I’m not really in the mood for going to the dance now, but Kylee and I go anyway.
The dance has a theme: Beach Party. The wearing of tropical-inspired outfits has been encouraged, but Kylee and I are both just wearing short black dresses (but not the kind of short black dresses that would make our dads send us back upstairs to change). When Kylee and I show our IDs and get our hands stamped at the gym door, I can see that only half a dozen boys are wearing Hawaiian shirts and the rest are in ordinary T-shirts and jeans. The only evidence I can see of the dance theme in the girls’ attire is that a few girls have flowers in their hair. One of them (the one with the longest, thickest, most flower-worthy hair) is Olivia, of course. The rumor that Ryan Metcalf asked her to the dance turns out to be true.
To further the beach theme, surfboards are propped up against the gym walls next to travel agency posters advertising vacations in Aruba and Tahiti. Beach towels are spread out over part of the floor, with a few seashells scattered here and there.
Even as I take in the decorations and the outfits, the things I really care about are (1) whether Cameron is there and (2) whether Paradox is playing without their drummer.
The answer to the first question is: I don’t see him. But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s fairly dark in the gym, and there are a lot of seventh and eighth graders crowded around the still completely empty dance floor.
The answer to the second question is: Some band is playing right now and it’s definitely Paradox. I would recognize David Miller’s throaty voice anywhere. I don’t hear a drum.
It’s hard to be heard over the sound of the music, but Kylee follows me when I lead the way to the corner of the gym near where the band has set up.
I see David, lead guitar and vocals; Timber, backup guitar and vocals; Moonbeam on bass; and an empty spot where Hunter’s drums should be. Paradox must not have found a sub on such short notice. Or—the thought occurs to me—maybe Hunter didn’t tell them he was grounded? Maybe, up until the last possible minute, he thought Dad might relent and let him play? I think Mom thought that might happen, too.
Despite all those hateful things I told Hunter two hours ago, I suddenly feel so terrible for my brother I can hardly stand it. It’s too awful for him to finally have a real paid gig at a real dance—with at least a hundred people there—and not be able to sit on his drummer’s throne, in his glory. If he didn’t tell the rest of the band, if he just didn’t show, maybe they’ll kick him out, and he won’t even be a band member anymore. After weeks of nonstop rejection, I know better than anyone how it feels when a dream dies. I couldn’t wish that on anyone, not even on Hunter.
Kylee and I find Brianna by the refreshment table with a couple of other girls we know. It already looks as if this dance may repeat the sixth-grade dance, with Kylee and me huddled by the refreshment table all night, despite my promises to her that it would be different this time.
The food looks great, though. Some of the middle school supermoms went all out on killer snacks. There’s a huge fruit display spilling from hollowed-out pineapples, punch with kiwi slices floating on top, a mountain of cheese cubes surrounded by a sea of crackers (the cheese made tropical by a few little paper umbrellas stuck here and there for effect), and a coconut-frosted cake.
“Nobody’s dancing,” I mouth to Brianna.
“It’s too early,” Brianna mouths back.
Maybe this means there is still time for Cameron to appear. But a quarter of an hour later, I still don’t see him. I’ve eaten two pieces of cake, downed three paper cups of punch, and added a paper umbrella to my hair. No one has asked either Kylee or me to dance, though Brianna is now chatting with a boy from our multicultural history class named Todd, and Jack from science class, who has glasses as big as Isabelle’s, is looking her way. Except for the lack of a popcorn-throwing, punch-tossing melee, this definitely feels like the sixth-grade dance all over again.
Mr. Cupertino, my science teacher, who is also the student council adviser, comes over to the microphone set up near the band. He’s decked out in a loud-patterned red, orange, and blue Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops, with a flower lei hung around his neck. I’ve noticed that middle school teachers take school spirit stuff more seriously than the students do. He gives a signal to the band to stop playing.
“Good evening, Southern Peaks seventh and eighth graders!” he booms into the mike. “Who’s ready for a beach party?”
The question suggests he realizes that the beach party proper has yet to begin.
The crowd gives a good-natured whoop in reply, mainly to humor him. Mr. Cupertino is a good teacher, fair and encouraging, and he did make a special effort to dress up as a beach-party host. I forgot to say that he also covered his nose with that thick white sunblock paste lifeguards wear. The applause of the dance attendees, I think, is chiefly for Mr. Cupertino’s nose.
“The band is going to take a short break to rearrange a few things. Before they do, let’s give a big hand for Paradox!”
The applause is louder this time. A lot of kids think it’s cool to have a real band instead of a DJ. It makes it seem more like a real dance. Of course, at a real dance you’d expect more people to be dancing. And you’d expect a real band to have a drummer.
“And, beach partiers,” Mr. Cupertino continues, “when the band returns, let’s show them how fast we can fill up a dance floor, shall we?” He must be reading my mind. “To get the beach ball rolling, I’m going to announce boys-ask-girls dances and girls-ask-boys ones, at least for the next few numbers. So go grab some cake and punch”—he’s clearly not talking to me and Kylee, who so far have done nothing tonight but grab cake and punch—“and get ready to warm up those dancing feet!”
With the band on break, we can actually talk.
“Do you see Cameron anywhere?” I ask Kylee.
“No,” she says. “Do you see Henry Dubin?”
“No,” I say.
Cameron is too cool to come. Henry isn’t cool enough. Kylee and I are smack-dab in the middle zone of coolness, which right now is an awkward place to be.
“What’s happening with the band?” Kylee asks.
I whirl around toward Paradox to see what she’s talking about, when who should I see coming through the gym door that leads out to the parking lot but Cameron.
He’s carrying a large drum in a drum case.
Behind him, carrying two smaller drums, is Hunter.