Sherringford was a small enough school that we could all fit into the union’s alumni ballroom. (Apparently, the school went bigger and fancier for prom. Tom was sure that this year’s would be on a yacht.) The theme had something to do with Vegas; the first thing I saw as we entered was a string of blackjack tables, manned by real casino dealers in green-and-white livery. Holmes sidled over, only to make an affronted noise when she saw they were playing with Monopoly money. I was more interested in the chocolate fountain that burbled in the corner, crowded by people holding out skewered marshmallows. Otherwise, there were all the usual trappings: a punch table, strobe lights, a DJ. Bored-looking teachers were “chaperoning,” which meant they mostly chatted together in pairs. Out on the dance floor, girls swayed in dresses the colors of Christmas ornaments. We’d won the football game earlier, so the mood was victorious. As I took it all in, Cassidy and Ashton from my French class brushed past us. Cassidy looked lovely, and Ashton looked exactly like one of the Thundercats. I’d never seen such a radioactive-looking tan.
What I noticed most of all was how many students had been pulled home. There couldn’t have been more than a hundred of us on the dance floor. Still, everyone seemed like they were having fun—no one thinking of the murder, or their safety, or anything except for the ABBA song that had just begun.
It felt, disconcertingly, as though I stood with one foot in a novel and one foot in a shopping mall. I might’ve belonged here, but Holmes very much didn’t. I turned to ask exactly what her plan was, when I caught her mouthing the words to “Dancing Queen.”
“Oh my God,” I said as she startled. “Oh my God. You just wanted to come here to—”
“There are excellent opportunities for observation and deduction here,” she said hurriedly. “Look at the specimen pool! Everyone with their guard down, probably a good few drinking—the girl next to you has a flask of peach schnapps in that little bag of hers—and perhaps that dealer is here, somewhere, and—”
“—to dance.” I was trying very hard not to laugh. “Would you like to?”
“Yes,” she said, and fairly dragged me out onto the floor.
Holmes, for all her strange and myriad skills, proved to be a terrible dancer. But what she lacked in skill she made up for in absolute abandon. Under the kaleidoscope lights, her hair went blue, then red, then blue again, the music so loud that my head throbbed in time, and she flung her arms straight up as the chorus came, throwing her head back to mouth the words. She knew the words to the next one, too, and the song after that, and she sang them all with her eyes shut, shuffling her feet like a grandfather. For a glorious twelve minutes, I orbited her, and when she grabbed my hand and said, “Twirl me,” I spun her around as she laughed.
A slow song came on, some treacly number by an English boy band my little sister liked. All around us, people slipped into each other’s arms. Across the room, I saw Tom, resplendent in his ridiculous suit, dip Lena while she giggled.
Holmes and I stood there, in the middle of the floor, trying not to look at each other.
I struggled to hide my panic. From the corner of my eye, I could see that Holmes’s cheeks were still pinked from dancing.
“Um,” I said.
There was a tap on my shoulder. The wispy blond girl that had asked me to the dance stood there, her dress a dramatic red. “Hi,” she said shyly. “I thought you weren’t allowed to come.”
I watched Holmes rapidly catalog my reaction. After a moment, the girl turned to look at her, too.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I’m in your way.” A little line appeared between her eyebrows, and I thought, for a moment, that she was going to cry. I was sure Holmes noted that too. Her brain was like a bear trap: nothing escaped alive.
This had to be a nightmare. I’d look down, and I’d be naked, and the dance floor would become my math classroom, and then I’d wake up.
I didn’t.
“We’re not— I’m not— I need something to drink,” I managed, and darted away like the coward I was.
The thing was, I didn’t know if I wanted to slow dance with her. Holmes. Or maybe I could just imagine it a bit too readily, how it would feel to have my hands on the small of her back, to have her uncertain breath hot on my neck. Her soft laughter as the boy band sang I wanna kiss you, girl. How I’d drop my hands to her waist, pull her even closer to me.
But if I squinted, I could see that blond girl in my arms just as easily. Honestly, it wasn’t very fair to any of us. I knew myself pretty well; I could be so easily taken in by the now, not thinking much about the after. But with Holmes, all I could think about was the after. Silent drives at dawn, wildfire conversations, sneaking into locked rooms to steal away evidence to our little lab—I wanted those things. I wanted the two of us to be complicated together, to be difficult and engrossing and blindingly brilliant. Sex was a commonplace kind of complicated. And nothing about Charlotte Holmes was commonplace.
Even the way she filled out her dress.
No. I wasn’t going to think about that. Our track record proved that we were too volatile to survive that sort of shake-up. Just this morning, she’d chased me from her lab, wielding her violin like a weapon. Tomorrow night we might be sharing a cell. Tonight?
Tonight, I was getting punch.
Mr. Wheatley, my creative writing teacher, was manning the refreshments table with a pretty-ish woman around his age. He looked deathly bored, but brightened a bit when I made it to the front of the line. It wasn’t long. Not many of us were too lame to have someone to slow dance with.
“Jamie,” Mr. Wheatley said, though I could hardly hear his voice above the music. “What’ll it be?”
“How’s the punch?” I asked.