“You have mustard on your lip.” She dabbed at my mouth with a standard-issue, disintegrate-upon-contact festival napkin as I wavered between embarrassment and pleasure.
The band had moved on to a new verse, “You can take my shinka, take my long kielbasa,” to which the crowd sang along.
Without warning, Rose grabbed my hand and led me toward the packed dance floor.
The thought occurred to me—why, for the very first time we held hands, did my fingers have to be stained mustard yellow and slick with grease?
Neither of us were skilled in the art of polka dancing, but aside from the bald man and his wife, no one else seemed to be either. We basically hopped from one foot to the other in unison, my left hand holding her right and my right hand on her upper back. I could feel the heat from her hand where it rested on my shoulder, occasionally squeezing for extra purchase.
Before long, the crowd formed a circle around us, clapping on the downbeat. Even the bald man and his wife stopped to watch, looking quite amused. I knew I had a stupid grin on my face, but I couldn’t wipe it off. Rose’s eyes had crinkled up, and she wore a grin to match.
I couldn’t believe I was (A) at a polka festival; (B) dancing at a polka festival; and (C) not mortified by A or B. I’d hardly danced in my life. But being with Rose made me feel invincible and willing to try things I’d never do otherwise.
As the band revved up for the end, I led Rose into a spin, pulling her into me, her arms crossed in front of her. We fell back in a dip as the music ended, which she accented with a high kick.
The crowd burst into applause. Rose and I took small bows, turning to acknowledge our audience.
Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing. I took her by the hand and led her out of the tent while the band geared up for the next song. We made our way to the edge of the festival grounds, eventually discovering a grove of oak trees shading a narrow creek.
“Over there!” I said, spotting a bench by the trickling water. We sat for a moment, catching our breath.
I pushed the sweaty hair off my forehead. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure we could sweep the school talent show with those moves next year.” I looked over to Rose, about to start laughing with her again, but she now wore a troubled look on her face.
Damn. I shouldn’t have said that. I’d moved too fast, made assumptions. She was a senior. She wasn’t going to date a junior next year. She wasn’t going to date me next year.
“What is it?” I asked, trying to keep my cool.
She forced a smile. “It’s nothing.”
“You can tell me,” I said, trying to maintain an air of confidence, though inside my anxiety had skyrocketed.
She looked at the water and fiddled with her necklace while I prepped myself for the upcoming rejection.
“So there’s this school in New York,” she finally said. “It’s called the Manhattan Music Conservatory. It’s for gifted young musicians.”
“Like you,” I said, nodding as if I understood where this was headed.
Rose shrugged. “Like a lot of people. So anyway, I got accepted this past spring and wait-listed for a scholarship, but it’s not a sure thing. It’s really expensive and there’s no way I can go without financial aid.”
“That’s rough,” I said sympathetically, though inside I felt myself relax. Not that I wanted to think about her going away to college in a year, but at least she wasn’t giving me the “let’s just be friends” talk. “You still have a whole year to work out the kinks; I’m sure you’ll be able to figure something out,” I continued.
She bit her lip. “Zeus, the conservatory isn’t a college, it’s a high school. If I get the scholarship, I’ll leave in August. This August. Two months from now.”
I felt my insides go numb. I knew it. This had all been too good to be true. She was leaving me already. I wanted to beg her not to go, but how long had we known each other? Two weeks? Two weeks ago I would have jumped at the chance to leave Buffalo Falls. How could I blame her?
I tried to hide my devastation with fake enthusiasm. “Wow, your senior year in New York City. That sounds amazing!”
“It’s what I’ve been hoping for, dreaming about for months now.” She gave a small smile then, and the little dimple under her lip appeared, breaking my heart in two.
Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
“That’s awesome, Rose! I hope the scholarship comes through.”
I wasn’t even sure what I was saying, but it felt like all the right things. I saw relief wash over her face. Her smile widened.
God, that smile. I never wanted it to go away. But I guess I’d take it for as long as I could have it.
I smiled back.
“Thank you, Zeus. I’ve actually been really worried about telling you.”
“I’m pretty scary,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
She laughed and gave me a playful shove. “Why are you so sweet to me?”
While I wanted to put my arm around her, I shoved her back instead. “Because I like you, Rose.”
Immediately, the blood rushed to my face. I felt like I had returned to fifth grade and checked off the Yes box on a “Do you like me?” note. The water trickled, the leaves rustled, a crow cawed, and my heart beat in my ears for an eternity while I awaited a response.
“I like you, too,” Rose said, “but—”
Oh God. Now what. “But—?”
“But now you’ve totally outdone yourself, Mr. Gunderson. How will you ever top the Taube County Fiftieth Annual Polka Festival Extravaganza?”
Sorry, God. False alarm.
“That was just a warm-up, Miss Santos,” I said, my fear replaced with reckless optimism. “How about this—every Sunday for the rest of the summer I’ll surprise you with something new. Even if you do leave in August, I’ll show you the best summer you’ve ever had in Buffalo Falls.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
No kidding. Something new every Sunday for the rest of the summer? Was that even possible? The most likely ending was that I’d run out of ideas, Rose would fly off to New York, and I’d be left behind with random mustard stains and a truckload of pain.
Still.
Two months with Rose.
I stuck my hand across the bench.
She met it with hers.
“Deal?” I asked.
“Deal.”
SIXTEEN
“THE MISSING PIECES HAVE TO BE HERE SOMEWHERE. DID YOU CHECK the floor?” Letty asked the following Thursday. She shuffled around the table where the puzzle we’d spent the last half hour on was laid out.
“Yes, still not on the floor.”
“For cryin’ out loud, we need to find Eduardo’s frank and beans.”
I knew where they were, of course. But I felt no one would be happy if Missy Stouffer were to walk over and find a nude, muscle-bound man named Eduardo sitting atop his motorcycle. That’s why I’d been smuggling select puzzle pieces to my lap, so that only the motorcycle, the asphalt, the sky, and some less-offensive parts of Eduardo were visible on the table.