by A. J. Lape
A little over an hour later, Dylan and I’d finished a Mexican meal at a new place—Mexican Food Whore was my middle name. Stuffed to the gills, we pulled into the school parking lot. This didn’t feel like a date; this felt normal. But then again, Dylan always paid for my meal, always opened my door, and we always held hands wherever we went.
Our norm was different than everyone else’s definition.
Finn phoned around twenty minutes ago wondering where we were, telling us the place was a “sweat-box and packed to the rafters with dirty-dancing fools.”
Dylan’s naughty response, “Sweat sounds nice.”
I wasn’t exactly sure the origins of his words, but his naughty grin told me it meant corruption.
The sky sparkled with blinking stars, and the cool night air was the kind that made you snuggle closer to those you loved. Dylan hooked his arm around my waist, drawing me into his warmth as we walked up the steps, going inside.
Directly in front of us was a placard broadcasting “Pictures,” pointing toward the cafeteria. A long line had already formed with people dressed similar to me and others dressed like I’d be their hired-help. After Dylan checked us in at the welcome desk, he pushed the gymnasium doors wide.
The room was darker than a cave, lit only by the many disco balls hanging from the ceiling. They’d nailed the winter wonderland theme and added some major mood ambience. Powdered snow had been strewn across the floor and different types of live fir trees were scattered throughout. Hand-made wooden reindeer pulled a red metal sleigh on the second floor catwalk. In the upper right corner sat a small concession area, and if the rumor mill got it right, an eggnog fountain was the main attraction. Altogether, it felt cozy and intimate. All that was missing was a bearskin rug and raging fire.
One set of bleachers had been pushed back against the wall, making room for two floors of dancing. Finn said we’d find him on the second floor, so Dylan took my hand, meticulously cutting a path through the crowd. It struck me again how this behavior seemed date-like but still our everyday norm. We’d been holding hands since we were six, and all these years later we’d never stopped.
Ivy and Jagger stomped past us like they were putting out a fire. And the GF didn’t look too happy. I glanced at her; she glared at me, and we had a rare meeting of the minds. We both acknowledged we hated the other. On my part, I’d had the last laugh. By the end of the day, a dancing GIF had circulated of her, Justice, and me rolling around on the floor, our heads superimposed with Wonder Woman (Justice), Super Girl (me), and Osama Bin Laden as Ivy. Sometimes karma got it right.
Dylan murmured in my ear, “Forget them, sweetheart. Let’s dance.”
Umm, good idea.
The music roared as loud as a jet plane, and the DJ spun Lady Gaga’s “Applause.” Coming up behind me, Dylan wrapped his left arm around my waist, swaying us back and forth to the beat. Reaching back, I clasped my hand at the base of his neck, relaxing my cheek next to his. This felt right, I sighed to myself. And although I’d arrived sans confidence, I was determined to remember it when insecurity chipped away at our bond.
All at once, he twirled us over to Grumpy and Clementine who danced by Finn. Clementine moved with the pep of a cheerleader; Grumpy had the rhythm of a white boy too dumb to know he sucked. In the twenty or so seconds we’d been beside them, he’d bumped her head twice and stepped on a foot.
I promised him a makeover before the party that, with my meager budget, consisted of gifting him with a pile of Murphy’s skinny clothes and floating him a loan for McDonald’s (you know, spare no expense). He’d left my home in a white button-down oxford, navy sweater, khaki trousers, and brown tie-ups. I gelled his hair in hopes to find a style consistent with this decade, but it ended up looking like a Chia pet. So I 86’d the idea, and finally trimmed two inches. Then I shaved his neck. I nearly threw up twice because it took two disposable razors to bush hog what belonged on a yak.
A look to my right revealed Rudi, Justice, and Bean (yes, I said Bean). Rudi looked normal, Justice danced the robot, and Bean was…well, Bean was twerking. You heard right; he’d gone Miley Cyrus. His and Justice’s hands occasionally touched, like they’d come to the party together—or at least had plans to leave that way. Rudi was decked-out similar to me; Justice had dressed like a warrior-ninja princess in black parachute pants and a flowy blouse; Bean and Mr. Pongo brandished matching red velvet suits that’d make Elvis Presley proud. When Justice’s back turned in a whirl, Bean caught my eye giving me a thumbs up as if he’d landed the woman of his dreams.
That was one story that would not wait until tomorrow.
A glance to my left showed Finn and Gucci. Gucci sported black leather and too much gold. She wasn’t exactly Hell’s Angel’s material, but she definitely rocked the biker babe look. Grumpy now boogied next to them, playing tonsil hockey with Clementine while they moved. Both his hands tangled in her dark hair, and Clementine lifted his shirt out of his belt, wadding it between her hands. Then…he devoured her mouth like Weight Watchers members did carbs on cheat day.
“Check out Grumpy,” I whispered to Dylan, blushing for the both of them.
Dylan glanced over his shoulder with a little girl giggle. “Bradshaw looks like a happy man.”
I’m not sure what Grumpy looked like, but he made me feel like a creepy voyeur. Predictably, he ruined the love and togetherness moment by grunting, “Clementine, no matter what happens here tonight, I want you to know I’m disease free.”
Yup. That’s what he said.
Heard it myself.
My lusty truck driver laugh sprang to life. “He probably should’ve told her that before he took her to France,” I giggled in Dylan’s ear.
“I swear, Darc, your naughty laugh can be so obscene,” he chuckled.
The music went old-school, seguing to a Marvin Gaye song. Nothin’ said lovin’ like Marvin Gaye. But the song choice of “Let’s Get it On” left me stifling another laugh. My guess is the song was snuck onto the DJ’s playlist unbeknownst to faculty.
Dylan drew me into his chest and took my right hand in his, holding it against his heart. In that moment, we reminded me of my mother and father. It didn’t matter the occasion, if my father wanted to dance, he’d wrap my mother in his arms. Murphy, by nature, was uptight and edgy, but with Gemma Walker he was as relaxed as his DNA would allow. I thought about her tonight at dinner. I would’ve loved for my mother to be here—just a simple word of advice would’ve been treasured. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t will-back the hands of time.
“I choked,” I whispered. Dylan knew immediately I referred to the deal I’d made with Coach Wallace.
He kissed my hair, resting his chin on my head. “Aw, sweetheart. Darcy Walker is capable of great things. Don’t ever doubt that.” Dylan could be a motivational speaker. But great things? I was one breath away from the sanitarium.
“I try and try and never get anywhere. It’s so frustrating.”
“Let’s rehash the details. I’ll call Coach and get you an extension.”
“The trail dried up days ago. I just wanted to buy something nice for my family and friends. I already had your gift picked out, D. Maybe I’m greedy. The universe doesn’t like greedy.”
“No, you’re a businesswoman. Take the pressure off yourself. Don’t even think about me.”
“No,” I replied.
Another kiss to my head. “I don’t want to offend you, but can I at least float you a loan?”
“No loan,” I sighed.
I stood where every girl in this room wanted to be standing. And P.S., what precisely had I done to warrant the privilege? A lasting friendship? Dylan pulled me a little tighter, and when I glanced up to his amber eyes, they’d melted into liquid gold. Falling into their depths, my eyes grew bedroomy, and I gulped down some unexpected desire.
His voice lowered as he ground his fingertips into my lower back. He murmured, “I believe in you. How about we get out of here in a bit. Just the two of us, someplace private.”
Stare. Stare harder. Then triple it up with one more for good measure.
Sweet Jesus, that was romantic. Stop my beating heart. He pirouetted me around, holding our joined hands over my head, allowing the concept to jell into place. The sadist in me would give her left lung to go someplace private—I didn’t need the time to jell. “Omigosh,” I surprisingly whispered, “there really is a God.”
Dylan chuckled low in his throat, his muscular neck begging to be touched. There was no time for return banter because several feet over, Finn was the victim of another guy’s fists. After one sucker punch, Finn slid across the floor like a bowling ball taking down pins. In light gray trousers and a white silk shirt unbuttoned to his chest, he looked like he belonged in New York, not sweeping up the floor of the gym. After two headshakes, Finn came up swinging at holy heck…Damon Whitehead?
So I’m guessing Damon was Gucci’s formerly new and now ex-boyfriend?
Um, that made as much sense as everything else that’d happened lately.
Dylan finally came to himself and cursed a few choice words, launching into I’ve-got-your-back mode. He took off running, like Moses parting the Red Sea, but before he made it to them, Slapstick Wilson entered the fray. “I told you, Damon!” he roared, big fists flexed at his sides. “This is not the place!”
Let me say again…this whole scenario made zero sense.
Damon never struck me as the boyfriend type. Especially with someone as trendy and cute as Gucci. But what did I know? I was pretty sure Dylan had some stupid in him since he’d brought me. Slapstick quickly muscled Finn out of the way and jumped a nicely dressed Damon before he could even say boo. The noise sounded like the crack of two rams colliding in an open field. Grunts, screams, and guttural groans accompanied each of Slapstick’s punches. But despite getting pounded to a pulp, Damon remained intent on having his piece of Finn. As Finn one-legged it up to stand, Damon pulled him by the other leg, and Finn collapsed back on the bottom of the pile. Finn got off a couple of shots, but by that time, Dylan—flanked by Grumpy and me—arrived and dove into the middle, pulling Finn out by his shoulders. Slapstick slugged away on Damon and then circled his neck with a strength that lifted him off the ground. After what seemed like forever, he threw him one-handed across the floor, shattering the eggnog fountain (bummer) and jumping on top again to finish what he’d started.
Sweet Jesus, it wasn’t over.
Twenty feet ahead, huddled between friends, Brynn elbowed to the fracas dressed in black stockings, boots to the knee, and an über expensive-looking, long-sleeved LBD. Thing was, her little black dress looked like it’d been shrunk on high heat in the dryer. Hugging her curves like a stock car took the Daytona 500, anything meant to be bouncy was bouncy; anything meant to be taut was taut. Suddenly, I was awkwardly aware my Miracle Bra needed to be retired. Either that or I needed to triple-up on the voodoo cream and deal with the resulting chest hair.
Brynn quickly clicked over to Dylan’s side in her Louboutins and begged (yes, I said begged) him to corral Slapstick. You see, I knew Dylan. Even though he probably wanted Damon’s head bashed in like a pumpkin, if he could keep Slapstick from a temporary insanity defense, he’d do his civic duty. Plus his hero complex had probably kicked in, and he’d want the honor of silencing Damon himself.
And let me add as a side note, Where the heck were the chaperones?
“D,” I whispered. “Do it. He’s a good guy.”
Dylan gave me a BRB face and ponied up and grabbed Slapstick by the shoulders, the plan to throw him to the side. When he got his hands on him, Slapstick barely conceded an inch. Dylan got that look like he’d witnessed Jesus Christ splitting the sky. He wasn’t used to not dropping someone on impact, but Slapstick was like a wrecking ball. Taking out anything and anyone near him. With an annoyed frown lining his jaw, Dylan grabbed Slapstick once more and got his legs into the toss. With more determination, he lifted him up and thrust him ten feet away. Slapstick’s embittered breath came out in a wheeze.
Damon crawled off into the crowd.
What did I think of Damon’s fighting skills?
Snore.
Slapstick’s?
What freaking planet did he come from? Krypton?
While Dylan had done his thing, you couldn’t miss Brynn’s reaction. If he was a new car, let’s just say she contemplated the test drive. A loooooooong test drive. Maybe a naked test drive. I hated her. My. God. I actually think I hated her.
By this time, a parent chaperone joined the mix—red SOLO cup in hand—and spoke with Dylan, Finn, Grumpy, and Slapstick. Damon had disappeared…probably lamenting how badly he got his butt kicked in public. Brynn clicked back to the circle she’d been conversing with. Someone in the back came forward, and placed a tender arm over her shoulder. This male was over six feet wearing dress-khakis, a light-colored sweater, and some sort of loafer…expensive stuff…possibly tailored, because everything hung on his long and lean body like a second skin. Their corner was dimly lit, making faces and hair color recognition all but impossible. Squinting to focus, as soon as I got a load of the profile, momentarily I was struck dumb. Like I’d been kicked in the head by a mule and was now a vegetable. I’d recognize that square jaw anywhere.
Ben Ryan, I gulped.
I felt like I was in a tailspin and had a thousand feet before I kissed the ground. Like I needed to add another layer to the Darcy drama? Omigosh, Ben Ryan, I said to myself again. Heck, I might’ve yelled it…because here he came…strutting my way.
Ben left Brynn pouting, artfully navigating through the crowd, his coppery-colored hair and intense silver eyes extraordinarily different. Ho. Ly. You. Know. What. I’d only had two Cokes. I’d need four more and perhaps a cigar to deal with Ben.
Like Dylan had done earlier, Ben’s devilish eyes slid over me, pulling one of those head-to-toe deals where you check out the whole package. Unlike Dylan, he blatantly craned behind me to catch a view of my backside. I felt the heat in my cheeks, and if he laughed, I swear, I’d knee him in the ’nads.
I held up a hand, waving him off like a taxi I decided not to take. “Go away,” I choked out.
“Darcy,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’m…b-busy,” I stammered.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. You can do this, Darcy, I told myself. He’s just another pretty face, nothing more. Yanking the chain on my boy-crazy, I tried my best to remember good girls didn’t have bad thoughts; good girls didn’t look at Hot-Boy B when they went to the party with Hot-Boy A. And above all else, good girls weren’t attracted to boys they knew absolutely nada about…who’d hit them with their Audi.
With a desperate turn to find Dylan, I heard Ben chuckle from behind and circle his arm around my wrist, turning me back toward him. Slowly, he drew my body into his like we were…
Shoot, I don’t know, like we were two familiar people who did more with one another other than mere talking. I had goose bumps over every inch of my body, and I blushed with embarrassment because I felt Brynn’s eyes on me like a sniper with a clear shot.
I tried to say, “Don’t,” but all that came out was a nervous giggle.
“Yeah,” he grinned, “I’m happy to see you too. Marry me.”
It struck me like a crashing car that Ben was a fastard. When I clamped my jaws shut, Ben shrugged and moved us back and forth to the slow song playing. “Okay,” he amended, “one date. Then we can get married.” Theoretical dates with Ben rolled on my inner-hamster wheel. They chugged in a nauseating circle not gaining any ground, just making me dizzier.
Collin Lockhart danced close to us with a redhead I didn’t recognize. Dressed
similarly to Dylan, he did a few spins, but right when he leaned into her for close conversation, Brynn practically jerked his arm out of his socket, tearing him away. She dragged him with her—Ben and me as the destination. Collin ran a shaky hand through his thick blond hair, and his eyes blinked in flat-out confusion. But it wasn’t a confusion that’d lead to publicly embarrassing a pushy Brynn—or reuniting with the redhead he’d left standing. In fact, he looked like he’d take whatever Brynn dished out.
Ugh…what kind of power did she wield over guys?
I shook my head in wonderment, turning my attention elsewhere. “Why and how are you here, Ben?”
“I’ve been worried about you,” he said oddly. “I’ve crapped out with Brantley McCoy, and that insinuates big problems. You need to give me more to work with. Why are you holding out?”
“You never answered my question,” I diverted.
“Just enrolled, angel.” Shoot, the nervous giggle came back. This time with a panicked shrill. “I start in January and was personally invited by the principal tonight. And by the way, you,” he emphasized, “never answered mine.”
“I gave you everything, Ben. I swear it.”
“You’re not kidding,” he said, his face suddenly grave.
By God, Brynn and Collin hovered next to us, practically stealing our air. “Have you given up on the ten grand?” Ben asked, not caring they eavesdropped. Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? All I did was shrug because frankly I didn’t have another plan. “What about this guy with the limp?” he murmured.
I’d forgotten I’d told Ben about Chichi’s prediction. As I looked at my surroundings all week, I’d pretty much come to the conclusion everyone had a limp of some kind and left that one to the Fates.