Not today.
Mrs. Geller claps again and I take it as my cue to step forward and claim Preston as my partner. My entire body is alive with nerves and adrenaline as I take my first step. I’m doing it! I’m doing it! Oh god, I can’t believe I’m actually doing it. The world blurs around me as I cross over toward the boy’s line. My vision tunnels in an adrenaline-filled haze. They will sing songs about my bravery. It’s three steps until I’m in front of him and he’s smiling down at me—no, wait…he’s laughing.
Mrs. Geller clears her throat, and I turn, realizing that all the boys and all the girls are still lined up. No one else has stepped forward to claim a dance partner. I’m the only one who moved.
“Lauren, while I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, admonishing me in front of everyone, “I haven’t asked you all to pick partners yet. Please pay attention.”
Giggles and laughs spread through the group and my cheeks—which were red to begin with—are now burning. No! GOD NO! This can’t be happening. I swallow down the urge to sob and everyone watches as I quickly lurch back toward Rose. I try out a playful laugh, but my throat has closed up and it comes out like a goose’s honk. My heart has never beat faster. My body has never been so flushed. I have the faint realization that this is one of those moments I will be forced to relive in terror for at least a decade.
I don’t even pay attention as Mrs. Geller finishes her instruction on the waltz. My focus is on my face, on trying to keep it calm and relaxed even though tears burn at the corners of my eyes, desperate to be acknowledged. I probably end up looking like a wax figure. Rose squeezes my hand but I yank it away. I don’t want her sympathy in this moment. I want everyone to stop staring at me.
“Okay class, now it’s time to pair up,” Mrs. Geller says with a chuckle, like she’s being funny. Her voice echoes into the recesses of my long-term memory. When I’m 40, I’ll be able to reenact this scene for my therapist with chilling accuracy.
Girls and boys rush around me, clamoring to find a partner before they’re left standing alone. There’s a contest for Rose’s hand, both of Preston’s best friends practically begging to dance with her. I spin around, trying to find Preston, and when I see him across the room with another girl from my class, tugging on her ponytail, my stomach twists with jealousy. He knew I wanted to dance with him. I made a fool of myself in order to show him my feelings and he didn’t even bother finding me. That should snuff out my crush then and there. I want it to, but deep down, I know if he marched over and offered me his hand, I’d still leap at the chance to dance with him.
The music starts and Rose picks her partner. My male counterpart, Lincoln—the only other reject in the room—turns to me with a noncommittal shrug.
“D’ya wanna be my—”
I grab his hand and cut him off. Obviously, you idiot, we’re the only ones left. He smiles stupidly.
I don’t even talk to him as we dance. I don’t trust my voice, and well, maybe I wasn’t paying much attention to my footwork either because by the time we’re done with the first song, I’ve stepped on his feet so many times that he curses under his breath.
“Watch it,” he yelps.
I gulp down my tears as he spins me around the room during the second song. I think he’s trying to stay as close to Rose and her partner as possible, and his pace makes me stumble over my feet. If he’d only just slow down…
My foot comes down on his once again, and he’s had enough.
He flings my arms aside and steps back. Couples still dance around us, but he doesn’t care.
“Jesus, you suck at this. Why do you think Preston didn’t want to dance with you?”
The couples around us hear him and a few of them snicker. Most have the decency to feign ignorance.
I thought he was picked last because he was dumb, but I guess it was actually because he’s an asshole.
Mrs. Geller cuts the music and everyone stops. I think she’s going to snap at Lincoln and me for interrupting the flow of the dance, but instead she tells us to line back up so she can continue teaching. Rose finds me and I know she wants to comfort me, but there is no comforting. There is only surviving at this point. I won’t cry in this stupid cotillion class, won’t give Lincoln or Preston the satisfaction. No, I save my tears for when I get home, when I toss my purse and yank off my stupid satin gloves. The house is dark. My mom is probably still working at her studio and it’s Wednesday, which means my dad is having dinner at the Boston Club.
I welcome the solitude as my tears finally start to slip down my cheeks. I head toward the kitchen without bothering to turn on any lights.
It wasn’t that bad, I tell myself.
I know it wasn’t. I know in a few years, this day will make me laugh, but right now, I can’t stop replaying just how acutely embarrassing it felt to march across that room, right up to Preston, only to have him laugh in my face. Laugh!
I groan and let my head fall against the refrigerator door.
“Oh sorry, I didn’t think anyone was home.”
I whip around to find Beau standing in the doorway of the kitchen, cast in a gentle glow from the patio light behind him. I didn’t hear him come in. How long has he been standing there?
He takes a step forward and his hand reaches for the light switch, but I leap forward. “Don’t! Please!”
He pauses then lets his hand drop. “Are you okay? Are you crying?”
I shake my head vehemently and turn back around so he can’t see my face.
I hear him take another step into the kitchen, but only one. He’s hesitating.
“Are your parents home?” he asks.
I shake my head again.
“Is that why you’re crying?”
I can’t help but laugh. I sniffle then wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “I’m not crying, and even if I were, that wouldn’t be why.”
He sighs and I turn just enough to see him over my shoulder. He’s half-turned, ready to leave. His hand drags across his smooth jaw, and I get it—he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do in this moment.
He turns back to me and I catch the details I missed before: the inky black hair still wet from a shower, worn jeans, white t-shirt stretched across his chest. His muscular arms look tanner than they were before. I wonder if his chest is too. That thought mingles with my other emotions, gentling nudging aside the fuel for my pity party.
“Why are you in here?” I ask with a soft voice.
His gaze darts to the refrigerator and then finally to me. “Your mom told me she put a casserole in the fridge. I was just coming in to grab some, but…” He looks back behind him. He wants to flee; it’s written in his body language. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, jaw locked, eyebrows furrowed. Clearly it wasn’t on his agenda to deal with teen angst today. Yeah, well, me neither, buddy.
I’m about to speak up again, to apologize for my current state, but my stomach growls and beats me to the punch. The sound echoes around the room so loudly that I laugh. How can I be hungry at a time like this? Just minutes ago, my stomach was twisted into knots over Preston.
His scowl eases as he glances back at me. “I guess you need some casserole too.”
I nod and turn to yank open the refrigerator. Sitting on the second row is a glass baking dish covered with plastic wrap. On top, there’s a pink sticky note with my mom’s handwriting: I’ll be home a little later than usual. Do your homework before you start reading—I mean it! Also, make sure Beau gets some of this. Love you, Mom.
I crinkle the note in my hand and cringe once I see the meal. It’s supposed to be a Cajun chicken and rice casserole, but she’s left out the sliced andouille sausage and green bell peppers, and also it’s still uncooked. Nice one, Mom.
I drop it on the counter and offer Beau an apologetic smile.
“I don’t think either of us want to eat this.”
“Damn,” he says, brushing a hand over his stomach. Clearly, he’s as starving as I am.
“Why don’t I make us something else?” I say, eager to feed him, eager to prove to the world that I might be a shitty dancer, but I am good at some things. “It’ll help me take my mind off of all the not-crying I’ve been doing.”