Sing Me to Sleep

by Angela Morrison

  My mom’s waiting around with Scott when I come out of the dressing room. She gets all teary and tells Scott we better be in by one.

  One? Like we’re going to be out that late.

  “Sure.”

  “And what are you driving?” She stands close enough to whiff his breath.

  I turn as crimson as our choir gowns. “Mom. It’s Scott. Give it a rest.”

  He laughs. “My dad’s BMW. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  We get out of there, and I can relax into the firm bucket seat. The leather smells good. Something else does, too. I think it’s Scott. Aftershave? It’s kind of intoxicating. I reek like hairspray—or worse. That concert was hard work. But it’s not like Scott’s even aware I’m in the car. He’s way into driving. Guys are so easy to please. A powerful car at his fingertips, and Scott is in heaven.

  “Hey”—he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel—“grab that cooler from the back.”

  I’m disappointed. I didn’t expect Scott to bring booze. He’s so not like that. He knows I’m not. “I can’t believe you—”

  “Open it.”

  I lift the cooler out of the back, put it on the floor between my feet, and flip up the lid. There’s a large, pink cloth napkin on the top.

  “My mom made me put that in—for your dress.”

  I peek under the napkin. There’s a bottle of sparkling cider, plastic wine glasses, a couple of bulging wraps encased in plastic, and six big fat brownies. “What is this?”

  “Ultimate chick food—according to my big sisters. I wanted to take you out to a nice place, but with the concert—”

  I get a lump in my throat. “This is so sweet.”

  “Dig in. You must be starving.”

  I start with the brownies.

  We get to the hotel in time for pictures. “You better hurry.” The teacher who takes our tickets pushes us down the hall. “They close up in ten minutes.”

  “We get pictures?” How can Scott be so stunned? Even I know that.

  “I need to fix my face.”

  He frowns at me. “No, you don’t.”

  I quick put fresh lip gloss on while he pays the photographer.

  “So if they turn out, we can order extras?”

  “Scott! ”

  “Just checking. My grandmother might want a copy.”

  “She can have mine.”

  His face falls.

  “I didn’t mean you. I’m hideous in pictures.”

  “Twenty years from now, we’ll need these to prove to our kids that we actually went to the prom.”

  “Our kids?”

  He gets pink around his edges. “Your kids. My kids. Future hypothetical miserable adolescents.”

  “Like us?”

  The photographer motions us to stand in front of a cheesy archway wrapped in silk leaves and twinkle lights. She looks from me down to Scott. “I think we need a chair. You should sit, hon.”

  Scott glares at her. “No way.” He points to my legs. “I want those in the picture.”

  “You sneaky brat.”

  “I’ve never seen them before. Who knows when you’ll show them off again?”

  The photographer’s laughing at us now, but Scott gets his way. She has us stand facing each other, puts Scott’s arms around me—adjusts them so his hands rest in the small of my back. She has me clasp my arms behind his neck, shakes her head, repositions my arms to mirror Scott’s. “Now, turn your heads. Chin down, dear. Stand up straight. Smile a little. This isn’t a funeral. Look here.” She holds up her hand and wiggles her fingers. “That’s good.” The camera flashes.

  I feel stiff and awkward and blink.

  Scott, the little sneak, tickles me. I laugh, and she snaps another shot. “Oh,” she says, “that one is nice.”

  Scott keeps one hand on my back and guides me into a blue plush room with chandeliers turned low. A slow song is playing. “Let’s dance.”

  I hesitate. He knows I’ve never been to a dance. Enemy territory. He went in junior high. Maybe some in high school. Guys can do that—watch from the sidelines. Maybe he even danced. I don’t know. I was home writing sad songs that I tore into tiny bits and threw out my window.

  “Come on, Bethie.” He slips off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair at an empty table in the back. “Slow ones are easy.” He glances at the sparkly clutch Meadow loaned me. “Anything valuable in that? ”

  “Just my face.” Who knows what that’s worth? Hundreds. Thousands. I toss the bag on the table and glance around. There are a couple teacher chaperones watching stuff at the tables. One of them nods at me.

  Scott grabs my elbow and pushes me onto the dance floor. He puts his arms around my waist again. I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders, barely touching him. He’s staring straight at my cleavage.

  “Stop looking at that.”

  “Didn’t you wear this dress so I could look at it?”

  “I wore this dress because Meadow made me.”

  “Thank you, Meadow.”

  “You’re creeping me out. Knock it off.”

  “Where should I look?”

  “How about my face?”

  He tilts his head back, and we move around in a slow circle. “This isn’t going to work. My neck’s getting stiff.” His eyes drop back to my cleavage.

  I step on his toes—hard. “Look to the side then.”

  “Whoa. Everybody’s staring at us.”

  “Crap.” Heat pours up through my body and out through my face.

  “Just keep dancing.”

  “No, let’s sit down. I’m thirsty.”

  “You just drank that whole bottle of sparkly stuff.”

  I glance around the room over the top of Scott’s soft-blond head. “They are not staring.” I look down at him. “You are the only one staring inappropriately.”

  “Come closer then so I can’t.” He pulls me tight and lays his face on my chest, never missing a beat.

  “That was smooth.”

  “You can learn a lot watching from the sidelines.”

  “So you’re comfortable now?”

  “Crap, Beth. Shut up and dance.”

  I rest my chin on the top of his head. Shoot, he smells so good. I close my eyes. We fall into the slow, seductive rhythm of the song.

  Remember when you first held me ?

  And I believed love could be?

  Your lips awoke my senses.

  You melted my defenses.

  I grip Scott’s shoulders. It feels so good to touch them. My hands slide back and forth exploring the shape of his deltoids as we sway together. This dress is lower in back, too. He has one hand on my bare skin and the other at my waist.

  If you love me, I’ ll still be here.

  Open your heart without fear.

  Come back to me

  And I’ ll be everything (whoa, whoa-oa, oh).

  I’m enjoying this way more than a friend should. I pull him even closer, caress his back, get my hands in his hair and stroke his head—kind of maternal, kind of not.

  “That’s nice.” His breath tickles my skin.

  Another blush. Does he feel the heat? “Shut up and dance.”

  Be my baby, and I’ ll be yours.

  Don’t say maybe, say forever more.

  The truth is, babe, you’re what I’m made for.

  The chorus takes over, winds back, and repeats. Scott and I don’t talk much for the rest of the song. We’re both way too into the physicality of our bodies brushing against each other, moving together. Why is he doing this to me? Why am I letting him? The song melts into another song and another, and I melt into Scott.

  Then there’s a fast one, and we pull apart, kind of wake up. Embarrassed.

  He looks up at the clock, almost midnight, and back at me. “Do you want to leave now?”

  I shake my head. “I want to dance slow some more. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

  He smiles and takes my hand. “Sure.”

 
All this touching tonight. It’s making it harder and harder for me to remember he’s just my friend.

  We wander back to the table with our stuff. He lets my hand go and pulls out my chair. I sit down.

  “I’ll go get us some punch. Now you can be thirsty.”

  “Make sure it’s safe.” I do not need spiked punch. I’m high enough already.

  “Okay.”

  He disappears. I fiddle with my purse. My lips are way dry. I fish out my Watermelon Ice and smear some on.

  “Excuse me. Can I sit here?”

  I know that voice. My body goes rigid. I don’t turn around. You’d think he’d leave me alone this one night. I glance to the side in the opposite direction, looking for a knot of guys watching whatever these jerks have set up. I can’t find them. They must be behind me.

  Colby sits down.

  I don’t look at him. Don’t engage. The first rule of bully defense.

  “So you’re here with Scott? How did that happen?”

  Silence.

  “I mean what awful thing did a babe like you do to get stuck going to our prom with Scott? Are you his cousin? Friend of the family?”

  I lose it. “Don’t you have a date?” I spit the words into his arrogant, handsome face.

  “She drank one beer too many before the dance.” Colby nods toward a girl sleeping at the table beside ours. “So I can rescue you.” He moves his chair closer to mine.

  I pull away from him.

  “You’re supposed to be grateful.”

  “Get over it, Colby. Let’s have the punch line.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  I stare at him. My brain finally processes what’s going on. “You don’t know mine?”

  “If we’d met before, doll”—he rakes me up and down, and I want to slug him—“I’d remember you. Legs like that—a guy doesn’t forget.” His voice is low. He’s trying so hard to be sexy. He leans forward, stares down my dress. “My parents are members here. I can get into the pool.” He looks back at my face and raises his eyebrows. “Do you want to go check out the hot tub?”

  “You should know me. I go to Port High.”

  “How long?”

  “Forever. I’m Beth.”

  “Is there a Beth?”

  I stand up, unfold slowly. “You call me the Beast.”

  The creep’s got nothing to stay.

  Scott arrives at that instant, holding a cup of crimson punch in each hand. I take both and dump them all over Colby. “Thanks, Scott, but I’m not thirsty.”

  Colby jumps up, ready to kill me. Scott gets between us, pushes him back hard. Now he’s going to kill Scott. I grab Scott’s arm and pull him onto the dance floor. Colby can’t attack us there in the open.

  He stands and stares, teeth clenched, fists balled up, then stomps out of the room.

  A few point after Colby and laugh, but most are too drunk, too busy gyrating on the dance floor, or making out in the back, to have caught the quick exchange. The chaperones conveniently didn’t see anything.

  Scott moves from side to side. Wooden. Scared. “He must have gone to the john to clean up.”

  “Let’s get out of here fast.”

  “No way.” He stops trying to dance. “I’m not letting that creep ruin our prom.”

  “Are you kidding? That made my night. Thank you.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “How will getting the crap beat out of you on our way to the car prove that? There are only a couple songs left.”

  “Self-preservation? Kind of a cop out.”

  “He’s really drunk, really mad. We can’t give him time to find Travis and Kurt.”

  “Okay, you win.”

  As we drive home, Scott says, “Promise me, Beth. Next year. Let’s do this again without Colby.”

  I shake my head at how crazy he is.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  As we close in on my house, I start to get uptight. Everything inside me is dying to kiss him when the car stops, but will that creep him out? Sure we danced slow like that. He seemed to get off on it as much as I did. Kissing seems light years away. If I plant one on him and he’s grossed out, how can we be friends after that?

  We pull into the driveway.

  “Don’t move.” He gets out, goes around the car, and opens my door. He takes my hand and helps me up. He doesn’t let go of my hand. He stays there, standing so close—his lips are right below mine.

  I just need to stoop—

  Tip my face down—

  I hug him quick, whisper, “Thanks, Scott, I loved it,” and bolt for the front door.

  Crap. No—Mom didn’t lock it. I’m through the door and taking the stairs three at a time—all the while expecting Scott to come chasing after me and subject me to more senseless torture. I turn on my bedroom light. I can see his car through the crack in the drapes. Why is he still out there? Go home, Scott. Save yourself. I throw myself into my bathroom, turn on the shower, jam my iPod in the speakers and crank it.

  As soon as I’m in the shower, I realize my iPod is in the middle of my diva playlist. I really don’t need to hear throbbing, passionate songs right now. I stick my head under the water to block out the music. The third one that plays is the first song Scott and I danced to. I shut off the water so I can hear it. I dial it to repeat while I get dressed.

  I sneak over to the window. He’s gone. We’re safe.

  “Beth?” Oh, shoot. Mom. I woke her up. “Can you turn that off?”

  “Sorry.” I whip back into the bathroom, grab my iPod, search my room until I’ve got headphones, and throw myself on my bed. The song is starting again. I lie there, eyes closed, letting the music beat where my heart should be.

  I roll over, grab my notebook, and start scribbling a new verse. One for me.

  The scent of you on my fingers

  Makes me crazy while it lingers.

  Forget it, my heart murmurs.

  Why do my fool lips need yours?

  Could you want me? If it’s a joke,

  Please don’t haunt me—dreams in smoke.

  All we’ve been through . . .

  We should both already know, whoa, whoa, whoa.

  Can’t you see how much you have changed?

  Frightened to move? Yeah, I’m the same.

  Insides yearning—can I walk away again?

  The chorus starts. I roll onto my back, holding the notebook up, so I can try to sing my verse at the next chance.

  I whisper-sing the words overtop the diva’s voice blaring through my headphones. Why does Scott do this to me? I’ve got to tell him—put him on his guard. Explain how wild he makes me feel. If he knows ahead of time that I might lose control and attack him, he can defend himself. He’d think it was funny, right? Kill himself laughing. I’d fake a laugh, shrug the whole thing off as insane, and remind him he needs a girlfriend. He didn’t get the message last time. You can’t hang out with your old grade school pal forever.

  The song starts to play again. I place my hand on my chest where Scott’s face pressed while we danced. I want that again. I can’t help it. I want his lips, too. I’m such a creep. I want my best friend.

  It’s his fault. He started it. Why is he doing this to me? How dare he smell that good. How dare he hold me like that while we danced. How dare he let his lips come that close to mine.

  I sing my verse into my pillow, over and over, fall asleep with the music still playing, dream of bending down and pressing my mouth to Scott’s.

  chapter 9

  TOO WEIRD

  Our last Bliss practice before we take off for Switzerland is a killer. All day Saturday. Goes an hour over. All Sarah and Meadow can talk about on our breaks is Derek. Even Leah gets into it. He didn’t confirm Meadow. After our chat, he’s probably blocking me. Good. I’m already sick to death of him.

  I’m starving on the drive home. I could use one of Scott’s brownies.

  Scott. It’s been s
o weird with him since prom. I don’t have the guts to bring up my issues. Don’t trust myself. He acts subdued. Not talking much. Hurt? I don’t know. I wish he would tell me. I’m mortified that I ran away from him, but it would have been worse if I hadn’t. The last two weeks of school we sat by each other in choir and just—sang. I knew the prom thing was a bad idea. Still. Other than the night I became soloist, it was the best evening of my life.

  School’s been out for two weeks. I haven’t seen Scott or heard from him. So weird. Last summer we hung out a lot. And we’ve always studied together. We didn’t do that once for finals. He’s working at the Save-A-Lot this summer. I’m not making milk runs. I leave in five days for Europe. Maybe he’ll be normal when I get back. I hope so. I want it to be like it was.

  I deleted that song we danced to from my diva playlist. I can’t ever listen to it again. All it takes is a few notes and I want him all over. It’s kind of exciting to feel like that—passionate like Meadow and Sarah go on about—but I can’t be that way. It’s never going to happen. Scott’s my friend and I’m the Beast.

  “Hey, Mom.” I chuck my bag in the corner and head for the kitchen. I hope she cooked.

  The kitchen is bare. Great. I open the fridge and rip a drumstick off a rotisserie chicken. There’s a noise in Mom’s study. “Mom? Did you eat without me?” I walk down the hall and push open the door.

  Mom is sitting at her computer, tears streaming down her face. I’m across the room in a stride and lean over and put my arms around her. “What?”

  “Aunt Linda lost her baby.”

  This happens to poor Linda a lot. “That’s awful.” Pregnancy and miscarriage talk used to make me squirm, but now it’s fascinating. I gaze at Mom. She would have liked more babies—I’m sure of it.

  “This was her sixth miscarriage.”