Don’t worry, Cemetery Girl. I’ll be there.
Acemetery is a well of silence blue-and-silver party factory exploded in the school gym. Balloon bouquets hang everywhere, along with crepe-paper rosettes and streamers crisscrossed in every direction. I don’t remember a disco ball in here, but maybe they pack it away for dances. It’s so cheesy, but I secretly like the way the tiny mirrors throw spots of light around the darkened gymnasium.
Brandon is going to have a heck of a time trying to get usable pictures in here.
We didn’t drive together. He practically tripped over himself trying to apologize, but he’d already made plans to shoot candids of the dance planning committee while they were finalizing the setup, so he needed to be here ninety minutes early. He asked me if I wanted to join him, but that was a little too much intensity for my taste.
I had to get a dress anyway.
I haven’t seen Brandon yet. Instead, I’m clinging to Rowan.
Well, I’m walking beside her. Mentally, I’m gripping her arm.
My eyes rake over the crowd. The music crashed over me when I walked in, but now my ears are used to it. The driving bass combined with the flashing lights make for a sensory experience that doesn’t leave any room for my usual anxiety. Flares of light arc across unfamiliar faces, and I find myself searching the crowd for The Dark. He could be anyone.
Rowan leans in close. “Are you looking for Brandon?”
Not at all. “Yes. Have you seen him yet?”
“No. Let’s go over by the food tables so he can find you.”
Food tables. Perfect.
Along the back wall, six long tables have been set up. Alternating blue and white tablecloths hang over each, with more streamers accenting the fronts. Someone has turned on a row of track lighting behind the tables, so you can see what you’re eating but not much else. One table has two punch bowls with a teacher left to stand guard, with three huge platters of cookies spread out.
The other tables have bottled water, candy bars, and bags of chips, but they all cost money, so I pick up a cup of punch. I lift it to my lips and turn, prepared to scan the crowd again.
I choke on the punch and almost cough it all over Declan Murphy.
My pulse goes from sedentary to cardio in the span of one second. I’m still keyed up over the way he acted about the photograph yesterday, and it’s all I can do to keep from snapping in his face.
Or running.
I wish I could say he doesn’t clean up well, but he does. He obviously spent time with a bar of soap and a razor, because he smells fresh and clean, and his face is probably the smoothest I’ve ever seen it. The dance has a dress code, and I wouldn’t expect him to comply with something so conventional, but he did. He’s wearing a white shirt, khaki trousers, and a blue-and-green-striped tie. The sleeves have already been rolled up his forearms and the top button unbuttoned, and his hair is a little too long to be stylish, but he’s combed it. He looks like an errant boy whose mom dressed him up for pictures, and he was having none of it.
I do my best to get my heart rate under control. “Stalker much?”
“Yeah,” he says, his rough voice low and quiet and full of sarcasm. “I’m stalking you at the food table.” He moves to get past me.
“Looking to spike the punch?” I say.
He goes still in that way a dog will before it’s about to bite. There’s no growl, but the lips are drawn back, the muscles tensed to spring.
I shouldn’t have said anything. Especially that. I already regret it. He leaves me so off balance, like I need to jab at him first, before he can poke me full of holes.
Declan shifts back to look at me again. His eyes are full of ice, but his voice doesn’t change. “And what if I am? You going to stop me?”
“No,” says Rowan, speaking up beside me. “We’re going to tell a teacher.”
“Go ahead.” Then he moves past me again, throws two dollar bills onto the table to the left, and walks off with two bottles of water.
Rowan pulls close to me, and we watch Declan stalk off. “What is wrong with him?” she says, sounding completely mystified. “Why does he have to be such a jerk?”
I take another sip of my punch. It’s too sweet, or maybe I feel too bitter. “I wasn’t exactly nice, Ro.”
“After the way he treated you yesterday? You think he deserves it?”
I’m still watching Declan walk away. He stops over in a shadowed corner. I see him give the bottle to someone else, but it takes me a moment to make out who it is.
My eyebrows go up. “His friend isn’t wearing a hoodie.”
“Well, look at that,” says Rowan. “Rev Fletcher can look normal.” She pauses, and her voice takes on a note of appreciation. “Better than normal. He’s actually a decent-looking guy. Why do you think he chooses to dress like the Unabomber?”
“Who dresses like the Unabomber?” says a voice behind her.
I turn. Brandon stands behind Rowan, his camera ready in his hands. He’s wearing the vest and slacks of a charcoal-gray three-piece suit, along with fluorescent-blue Chuck Taylors, a black button-down shirt, and a red bow tie. On anyone else, it would look ridiculous, but he can pull it off. Quirky-hot, I’d call it.
He gives us an appraising look, and appreciation lights in his eyes. “You guys look nice.”
I blush. I can’t help it. I’m almost ashamed of it. My dress is nothing special, just a strapless black sheath that stops above my knees, but considering his colorful look, I’m glad I went with something basic.
“So do you,” I say.
“Are you actually wearing a pocket watch?” says Rowan.
“Why, yes, I am.” Brandon lifts his camera to his face. “Get closer together.”
“No way.” I attempt to step out of range, but Rowan catches my arm and drags me back into the shot.
“We need to commemorate this,” she says.
“Commemorate what?” I say. “The food table?”