Dear Diary,
Even a Victorianist like me is not immune to the spell of the Cinderella trope. Is it humanly possible to attend a dance without thinking you might magically turn out to be the belle of the ball?
M.P.M.
that Winter Formal wouldn’t be a ball in the traditional sense. Nevertheless, I’d envisioned a certain level of elegance. If not crystal chandeliers, silk gloves, and a full orchestra, then at least a style of dancing that didn’t involve the use of butt cheeks as hand grips.
As I stepped through the doors of the Millville High gymnasium, I was forced to scale my expectations down, and then down again, at which point I began to appreciate the effort that had been made. The streamers and balloons gave off a metallic sheen that went some way toward disguising the battle-worn state of the gym, and the giant Eiffel Tower projected on the wall was certainly on point, thematically. My classmates had also taken on a surface gloss, sporting hair as stiff and glittering as their new clothes. Eventually I might even get used to the groin-rubbing.
“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Terry whisper-yelled at my side. “There’s your sister.”
She pointed to the dance floor, where Cam and Jeff were bringing a uniquely athletic flair to their spins and turns. Their moves had more in common with boomerang throwing than the minuet.
“Hey,” said Lydia, stepping in front of us. She wore a sleeveless pink dress with a sweetheart neckline and smattering of sparkles across the bodice. “What are you looking at?”
“Mary’s sister,” Terry replied. “Cam.”
Since the twins weren’t at Winter Formal, the clarification seemed unnecessary. I felt a ping of curiosity as the music changed tempo. Lydia’s shoulders twitched in time with the beat.
“Have you guys seen Arden?” she asked.
As I shook my head, it occurred to me how odd that was.
“Let me text her.” Lydia slipped her phone from her beaded clutch. “Probably her dinner ran long.” The ding of a response was immediate. “In the bathroom. She’ll be here in a sec.”
My inclination would have been to seek out a dark corner from which to wait and watch, until I remembered that Lydia was here with a date.
“Pittaya’s helping with the sound system,” she said, correctly interpreting my covert surveying of the crowd.
At last Arden appeared, dressed in the red gown she’d tried on at the mall. Her movements lacked their usual bounce, but I attributed that to the stiletto heels. A bold choice considering the height differential with her date.
Lydia peered over Arden’s shoulder as they hugged. “Where’s Miles?”
Arden’s response was swallowed by the music. Was it my imagination, or had she flinched before answering?
“Huh?” said Lydia.
“He’s not coming,” Arden replied. I edged closer, thinking I must have misheard.
“He bailed on Winter Formal?” Lydia’s hands balled into fists on her sequined hips.
Arden shook her head. “He bailed on me.”
The three of us stared at her in shock until Lydia managed a hoarse, “What?”
“It’s fine.” Above her lock-jawed smile, Arden’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I’m over it.”
“Over—what are you saying?” Lydia sputtered. “Did you and Miles break up?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, but yes.”
“Was it that girl?” Lydia demanded.
“No.” Arden looked at the floor. “That wasn’t the problem.”
“What was it?” Terry asked.
Arden shrugged. “Me, apparently.”
“That prissy little jerkwad,” Lydia started to say, grinding each word between her teeth.
“I literally cannot do this right now,” Arden said, holding up a hand. “I want tonight to be fun, and that means no crying.”
Lydia pressed her lips together in an angry line, nostrils flaring. I suspected she was counting in her head. “Can you at least tell us what happened?” she said in a more measured tone.
“Fine.” Arden bowed her head. “I’ll give you the short version. You know at Mary’s birthday, how everyone was so brave, laying all their feelings on the line?”
I gave a reluctant nod, not sure I would have characterized the evening in quite that manner.
“It made me realize it was time to talk to Miles about some things, so I decided to do what Mary said, and last weekend I drove to the conference center where he was having his tournament.”
“I said that?” I pressed a hand to my chest.
“Like the lady in the book,” Arden reminded me. “The one who goes to surprise her husband, but then he thinks she’s someone else?”
My stomach landed in my shoes. The last thing I’d intended was for Arden to use The Tenant of Wildfell Hall as a blueprint for her own life. Even by Brontë standards, that plot was over the top.
“And?” Lydia prompted. “Did he know it was you?”
“Yeah. Only he wasn’t very excited to see me—especially after I let it slip why I was there. He wasn’t happy about me not trusting him. Or the part where I was trying to trick him.”
“What happened then?” Terry asked.
“He had to go to his next session.” Arden bit her lip. “I felt bad because he was obviously upset, and he didn’t exactly get to look over his note cards.”
“Boo-freaking-hoo,” Lydia cut in.
“Miles said he’d call me later,” Arden offered. I couldn’t tell whether she meant it as a defense of his behavior or was simply relating the next step in the story. “So I went home and tried not to completely fall apart.”
“Why didn’t you text me?” asked Lydia. “I would have come over!”
“Because I was hoping everything would be okay. I figured I could tell you when there was a happy ending.” Arden blinked hard. Caught up in the blow-by-blow, I’d forgotten we already knew how this story finished.
“Did he call?” Lydia pressed.
“Yeah. The next day. That’s when he said it was too much, and he couldn’t keep me happy and fulfill his other quote-unquote obligations, so maybe we should take some time apart.”
“But that’s not the same as breaking up,” Lydia said eagerly. “It’s temporary.”
Arden pressed her palm to her stomach, inhaling in a series of staccato breaths, each one accompanied by a tiny squeak.
“Are you hyperventilating?” Terry asked.
She shook her head, lips fluttering as she released a long exhale. “Lamaze breathing.”
A nearby chaperone jerked her head in our direction. Oblivious, Arden continued her respiratory exercises. Lydia gently steered her toward a deserted corner.
“What are you doing?” Arden gasped between breaths.
“Going where none of the teachers will assume you’re in the middle of a Lifetime movie.” Satisfied we were out of earshot of any adults, Lydia crossed her arms. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“I lasted almost three days, and then I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I called him back and told him to go ahead and do it if he was going to break up with me.” Arden paused. “That was . . . a pretty long call. I was a tad emotional.”
“Because you’re not an android,” Lydia said at once.
“Tell that to Miles,” Arden sniffed. “He said he couldn’t handle the drama.” She shrugged. “That was that.”
Terry’s mouth moved as she counted under her breath. “So you broke up with him on Wednesday?”
Arden lowered her chin in a shaky nod. “I thought he might change his mind. But he hasn’t.”
There was a beat of silence before Lydia grabbed her by the arm. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll put on pajamas and eat junk food and you can scream and jump up and down, because I freaking love your drama—”
“No!” Arden pulled away. “You don’t understand. This”—she gestured at the crowded gym—“is the only thing keeping me going. What does it say on my list? The Big Dance. Not Breakups and Ugly Crying!” Her hands twisted. “I can’t lose Winter Formal on top of everything else.”
The four of us stood there in fraught silence until Terry said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I don’t want to end up like that freaky lady Mary told us about who got dumped at the altar and spent the rest of her life staring at a rotten wedding cake.”
“Miss Havisham,” I supplied.
“If that’s what you want.” Lydia’s voice was heavy with reluctance.
“It’s not like I’m completely alone, right? I still have you guys.” Arden lifted her chin. “But I’m not going to get sappy right now, because this is a party.” Squaring her shoulders, she beckoned to a guy in combat boots and mad scientist glasses. “Hey, Michael. Do you want to dance?”
“Totally.” He held out a hand to Arden, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd.
“Wow,” said Terry.
“She’s got skills,” Lydia agreed. Catching sight of Pittaya threading his way toward us through the throngs of people, she started in that direction. “See you on the dance floor,” she tossed over her shoulder in parting.
Terry and I exchanged sheepish smiles. So this was how it felt to be a wallflower, another circumstance I’d read about but never experienced for myself.
“Do you want to sit down?” I indicated the scattering of small round tables and folding chairs, which were meant to approximate a Parisian bistro (the paper napkins had pictures of croissants).
Terry turned to follow me, coming to an abrupt halt when a boy I vaguely recognized from my English class stepped in front of her with a hopeful smile. Terry sent a questioning look my way; I shrugged helplessly. If there was a graceful way to decline such an invitation, I had no idea what it was.
As my last companion joined the swaying mob, I set off in search of a less obtrusive place to be alone. Skirting the edge of the dance floor, I passed a line of bored-looking teacher chaperones. At the other end of the gym there was a long table draped in blue plastic, topped with a smattering of glittery snowflakes and a mostly empty punch bowl. I picked up a paper cup, wincing as the sugary flavor hit my tongue. The tragic fate of Arden and Miles was still sending shock waves through my system, and this wasn’t going to do my already unsettled stomach any favors.
“Is it that vinegar stuff?” asked a familiar voice.
I spun to face Alex Ritter. “What?”
He nodded at the cup in my hand. “You’re giving it a really nasty look.”
“It’s not about the punch. Though it is pretty gross.” I tossed the half-full cup into the nearest garbage can.
“So how did it work out?” He waggled his fingers at me. “Your scheme?”
“Not so great. I mean, your advice was fine, but there were unforeseen complications.” To put it mildly.
“You’re here alone?” It was hard to pinpoint his tone. Not surprised, but not entirely blasé either.
“Sort of, but not really.” I frowned as a new thought crossed my mind. “Who did you come with?”
“Apparently I should have asked Phoebe, since the two of us are so close.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Of course they’d told him; the whole cast and crew of Othello was probably laughing at my expense, not to mention their friends and extended family. After an agonizing few seconds, I managed to look him in the eye. Or rather, the chin. “I felt bad for you. I thought you’d been cuckolded.”
“That sounds painful.”
I opened my mouth.
“I know what it means, Merrily. And I appreciate your concern.”
“It’s all so confusing,” I said heavily.
“My family tree?”
“People. Relationships.” As so often happened in his company, my words leaped ahead of my brain. “Why do couples break up?”
“In my vast experience, you mean?” He shrugged. “Lots of reasons. A person changes. Or loses interest. Or meets someone else.”
“But doesn’t that mean they should never have been together in the first place, and the whole thing was a mistake?”
He regarded me thoughtfully, head tipped to one side. “You know, my mother is a real estate agent.”
“Okay.”
“She says the only way you learn what you really want in a house is by living in a few that miss the mark—no en suite master bath, or a detached garage. That’s how you know what to look for the next time around.”
I blinked at him. “That’s your metaphor for love? Buying and selling houses?”
Alex shrugged. “It’s more realistic than thinking the first person you date is going to be your soulmate.”
However reasonable on its face, this sounded suspiciously like a justification for playing the field. Not to mention the high probability of personal unhappiness. “I think it would be less painful if everyone waited until they were really, really settled in life, like maybe in their thirties, to get into a serious relationship. Just to minimize the odds of heartbreak.”
“But you’d miss out on so much.” He fixed me with one of his patented stares: half smolder, half amusement.
“Like what?”
“Meeting new people. Hearing their hot takes on relationships. Dancing.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Shall we?”
I frowned. “Are you being serious right now?”
“I never joke about dancing.”
I cast a desperate look at the maelstrom of bodies. If I said no, he’d think I was a coward. But if I said yes . . . I had no idea what would happen. If only my friends were here to advise me.
My friends! What if they looked over and saw me swaying in Alex Ritter’s arms?
“I can’t.” The words were aimed at my feet. When I risked a glance at Alex, he lowered his chin as if reaching a decision.
“Come on.” Taking my hand, he led me through the crowd, carving a winding path toward the far end of the gym.
When we reached the exit, I hesitated. “Where are we going?”
He gave me one of his rakish grins. “There’s only one way to find out, Merrily.”
I didn’t let myself think about the fact that he’d probably used that same smile on dozens of girls before me, or that I’d read far too many cautionary tales to be taken in by such an obvious lure. Alex leaned against the door, and I followed him into the darkened hall.