“Uh . . . It’s just ‘Twitter,’ Coach.” Ben grins and shakes his head.
“And you stay off the evening news,” Rachel tells him.
Coach throws his head back and belly laughs at the ceiling. “It’s a deal.”
Mr. Johnston checks Ben’s ID and his name off a list. “Excellent, Mister Cody. Have fun at the Fling.”
Ms. Speck makes a big fuss over my dress, insisting that I turn around so she can see the streamer down the back. “Vintage perfection,” she says, squeezing my hand as she hands back my ID.
As we wait for the rest of the group to make their way through the line, Principal Hargrove comes back in shaking his head. “Can you believe the nerve of those people? Asking our kids about rape kits on their way to a dance?”
Lindsey and Ben both hear this, and Coach sees them turn to look. He shushes Principal Hargrove and smiles our way as Christy and Rachel get through the line and join us.
“Ignore all that crap, kids.” Coach smiles grimly. “The cops are just doing their jobs. A little overzealous maybe, but we’ll get this all ironed out.”
Principal Hargrove swings open the door to the gym, and music pours out.
“I want you to go in there and dance your butts off,” Coach says. “Just forget all about this for a little while and have a good time.”
“We’ll try,” Rachel says.
And for a good hour or so, we succeed.
The sophomores are in charge of Spring Fling, and they hired a DJ from Iowa City. The music is infectious and drives away the weirdness I felt all day at school. Apparently, the thing missing in the air today was the rhythm of three hundred kids in hilarious party clothes and remixes that just won’t stop.
As one song bleeds into the next, Phoebe tells us that this DJ plays all the big University of Iowa parties and flies all over the country to spin at clubs in New York, Miami, and Los Angeles. She’s in mid-sentence when the Tracies (who decided to show up after Phoebe’s cafeteria call-to-arms) shriek in unison because they recognize the beat. Both of them are wearing old tutus and ballet slippers courtesy of Connie Bonine’s “dance rack” and they run for the center of the crush. Rachel throws an invisible lasso over Christy, who pretends to be dragged onto the floor with us, one lurching step at a time, and the music whips us together, pounding a clear path through my chest:
Do what you want, what you want with my body . . .
Ben is a great dancer. He knows how to move and, more importantly, what to do with his hands. He doesn’t look like he’s miserable or counting or trying too hard. He’s the best dancer here next to Wyatt, who is getting down with his Grease! costars. He’s sandwiched between Sandy and Rizzo. Both of them are all over him and each other. As I try to point them out to Ben, the music changes again, the swell of a female voice filling the air.
Baby, baby, are you listening?
Ben’s hand finds the small of my back. As he pulls me in, he bends down a little, bringing him closer to my level. I clasp my hands behind his neck, and our bodies fit together in a way that makes everything else fade away. His lips find mine, and the packed dance floor disappears. I feel myself falling into him as the music soars above us.
Wondering where you’ve been all my life
My knees go a little shaky, and I list off-kilter in my heels. Ben pulls me back to center with a smile. “Easy there,” he says. “You okay?”
I nod, but Ben takes my hand and says, “Let’s get you something to drink.”
“You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head.
“What if they play something really great and we miss it?” I ask.
“I’m with you. I’m not missing a thing.”
Several volunteer moms from the booster club are running the drink table in the back hallway, pouring pop into plastic cups. They are chatty, armed with grins and grenadine, garnishing drinks with limes and maraschino cherries. As we stand in line, I lean against Ben, his arms wrapped around my waist, but the spell from inside the gym seems broken by the fluorescent lights. He’s quiet, and I can tell his brain is elsewhere.
I order a Shirley Temple, and he gets a cherry Coke, then we slip out the back door. The patio behind the cafeteria is a different planet, light-years away from the crush of the gym. The air is cool on my skin, and a breeze catches the sheer fabric of my dress, making it flutter as we walk toward one of the benches at a nearby table.
“You okay?” I ask him.
“I guess,” he says. “Little weirded out.”
“The reporters?”
“Them, too.” He crunches on a piece of ice and stares out across the back patio to toward the ditch where we hunted fossils together last fall. “Mainly my mom.”
“More Powerade?”
He closes his eyes and rolls his head back in a circle, trying to relax. “Toilet paper,” he says wearily. “The half bath off the rec room? Stacked to the ceiling with twelve-packs.”
I’ve seen plenty of weird people on cable shows. I’ve seen a woman addicted to eating Ajax and a man who sleeps in the garage because there are thirty years of newspapers filling up every inch in his house. It’s easy to laugh at when it isn’t happening to you.
Or to someone you love.
The thought comes out of nowhere, and I bite my tongue to keep it from slipping through my lips. I reach out and touch Ben’s hand. He laces his fingers through mine and squeezes. For a while, we sit silently in the shadows, staring into the night, music and laughter and people drifting in and out of the gym.
“She was on her way back to the store when I left,” Ben says.
“For more toilet paper?”
“Paper towels. I told her not to. We don’t have any more room in the garage. I’m afraid she’s going to fill up the rec room next.”
It would be easier if I had some sort of advice—some surefire, short-term cure. Ben’s dad found one at a bar in Nebraska. Adele found hers at the gym and the big box stores. Adults have the luxury of making their own decisions, but they don’t stop there. They end up making our decisions, too. I know Ben can’t just jump in his truck and drive away. It’s why he has his sights set on the long game: college.
“If I can just get a verbal agreement for a scholarship this season . . .” He’s lost in thought for a moment, then he turns and looks at me. “What’s your plan, Weston?”
“What do you mean?”
He considers me for a second. “Coach says Duke is interested in me, too.”
“Duke?”
“How far away you want to go for college?” he asks. “They’ve got a soccer team.”
I’m not sure how to answer. When I’m silent, he turns to me with a smile. “They’ve got a kickass science department, too,” he says, then hastens to add, “from what I understand. You know. If you were . . . interested in that sort of thing.”
“Are you asking me to go to the same college as you?”
“Maybe . . .” He pauses. “Okay, yeah. I guess that’s what I’m asking.”
Watching him tongue-tied may be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I’ve got to see how the soccer season goes. Don’t know if I’m good enough to be ranked.”
“Sure you are,” he says. “But your PSAT scores were huge, right?”
A sheepish smile gives me away.
“You’re a National Merit Finalist, right?”
“Semifinalist,” I say, “just like you. But it’s nice to know you’re paying attention.”
He winks at me. “I’ve been paying attention to you for a long time, Weston. You’re one of those girls who can do anything she wants to.”
“Oh, am I?”
“There aren’t many of you running around this one-horse town.”
When he says this, I blush and am glad we’re outside in the dark. Ben is the first guy I’ve ever been out with who’s complimented my brains before making a grab at my boobs.
“So what about it?” he asks. “If I got an offer from Duke, would you co
nsid—”
I lean over and stop his mouth with a kiss. He drops his red Solo cup to the ground and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me closer on the bench.
When we finally come up for air, he taps a finger on my nose. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“What about your mom?” I ask him.
“What about her?”
“When we talked before, you said you were afraid of leaving her alone. Afraid she’d fill up the house with crap.”
Ben nods. “This week—finally being with you, like this—it’s made me realize how fast things can change. There are some things I can control—like asking you out. There are some things I can’t—like whether Mom will ever stop with the coupons. It’s like ever since Dad took off she doesn’t want to see me—really see me. Maybe when she looks at me, her heart breaks all over again. So she puts all this stuff between us.”
My eyes well up. Hearing Ben talk like this I realize there’s so much about him—so much going on beneath the surface that no one ever sees. I may be the luckiest girl alive—not only to know this, but to have him share it with me.
“You’re a good guy, Ben.” When I say it there’s a catch in my throat. He hears it and squeezes my hand.
“I just don’t think I can stick around and be worried about my mom for my whole life. If I had the opportunity to go play and didn’t take it, I’d wind up hating myself and probably her. Then what good would I be to anybody?”
He takes a deep breath and leans back against the table attached to our bench. He stretches out his impossibly long legs, and lets go of my hand, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
We sit there in silence for a little while, until Rachel comes looking for us and drags us back to the gym. We thread our way across the floor to Christy and Lindsey, and in a relatively low-volume moment, as the DJ mixes one track into the next, Ben pulls me close and whispers in my ear. “You’re a knockout. You know that?”
I can’t hide the smile that spreads across my face, but I roll my eyes. “Dork.”
He laughs and in one easy move lifts his arm, spinning me away from him beneath it. He pulls me in close again, and just as I think this evening may be the most perfect of the known high school dances in all of recorded time, I see the doors to the gym swing open, and Coach Sanders steps inside with his arm around John Doone.
twenty-two
THE GENERAL MAYHEM that greets Dooney’s entrance is the kind usually reserved for international recording sensations and movie stars. There are shouts and screams and a general rush toward him. Dooney is mobbed by most of the varsity team and anyone else who can get close enough. Amid the fist bumps and high fives, Phoebe and the Tracies follow the path that Christy clears, the four of them dancing toward Dooney through the crush.
Ben doesn’t make a move, just stands there staring. By virtue of height, he’s got an unobstructed view.
“He’s here!” Rachel is flushed from dancing, and tugs on Ben’s jacket. “Isn’t that great?” She looks so relieved that I smile. “See?” she says. “It was all a big misunderstanding.”
Ben nods, but I see a hesitance in his eyes, something guarded about Dooney’s being here. The music gets fast and loud again in answer to the energy that has surged through the crowd. The focus has shifted to John Doone at center court, and the look on his face says that this is his rightful place.
“Let’s go say hi!” Rachel says.
“Looks like he’s coming to us.” Lindsey jerks her chin in Dooney’s direction, and I see him making his way over. The crowd clamors, then falls away, and in a moment he’s in front of us, reaching toward Ben in that way guys do, the first move of a secret handshake, thumbs hooked, hands clasped. They pull each other in for a thump on the back, a brah hug with their fists and forearms sandwiched between their chests.
Dooney is lit up like a Christmas tree. “Dude! I’m back. Can you believe this shit?”
Lindsey goes tense beside me. Ben smiles at him, but there is something in his eyes—wariness, or weariness. I can’t tell which in the floating beams of the disco ball hanging over our heads.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Ben manages. If Dooney notices how checked out Ben seems he doesn’t let it bother him.
“Pops finally convinced mom it was time to let me out of lockdown for a couple hours.” Dooney is crowing, vodka on his breath. He holds a hand up toward Ben and waits a second for Ben’s halfhearted high five.
Phoebe reappeares at Dooney’s elbow. “Hey!” she shouts. Dooney swings around. She beams at him and gives him a hug. “Why didn’t you text me?”
Dooney smirks at Ben. “Fucking chicks. More trouble than they’re worth.”
Phoebe smacks his shoulder and Dooney apes repentance. “Babe! I’m sorry. The cops still have my phone.”
“Well, you coulda answered the phone at your house. Or messaged me online and let me know you were coming.” Phoebe is pissed and no good at pretending. “You were supposed to be my date, you know.”
Dooney shrugs. “Probably easier that we didn’t come together,” he says, winking. “I’m a star now. The press is all over me! Coach had to run interference so I could get in past the news vans. Couple of ’em have been following me around since lockup. They’re camped out at my house, too.” He pulls a flask out of his jacket pocket and waggles it in front of him at waist height to avoid detection. “Now that I’m here, anybody wanna get this party started?”
Ben frowns and shakes his head. “Driving,” he says, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Besides, shouldn’t you be laying low?”
Dooney ducks and takes a quick gulp, then grimaces, not at the booze, but at Ben’s question. “Hell no. Go big or go home, dude.” He laughs as Ben tries again.
“If you get caught with that, won’t they take you back in?”
Dooney slides the flask back into his pocket. “I’m never going back to jail,” he says. There’s a smug look of satisfaction on his face. “Dad’s got a buddy in from St. Louis. Best defense attorney in the Midwest. He’s gonna shut this shit down.”
“What about Deacon?” The music is thumping so loudly that Ben has to yell this almost directly into Dooney’s ear.
Dooney shrugs. “What about him?” he yells back.
Rachel touches my elbow. “Gonna grab a Coke with Lindsey.” She has her church smile on, trying to distract from the fear in her eyes.
“Want anything?” Lindsey asks.
I tell them I’m good, and Lindsey promises to circle back. “I just can’t with him right now,” she tells me as Dooney takes another swig from the flask and steps on Phoebe’s toe.
I give her a little wave as they head off to the bar in the corner.
“Where we partying after this?” Dooney slurs.
Ben takes my hand and says he’s hanging out with me afterward. For the first time, Dooney notices me standing there, and I feel his eyes travel down my shoulders, across my chest all the way to my feet, and back up again. “Damn, dude.” He whistles, still looking at me. “I wouldn’t wanna hang out with me either.”
Phoebe rolls her eyes. Dooney grabs her elbow and steers her in front of him. “C’mon, babe. Let’s get our groove on.” He pauses as he passes Ben. “Text me later, dude.”
I see Mr. Jessup clapping Dooney on the back and laughing with him. There is heat and sweat and madness in the air. A group of Buccaneers thumps along with a new song.
First-class seat on my lap, girl, riding comfortable . . .
A dance circle forms around Phoebe and Dooney, LeRon slides in on his knees, then jumps up. He and Dooney leap into the air and bump chests.
Coach is hooting along as the guys chant and bark like Dooney’s just been drafted to the NBA. The whole gym is crowding around them when Ben leans in behind me. “Let’s get outta here.”
The last thing I see as we leave is Phoebe, holding her high heels in her hand and plopping down against the wall of folded-up bleachers. For a moment, I think she might be crying, or
about to. She looks up as we make our break for the doors, and in that split second she plasters on her top-of-the-pyramid smile. It’s a smile I have seen a thousand times before, a smile that says Everything is perfect.
Only this time, I don’t think she believes it.
And I don’t believe it either.
twenty-three
WE ARE QUIET on the drive home, but it’s not the comfortable kind of quiet I’ve shared with Ben before—the silence of all is well. This is the quiet of a duck floating on a pond: peaceful and serene up top, paddling like mad below the surface.
Ben is so distracted he doesn’t turn on any music, and I can’t turn off the questions in my head. I keep seeing Phoebe’s face as Ben and I left the dance, and thinking of Ben’s cool response to Dooney. Why didn’t Ben seem more excited that Dooney is out on bail? What is Phoebe covering up with her smile?
The closer you look, the more you see.
I’m desperate to fill the quiet cracks in our evening with laughter or music or chatter about anything at all. I search for a sound to fill the air between us, words to drown out the tiny voice I can hear too well in this silence. It’s a whisper that grows a little louder every day, and even now I can hear it turned up one decibel more. Over and over it asks a single question of one person.
That person is Ben, and the question is, Do you know what really went on that night?
The garage door is open at Ben’s house when we pull into the drive. Adele Cody is almost hidden by Bounty eight-packs in a stack nearly as tall as she is. She flits in and out of the shelving racks wearing yellow yoga pants and a black sports bra. Her abs are clearly defined, the muscles in her arms ropy and straining like an aging pop star’s, with too little fat on her body and too much Pilates on her schedule. She’s making room for the paper towels, moving boxes of Band-Aids to the shelves above and Brillo Pads to the shelves below, displacing display flats of Carmex and Altoids in either direction.
Ben bumps his head slowly against the steering wheel three times then he rests it there. “Perfect.”
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