Absent (Katie Williams)
at them. Lucas wouldn’t have taken Brooke to prom—not me either. What does it mean that he’s brought her? A gang of paired ponies and testos come after Lucas, the ponies dropping behind their dates, not sure whether tostare at Lucas Hayes and his low-rent date or at Kelsey Pope and her no-date.
But then there he is, my date, Wes Nolan. He shoulders past them, already muttering apologies. He halts, excuses fading out. “You look . . . shit.” He shakes his head. “You’ll hate it if I say ‘beautiful.’ ”
“You can say it.”
“All right.”
Wes grins. We grin at each other like goons.
“Well, say it if you’re going to say it, then.”
“You look beautiful,” he says, no grin.
A chord rises in me that is both the swell of the music and the pain of the string being plucked.
“Not me.”
“Who else but you?”
When he grabs my hand, I let him take it.
I have never danced like this. But it’s how I would’ve liked to dance. Wes and I leap; we twist and spin. It’s weird. It’s fun. A circle forms around us. With my eye makeup blurring and my hair whipping and Wes laughing in my ear, I can’t tell if they’re admirers or jeerers. Then I think, Does it matter? During the slow songs, I let Wes wrap his arms around me tight, like I’m impossible to break, like I’m invincible. Even the chaperones don’t dare approach us.
Partway through the dance, I see Evan standing in a corner among the wallflowers. I follow his gaze and find Mr. Fisk presiding over the refreshments table. Something must cross my face because Wes touches my arm and says, “Just ignore him.”
He nods past Evan and Mr. Fisk to Lucas Hayes, who cuts through the gym, threshing the crowd. The burner girl follows after him in a dress as dark and brief as her lips. Lucas turns and says something to her; the words are short. She stops at this comment, all the sass draining from her, her hands falling to her sides. Lucas walks on, leaving her behind. The crowd flails around her, buffeting her left and right, until she washes up by the refreshments table. When Lucas reaches the door to the hall, he looks back. Somehow, across the gym full of dancers, his eyes catch mine and hold them. They don’t look like his eyes, charmingly lazy and warm. His eyes look suspicious, mean. He darts out the door.
Through the doorway Lucas has just left, Usha enters, wearing a pouf of canary tulle that we’d found together at a garage sale a year ago. A group of people surround her—biblicals, well-rounders, even a pony or two—though none are nearly so vividly arrayed. One of them reaches to touch the hem of Usha’s skirt with a look of unguarded admiration. Usha laughs and spins, the yellow fanning out. Usha is a twirling type of girl again.
“We have to vote!” I remember.
“Vote?” Wes asks.
“For prom queen.”
“That’s right. You’re nominated.”
“I forgot,” I say, lifting a hand to my forehead.
“Really?” Wes asks. “You forgot.”
“Actually, I did. But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to vote for Usha Das.”
“Well, I’m going to vote for you.” He grins.
“If you must,” I say, and lead the way to the table with the ballot box. Mrs. Morello hands us the slips of paper. At the last minute,I change my mind and make a check not next to Usha Das, but Kelsey Pope. Consider it my apology. I fold the paper and drop it in the box with a smile.
Still, I’m just as happy when Usha is called up to the makeshift stage and crowned prom queen. She’s fumbling with the hairpins, and I’m clapping and cheering louder than anyone else. Wes musses my hair and swings his arm around my shoulder, murmuring, “No one has any idea how cool you really are,” and this compliment I claim as my own.
We escape the heat and noise, ending up back in the hallway, the dance still in full swing. The song lyrics from the past few hours echo in my ears like someone is whispering them to me from another room. Wes walks backward in front of me, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie laid carelessly over one shoulder, and his cheeks flushed pink all the way to his ears.
I reach out and let my fingers graze his jaw. He tries to catch them, but I’m too quick, and his hand closes on air.
I step over to the drop cloth. “Why do they still have this up?”
“I think it’s to protect the mural until it’s done.”
“But there’s no mural.”
“What do you mean? It’s right under there.”
I feel
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