Baby, baby, are you listening?
Ben’s hand finds the small of my back. As he pulls me in, he bends down a little, bringing him closer to my level. I clasp my hands behind his neck, and our bodies fit together in a way that makes everything else fade away. His lips find mine, and the packed dance floor disappears. I feel myself falling into him as the music soars above us.
Wondering where you’ve been all my life
I just started living . . .
My knees go a little shaky, and I list off-kilter in my heels. Ben pulls me back to center with a smile. “Easy there,” he says. “You okay?”
I nod, but Ben takes my hand and says, “Let’s get you something to drink.” He brings my fingers to his lips and kisses them.
“You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head.
“What if they play something really great and we miss it?” I ask.
“I’m with you. I’m not missing a thing.”
Several volunteer moms from the booster club are running the drink table in the back hallway, pouring pop into plastic cups. They are chatty, armed with grins and grenadine, garnishing drinks with limes and maraschino cherries. As we stand in line, I lean against Ben, his arms wrapped around my waist, but the spell from inside the gym seems broken by the fluorescent lights. He’s quiet, and I can tell his brain is elsewhere.
I order a Shirley Temple, and he gets a cherry Coke, then we slip out the back door. The patio behind the cafeteria is a different planet, light-years away from the crush of the gym. The air is cool on my skin, and a breeze catches the sheer fabric of my dress, making it flutter as we walk toward one of the benches at a nearby table.
“You okay?” I ask him.
“I guess,” he says. “Little weirded out.”
“The reporters?”
“Them, too.” He crunches on a piece of ice and stares out across the back patio to toward the ditch where we hunted fossils together last fall. “Mainly my mom.”
“More Powerade?”
He closes his eyes and rolls his head back in a circle, trying to relax. “Toilet paper,” he says wearily. “The half bath off the rec room? Stacked to the ceiling with twelve-packs.”
I’ve seen plenty of weird people on cable shows. I’ve seen a woman addicted to eating Ajax and a man who sleeps in the garage because there are thirty years of newspapers filling up every inch in his house. It’s easy to laugh at when it isn’t happening to you.
Or to someone you love.
The thought comes out of nowhere, and I bite my tongue to keep it from slipping through my lips. I reach out and touch Ben’s hand. He laces his fingers through mine and squeezes. For a while, we sit silently in the shadows, staring into the night, music and laughter and people drifting in and out of the gym.
“She was on her way back to the store when I left,” Ben says.
“For more toilet paper?”
“Paper towels. I told her not to. We don’t have any more room in the garage. I’m afraid she’s going to fill up the rec room next.”
It would be easier if I had some sort of advice—some sure-fire, short-term cure. Ben’s dad found one at a bar in Nebraska. Adele found hers at the gym and the big box stores. Adults have the luxury of making their own decisions, but they don’t stop there. They end up making our decisions, too. I know Ben can’t just jump in his truck and drive away. It’s why he has his sights set on the long game: college.
“If I can just get a verbal agreement for a scholarship this season . . .” He’s lost in thought for a moment., then he turns and looks at me. “What’s your plan, Weston?”
“What do you mean?”
He considers me for a second. “Coach says Duke is interested in me, too.”
“Duke?”
“How far away you want to go for college?” he asks. “They’ve got a soccer team.”
I’m not sure how to answer. When I’m silent, he turns to me with a smile. “They’ve got a kickass science department, too,” he says, then hastens to add, “from what I understand. You know. If you were . . . interested in that sort of thing.”
“Are you asking me to go to the same college as you?”
“Maybe . . .” He pauses. “Okay, yeah. I guess that’s what I’m asking.”
Watching him tongue-tied may be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I’ve got to see how the soccer season goes. Don’t know if I’m good enough to be ranked.”
“Sure you are,” he says. “But your PSAT scores were huge, right?”
A sheepish smile gives me away.
“You’re a National Merit Finalist, right?”
“Semifinalist,” I say, “just like you. But it’s nice to know you’re paying attention.”
He winks at me. “I’ve been paying attention to you for a long time, Weston. You’re one of those girls who can do anything she wants to.”
“Oh, am I?”
“There aren’t many of you running around this one-horse town.”