, I’m still thinking about making out with her. So I say, “Jesus, woman, you can dance.”