This was nothing like that. JD took one of her hands in his own and placed the other one on his shoulder. He put his free hand around her waist, and she could feel it there, burning through the white fabric covering her ribs and the small of her back.
She took one step closer. She could smell the clean scent of his peppermint soap. Being this close was overwhelming, exciting, and just as she’d imagined. It was like there was no one else in the whole room except the two of them. The music swept around them; Em imagined that both of their hearts were beating in time to its rhythm.
“Maybe I’m not so bad,” he murmured into her ear.
“What?” she said, pulling back a little to look at his face.
“At dancing, I mean. Remember? You told me Mr. Darcy doesn’t dance; he just has a heart of gold and all that crap.”
Em laughed, and held him tighter. “No,” she whispered. “You’re not so bad at all. . . .” She felt her grin widening uncontrollably, and she pressed her face against his chest, breathing in his familiar smell.
“This is nice,” he said, his voice quiet and gravelly.
“It is nice,” she said, squeezing his hand in hers. Finally. It felt like they had begun to reclaim something. “It’s always nice, with us, JD. Or, at least, it used to be. We’ve had so much fun together.” Immediately, she scolded herself for being so inarticulate, for not saying what she wanted to say: that she was happy with him, always. Even when everything around them was falling apart.
“Fun. Right,” he echoed hollowly. He took a step away from her, running his hands through his hair, breaking the spell. “Good old JD. Always good for a laugh and a ride, right?”
Em didn’t know what to say. The song ended, replaced by fast beats that made it hard for Em to hear herself think.
“JD, no. That’s not what I was saying. You don’t understand. I came here . . . to tell you how I feel. About you. So I could see you, and explain—”
He cut her off. “I don’t think your boyfriend would be so happy to hear this.” He pointed to one of the fun house mirrors in the gym—and in it, she was shocked to see Crow’s reflection. He looked as tall, dark, and disdainful as ever, scanning the room full of his former classmates . . . looking for Em, she suddenly had no doubt. Em could hear people around her begin whispering and snickering, and all of a sudden Gabby was behind her, squealing, “What’s the Grim Creeper doing here?”
Crow strode purposefully in her direction. When he reached her, he pulled her aside without saying hello.
Em was aware that people were staring at her. Crow towered over her, looking wild and paler than usual. She shook his hand off her arm. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered.
“Em, I just came from Drea’s house,” he said. “I rushed straight here to find you.”
“How did you even get in?” Em knew that something must be very wrong, but her mind settled on this, the most mundane of problems: Crow was a dropout. No way he could have bought a ticket.
“Who cares?” he practically barked. “Listen to me. It’s Drea. Something’s up with her, Em. I think she’s flipped a switch. I came to warn you—”
Just then, all at once, the music died, and all the lights in the gym went out. Someone screamed, and Ascension High was plunged into complete darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Skylar had just arrived at the dance. She floated across the parking lot. A silk mask, made of delicate black lace that matched the somber black of her satin dress, brushed across her bandages. She touched her fingers to the mask, wondering where she’d gotten it, when she had put it on. The medication was starting to wear off, leaving a pounding sensation in her skull, making everything around her pulse in and out as though under a glaring strobe light. She couldn’t remember exactly how she’d gotten here, to Ascension, to the dance. It was Lucy . . . ? Lucy had taken her . . . no. That didn’t make sense. Lucy can’t go anywhere. . . .
She was alone now. Alone at the dance. She drifted toward the freshman who was guarding the entrance to the dance. When he saw her, he stood up, knocking over his chair. He seemed . . . scared.
She smiled at him, not knowing if he could see her face through her mask. “One ticket for the dance, please,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice.
“We—we don’t sell tickets at the door,” the boy said shakily, moving away from Skylar almost as though she was a wild animal. He wouldn’t—or couldn’t—look at her straight-on.
“One ticket for the dance, please,” she repeated. Like one of those dolls again, who can only say one phrase over and over.
“Let me see if I can get Mr. Shields—to make an exception,” the freshman said. As he scurried away, he shouted over his shoulder, “Stay here, all right? Just stay here.” He disappeared through the double doors.