The Dance (14 page)

A strong wind was blowing off the nearby gray ocean as Sara helped Russ out of his sweats minutes before the start of the Four-A CIF Championship Cross-Country Race. The storm was over, but a few scattered clouds were hanging around, and the grass beneath their feet was still soggy. It would take a few days to dry out before it would qualify as a halfway decent running surface.

They were standing on the high point of the course, a hill located near the center of Hill Park, a place that more than deserved its name. The spot afforded an excellent view of most of the three-mile course. A gold trail of chalk wound near each corner of the park, under trees and along horse paths crowded with spectators. To Sara, scanning the route, it seemed Russ would be running uphill more than downhill. But since the finish line was right next to the starting line, she decided that must be impossible.

“How do you feel?” she asked, folding his sweats and draping them over her left arm.

“You just asked me that,” Russ said, spreading his legs and stretching. He had incredible hamstrings, simply incredible.

“What did you say?”

“I feel all right.”

“Your back’s OK?” she asked.

“Why would my back hurt?”

“The mattress in the guest room is worse than a leaky waterbed,” she said. The mere reminder of the fact he was now living at her house—with her parents’ reluctant and soon to be revoked consent— made her embryonic ulcer take another big step toward adulthood. She couldn’t understand how he could stay so cool. Then again, he hadn’t been awake most of the night setting up for the dance.

Where was Jessie when I really needed her?

There was a ton of preparations left to complete.

“My back’s OK,” he said.

“How about your feet? Never mind, we can’t go through your whole body. As long as you feel strong.”

“I feel strong.”

“That’s all I want to know.”

Tabb’s cross-country coach, and a number of Russ’s teammates, came over to wish Russ well. The team as a whole had not qualified for the finals. Russ would be the only one from the school running.

The announcer called out that there were five minutes to the gun. The colorful collection of athletes began to converge on the starting line. Sara followed Russ as he left his teammates and coach behind and made his way through the crowd. Having won his semifinal last week on a different course, Russ had a low number and was given a position at the privileged front of the pack.

“There’re so many people to beat,” she said, get-ting depressed.

“There’re only three,” Russ said. “I know who they are. They know who I am. You’ll see them at the finish.” He turned, stopping her from following him farther, smiling at her gloom. “You’ll see me in front of them.”

She chewed on her lip. “I hope so.” Poor words to inspire a man going into battle. She could do better. “I mean, I know you’ll beat them.” She wanted to give him a send-off hug, but was afraid she would accidently knee him or something stupid like that. She just stood there feeling dumb and nervous while he completed a few last-second stretches. “Well,” she said finally, “good luck.”

He glanced up as the announcer gave the one-minute warning. “You know what I would like more than anything right now?”

A kiss from sweet Sara.

“What?” she asked.

“A beer.”

“Swell,” she muttered, turning away in disgust. He stood straight and grabbed her by the shoulders before she could leave. “Wait, Sara. But I’m not going to have one even if I do win. You know what I’m saying?”

“That you don’t like beer anymore?” Behind him, beyond the assembled runners, the starter was giving out final instructions. She suddenly had the horrible thought that they would be off without him. “Hey, you better get going.”

“I’m saying that you’re more important to me.”

“That’s good, that’s great, but they’re really getting ready to go,” she said, hardly hearing him, shooing him toward the start. Hadn’t she done something like this two centuries ago when he had collided with her the first week of school? Why was he comparing her to beer?

“Sara, you’re not listening to me,” he complained.

“Everybody get ready!” the starter shouted out.

“Russ!” she cried.

He waved his hand indifferently. “That guy always gets everybody set then spends a couple of minutes loading his gun. I have time.”

She would just as soon he didn’t count on the guy’s past habits. “Time for what?” she asked.

Now he was disgusted. “Never mind.”

“Well, this really isn’t a time to talk. What did you say?”

“Do you want to go to the dance with me tonight?”

Her heart skipped. “Only if you win.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you’re out of luck.” She leaned over and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Go. Run. Win.” She Shoved him in the chest. “Now!”

He went, slowly making his way through the runners. But he knew his starters. It was another couple of minutes before the gun finally sounded and the herd stampeded forward. Sara retreated to the spot at the top of the hill. The clouds flew overhead, chased by the wind. She watched as Russ let a quarter of the runners pass him. She was shaking like a leaf.

He warned me he likes to start slow and build momentum.

Nevertheless, it was disconcerting to see so many people in front of him. His buddies on the team had brought a pair of binoculars and they passed them on to her. The mile marker was in the low south corner of the park, close to the choppy sea. Watching through the binoculars, Sara estimated three dozen guys reached it before Russ did. She wished he would begin to make his move soon.

He did, finally, although at first it was almost imperceptible. The midway point was marked by a yellow flag near the entrance to the park. The runners were about half a mile from Sara as they went by it, and this time—she was monopolizing the binoculars, but no one seemed to mind—she counted only two dozen guys in front of Russ.

Faster
.

Between the midpoint and the two-mile mark he really began to turn it on. Heading into the last mile, turning back toward the Starting line—and the finish line—he had drawn even with the leaders, a pack of three kids. Sara could actually see their expressions in the binoculars. Each one looked determined to win. But she hesitated to check Russ’s face, afraid she would find him whistling to himself.

Pounding into the far end of the valley that lay beneath the hill upon which she stood, Russ accelerated sharply, drawing away from the others.

“Go!” she yelled.

Ten yards, fifteen yards, twenty yards—his lead grew almost as if by magic. Sara was beside herself with excitement. She forgot about being ASB president, about homecoming, about being cool. She started to cheer like a maniac.

“Russ!”

Coming up the hill, running right past her, he twisted his head around and looked at her. His breathing was labored and his red brow dripped with sweat. He smiled, anyway.

Then he slipped on the wet grass, and went down.

“Get up!” she screamed, leaping forward to help him. He had only fallen to his knees, and because he had been coming up the steep hill, his speed had not been that great. He was all right. He brushed off her hands and was on his way again before his lead disintegrated altogether.

He won by ten yards. Sara had about ten seconds to savor the victory before learning he had been disqualified. The coach told her while Russ was recovering in the chute.

“What?” she cried. “What did he do wrong? This isn’t gymnastics! Since when do they take off points for slipping?”

The coach’s disappointment was obvious. “He wasn’t disqualified for slipping, but for receiving outside help during the course of the race.”

She was aghast. “Outside help? You’re not talking about
me
?”

“I’m afraid so, Sara,” he said sympathetically.

“But I didn’t help him. If anything, I just got in his way. Where’s the race director? We have to talk to him.”

The coach stopped her. “It will do no good.”

“But it wasn’t his fault that I helped him!”

“It doesn’t matter. Because Russ won by such a narrow margin, he might have lost if you hadn’t helped him. Disqualification is therefore automatic.” The coach glanced toward Russ, who had begun to catch his breath. He was shaking the hand of the fellow behind him in the chute. “It’s a real shame,” the coach said. “He ran a brilliant race.”

Sara’s voice cracked. “Does he know?”

“He knows.”

This is not fair. This is not right. This is not happening.

Sara was afraid to go near Russ. The coach was being cool, but Russ’s teammates were looking at her and shaking their heads. Russ would probably want to rip her head off. Had the positions been reversed, she would have wanted blood. She didn’t know what to do. She wished she could simply leave, but they had come in the same car. She decided to go to the car, anyway. Maybe he would think she had left or forget she existed and get another ride.

To where? He’s staying at my house!

She was as furious as she was hurt. Once inside her car, his sweats lying across her lap, she began to pound the steering wheel with her fists. She still couldn’t believe how strict they were. You’d think she’d given him an injection of speed or steroids or something! If they’d covered the course with plastic before it rained, he wouldn’t have slipped in the first place. It was all their fault. She was going to write a nasty letter to somebody. She was the president of the school. She was going to…

“Hey, I need my sweats,” Russ said, standing outside the car door. She jumped in her seat, smacking her head on the ceiling. “It’s cold out here.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, Sara slowly got out of the car and gave him his sweats. She stared at his feet while he put them on. There was mud on the bottom of his shoes, and no doubt it would mess up her car, but she wasn’t going to ask him to scrape it off if he still wanted to ride home with her. She was afraid she was going to start crying.

“Hey, aren’t you going to congratulate me?” he asked.

She glanced up and was surprised to discover he looked very much as he had before the start of the race; a little more tired perhaps, and certainly more sweaty, but far from devastated. “But you lost,” she mumbled. “I got you disqualified.”

He waved away the remark as he had waved away her concerns about the starter. “Everybody knows I won, I just don’t get the trophy. Big deal. This way we don’t have to wait around for the award ceremony. Come on, let’s go to that McDonald’s we ate at when we went out that night. I’m starving.”

“You’re crazy,” she said, her voice incredulous. He frowned.

“What’s wrong with McDonald’s? They use the same hamburger a fancy restaurant does. They just don’t charge you an arm and a leg. You know what your problem is, Sara? You don’t know how to find a bargain. Take that can of Spam you bought—Hey, what are you laughing at?”

“You!” she burst out. “You idiot!”

He scratched his head, his frown deepening. “If I’m such an idiot, how come I know how to save money using coupons?”

Sara had to catch her breath to speak. Although from the outside she appeared in much better spirits than a minute ago, she was still upset. “Russ, that’s not what I’m talking about. Because of me, you’re not the champion. It’s not going to go in the records that you won today. College coaches across the country won’t know you won. It won’t even go down that you placed.”

“So?”

“So you probably won’t get offered a scholarship.”

“Who cares?”

“I care! I care about your future. That you have one. Russ, we’re not going to be in high school for the rest of our lives.”

He didn’t answer right away, but leaned against the car instead, looking out to the sea. The sea gulls were having a great time in the wind, soaring hundreds of feet into the air on powerful updrafts and then diving down at breathtaking speeds to within inches of the choppy water. Russ reached out his arm and hugged her to his side.

“I don’t run to win scholarships,” he said seriously. “I run because it makes me feel alive. School doesn’t do that for me. School isn’t where I belong. Sure, I’ll graduate and everything, but that’s it.”

“But don’t you want to get ahead?”

“I can get ahead without a fancy diploma.” He glanced toward the hill from where she had watched the race. “When I broke away from the pack, I felt something. I felt powerful, like I could do anything.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Remember what you said when we were fighting in the store freezer? That I could be in the Olympics? Well, Sara, I think you were right.”

She chuckled, not sure what to think, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “You idiot,” she repeated quietly. Then she wrinkled her nose. “McDonald’s?”

“I like their food. And then, tonight, I’ll take you to that dance.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not, pal.”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t win.”

Halftime had just begun and Jessica was doing pretty much what she had done the week before at the start of halftime: changing the film in her camera, wondering if all her pictures were out of focus, watching Clair out the corners of her out-of-focus eyes, and listening to Sara complain.

There were, however, a couple of differences. First of all this game was a lot more exciting. It counted in the league standing, and the score was tied. Nick was tearing up the floor: rebounding, blocking shots, slam-dunking the ball. The most amazing thing, though, was he was doing all this with the earnest cooperation of his teammates. The Rock and Nick had been highflying it all night. Amazing.

There were also about four times the number of people present. Tabb’s gymnasium was far larger than Holden High’s, but it was obvious the main reason for the extra numbers was because the dance followed the game. Judging by the clothes of the majority of the crowd, it appeared that practically everyone had come for both events. Like Maria and Clair—and probably Cindy Fosmeyer, wherever she was—Jessica had yet to change into her princess gown. Jessica had had her hair premed and teased, however, and could not believe the abandon with which Clair had led the Cheers throughout the first half. Clair did not appear concerned about looking perfect. Indeed, she had seemed quite happy all night.

“
You may as well know, dearie, I can’t lose.
”

That worried Jessica.

“Then this idiot with a camera stepped in front of Russ and tripped him,” Sara was saying. “Naturally, I grabbed the guy by the arm and pulled him aside. And they called that interference! They disqualified Russ for that! Can you believe it?”

“No,” Jessica said, bending over for a drink from the fountain in the corner of the gym. The two of them were down on the floor. The team had left moments ago for the locker room and most of the crowd was heading for the refreshment stand or a breath of air outside. Her date for the dance, Bill Skater, was sitting with his football buddies a couple of rows above where the cheerleaders had performed. Jessica had been searching for Michael all night but hadn’t seen him.

“What do you mean?” Sara asked, indignant.

“I don’t believe you,” Jessica said, finishing her drink and slipping a lens cap over her camera. “What really happened?”

Sara put a hand on her hip, which she often did when her credibility was being questioned. “I bet you think
I
tripped him?”

“Well, you locked him in a freezer once.”

“You didn’t have to bring that up. That was an accident. And what does it matter how he got disqualified? The fact remains he won the goddamn race and they didn’t give him the goddamn trophy.”

“Does he care?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Jessica asked.

“There isn’t a problem. I’m just making conversation. What a stupid question. The biggest social event of the school year is about to take place and if it bombs it will be totally my fault.”

“What about me? I have a shot at the biggest social title of the year, and if I don’t win I’ll—I’ll go out and get bombed.”

“You’re going to win.”

“How do you know? You don’t know anything.” Jessica glared in the direction of the cheerleaders. “She shouldn’t look so goddamn confident.” Clair was little more than a blond blur to her at this distance.

“Quit swearing,” Sara said.

“Go to hell.”

They stared at each other a moment and then laughed.

“Bitch of a night,” Sara said.

“It’s going to get worse. Hey, I’ve got to check on Maria and her folks.”

Sara nodded. “I’ll catch you in the dressing room after the game. Remember, HB-twenty-two.”

“Good, yeah. Go light the tent on fire.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sara said.

Crossing the basketball court, her photo equipment stuffed in a bag hanging over her shoulder, Jessica again searched the stands for Michael. She thought he probably wouldn’t attend the dance—he had never struck her as the type that went in for big phony get-togethers—but Nick was his friend, he should have come to the game. Maybe if she put on her glasses she’d find him. She didn’t just want to talk to him, she wanted to have a talk with him. All day long, from the instant she had woken up this morning, a frightening conviction had been growing inside her. She felt she absolutely had to get him alone and confess how she had stood him up, and then tell him how she really felt about him. What made this conviction so frightening—besides the usual reason that she would be risking outright rejection, which was nothing to sneeze at—was that she
knew
if she didn’t do it now, she wouldn’t be able to do it later. She didn’t know how or why she felt this way. She certainly didn’t feel lightning was going to strike him or her down. But there was something—something in the air.

What would Alice have wanted?

Alice had known Michael almost a year before her death and had never mentioned him. It still bothered

Did Alice feel Michael was too good for me?

That was nonsense. Alice loved her. And yet, according to Polly, Alice had
worshipped
Michael. Jessica would have given a lot to be able to ask Alice how she really felt.

Bill waved to her as she came up the steps but did not stand or otherwise show any sign that he wanted her to join him amid the herd of jocks. She didn’t mind. Besides wanting to speak to Maria, she needed to check on Polly. Poor Polly was limping around like a deer with its foot caught in a bear trap. She had fallen off a ladder the night before, she said. Jessica wished Polly had a date. She was worried how Polly would feel when Russ and Sara danced together.

Maria’s parents made a handsome couple. Jessica had been particularly taken by Mrs. Gonzales. The woman had Maria’s soft-spoken manner, only to a much greater degree. Jessica wasn’t sure how much English she knew. She also resembled her daughter, but was considerably more beautiful, with finer features and wide red lips.

Jessica took a seat on the bleachers between Maria and Polly, Maria’s parents were sitting to her far right peaking quietly to each other. Jessica hadn’t told her parents what tonight was. She didn’t want them present if she should lose.

But if I win, I might have the guts to tell Dad about the SAT.
“What do your parents think of Nick now?” Jessica whispered in Maria’s ear.

“My dad says he’s unstoppable,” she whispered back.

“Does that mean he likes him?” Maria smiled and nodded. “I think so.”

“What does your mom say?”

“That he’s tall.”

“That sounds positive. Ask him to the dance.”

Maria looked terrified. “We’ll see.”

Jessica turned her attention to Polly, who had brought a sketch pad and a number of pencils. This was sort of odd because Polly drew about as well as your average alligator. The pad had belonged to Alice. As far as Jessica could tell, Polly hadn’t done anything with it all night. At the moment she was staring off into the distance, her eyes dark.

“Are you all right?” Jessica asked.

Polly blinked and slowly looked at Jessica. “I’m tired. I had a bad night. The lightning.” She gestured feebly. “Everything.”

The reference to lightning made Jessica pause and remember the days Polly had spent in the hospital after her parents had died. Those had been dark times, almost as dark as when Alice had died. To this day, Jessica occasionally wondered if the doctors hadn’t compounded the situation by using electroshock to alleviate Polly’s depression.

A lightning bolt across the brain.

Polly wouldn’t remember. They knocked you out—so Jessica had read—before they taped on the wires.

“How’s your aunt?” Jessica asked.

“Dying.”

“Are you sure you’re all right? I could give you a ride home?”

“I’m fine, I have my own car. I don’t want to go home, anyway. I don’t want to use my ankle as an excuse not to dance.”

“What? Surely you’re not going to dance on that foot?”

“I don’t mind the pain.” Polly turned away and added wearily, “It’s better than lying on a floor in the dark.”