“No. Stop. You look like you’re having a seizure. Think of dancing like having a conversation but with the music instead of with another person. It’s all intuition and instinct.”
“Right. Because I’m good at all three of those things. Intuition, instinct, and having conversations with other people.”
“Little D, sarcasm becomes you. Seriously, though, you got this. Just like when you’re talking to Kit, follow her lead. Look for the cues. If the song is fast, you move faster. If it’s slow, move slower, more intimately. Maybe for you it won’t be about instinct.”
“Then what will it be about?” I ask.
“Well, you’re good at details, right? Noticing the small things? And you know how to listen. Like really listen in a way no one else can. So maybe use those skills? Do it your way.”
“You’re not making sense. Dance my way? I don’t have a way.”
“You do. Everyone does.” We have reached the center of the atrium, and the sun is glaring down. It’s too hot in here. Ravel suddenly seems like an aggressive choice for the mall. I think through the numbers, applying values to a cost-benefit analysis of the chances of my humiliating myself if I decide to dance at the party. The math feels uncomfortably random, like I’ve assigned numbers just to make myself feel better. “And this could be your chance. Say you’re dancing with Kit, maybe you lean in a little and bam, you guys kiss.”
“Do you think this is my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kiss Kit Lowell? And if so, what do you think are my chances in that regard?” I ask.
“Yes, and I think your odds are about two point four percent.”
“So you’re saying that on Friday night I have an equal chance of getting vomited on as I do of getting kissed?”
“Welcome to high school,” Miney says.
“You look beautiful,” David says right into my ear, so close I shiver. My back presses against a speaker blasting crappy music, and I flip my hair in a way I’ve seen Jessica do, right then left then right again. I instantly regret it because I have the kind of hair that frizzes, not flips. I am wearing my mom’s red bandage dress and her most expensive heels, and I’m carrying a full bottle of some fancy Scandinavian vodka, the total effect of which makes me feel like I’m in a Halloween costume. Cocktail party grown-up. I took—well, stole—all this without asking, of course, despite the fact that my mom would have happily lent me her clothes, if not handed over the alcohol. That would have meant having to talk to her, and I’m not ready for that. The silence between us has turned malleable and soft, though. I suspect we are now being quiet out of self-protection. We are both too raw for words.
I still eat dinner alone in my room.
I still hate-love my mother.
The party is too crowded—most of Mapleview High is here, even a few guys who graduated last year and go to the local community college—and people are dancing anywhere they can find space. On couches, side tables. They bounce around against each other as if this is a rave and not Dylan’s parents’ living room. Gabriel and Willow eat each other’s faces right in the center of the makeshift dance floor, the sort of making out that gives kissing a bad name.
Abby and Jessica giggle from the sidelines. Based on their bloodshot eyes and the bag of Cheetos they are sharing, I’m pretty sure they’re high. Neither of them would be caught dead eating something fluorescent, scratch that, eating at all, sober.
“Thanks,” I say to David, and hope he doesn’t notice that I’m blushing. My mother, when she feels like complimenting me, almost always suggests some adjustment (Maybe try a different shirt, Kit? Yellow doesn’t suit your skin tone.), then only once I’ve taken her advice and changed does she say I look lovely. Beautiful feels like an upgrade.
“It’s too loud,” David says, again into my ear, and I want him to keep talking. Because it feels good, him leaning in like that, tickling my ear with his breath. He’s right, of course. It is way too loud. I have no idea why I come to parties. It’s not like I actually want to talk to any of the people here or, God forbid, dance. David and I would have been much better off heading to McCormick’s alone to have burgers and milk shakes.
I lead David by the hand, past Justin, who is deejaying, away from the noise and throngs and into the kitchen. If the other room felt like mayhem, here it feels postapocalyptic. The overhead lights are on. Bottles, ketchup packets, and empty potato chip bags litter the countertops. There’s a puddle of something yellow on the floor, and for Dylan’s sake I really hope it’s beer, not pee, though let’s be honest, they taste and smell the same.
Violet and Annie lean against the counter and sip from red plastic cups and greet us with weary enthusiasm.
“Hello!” they say in unison, and give me a semi-drunken hug, then lean into David, who at first doesn’t know what to do, but eventually leans in too.
“This is disgusting. Why don’t people clean up after themselves?” David’s wearing a fitted blue cashmere sweater and jeans that border surprisingly on skinny. He has a leather jacket crooked on his arm. He looks handsome. I have trouble looking away. He rolls up his sleeves and starts to gather up some trash.
“You can leave it,” I say. His sister must have picked out his clothes. It has her stamp of effortless cool. I wonder if she could give me lessons. I’d pay. Seriously.
“Really? I don’t really get what we’re supposed to do here otherwise,” David says.
“We’re supposed to just have fun.”
“Have fun. Sure. I can do that,” he says, though he looks uncomfortable and has what I think of as his processing face. Like he’s translating my words from English to whatever language it is he speaks in his head. “But it’s loud. Like really, really loud. Even in here. And the lights are too bright.”
“Have a drink. That should help.” I pour out four clear shots from my mom’s bottle.
“I’m driving,” he says.
“Good answer. More for me, then, my DD,” I say, a stupid play on the words designated driver and David Drucker. I’m glad he is responsible, but I don’t want to think about driving.
I hand Violet and Annie their shots and swig mine and David’s fast, one after the other. They burn on the way down. Like David, I no longer have any idea about how to have fun, how to just be, and so I have decided if I am going to survive this party I need a little help. I don’t really see any other way.
“Slow down,” Violet says, looking at my now-empty glasses. I’ve drunk before, but not a lot and not often. “The night is young.”
“So are we,” I say, and take a third shot just as fast. Violet gives Annie a look, but it turns out Annie’s on my side on this one.
“Touché,” Annie says, and pours out more drinks and hands them around. She even pours David a cup of soda. “To hashtag Team David!”
“To David,” I say.
“To me?” he asks, adorably confused.