16

IT DIDN’T HIT ME until twenty minutes before Jake picked me up that I didn’t know what I was going to wear to the dance.

And even then it only hit me because Mom asked, “What are you going to wear to the dance?”

I was up in my room shooting hoops. “Clothes, Mom. I’m going to wear clothes.”

I took another shot. I’ll wear my suit and tie, I thought—the same one I wore to band concerts last year before I quit playing the trombone.

It was my only formal clothing, so it wasn’t a very tough decision.

“I’m only asking because if I were you I wouldn’t wear your suit and tie,” Mom said.

“And why is that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. Seriously—how did she do that? Was she telepathic or something? I took another shot.

“Well, for one thing, you’ve grown a lot since you last wore them.”

Good point.

“And for another, I’m just not sure it’s that kind of dance. You said it’s in the gym, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. I was starting to get concerned. “What would you suggest?”

“I got these for you on the way home from work.”

It was only then that I looked at Mom and realized she was holding a plastic bag.

“What’s in there?”

“Just a collared shirt and some pants,” she said, walking across the room and setting the bag on the bed. “The girl at the store said they would make you look cool.”

Mom always sounded ridiculous when she used words like cool.

“I didn’t know your size—all you ever do is wear your hooded sweatshirts and warm-up pants—so I got several pairs. Maybe you can try them on and we’ll return whichever ones don’t fit?”

As it turned out, Mom was a lifesaver. When Jake picked me up—he honked his horn instead of knocking on our door—I saw that he was wearing basically the same thing as me: a lined collared shirt (his was red, mine was blue) and khakis.

“Hey, man,” he said after pressing a button to lower the window on the shotgun side of the car. Jake’s car was nothing to write home about—a Buick something or other that must have been at least 10, 15 years old. Still, it was hard not to be jealous. I didn’t turn 16 until the summer, so any hope of having my own wheels was months away. “Hop in the back, would you?” Jake said. “We still have to pick up Kel.”

Kel was Kelly—Jake’s date for the dance.

I opened the back door and found my date sitting there, her hair piled up on her head.

“Hey, Mike,” she said. “I’ll scoot over.”

She had already unbuckled and scooted before I thought to offer to go around to the other side. Her dress was dark blue and sparkly and in two pieces. As she slid across the backseat, her top lifted and revealed a little of her midriff.

I said thanks as I got in, which was the first time I’d talked to her since—well, I don’t remember when the last time I talked to her was.

I never even officially asked her to be my date to the dance.

Somehow that was already taken care of by the time I got to school on Tuesday. John Atkinson came up to me that morning and said, “I hear you’re taking Nik to the dance on Friday. Treat her right, man. She’s like a sister to me.” He said it sternly, then offered his fist for me to pound and said, “I’m just playing, Mike. I’ll see you at the dance.”

Then Jake asked me if I wanted a ride and I said sure, and just like that, my dance-related responsibilities were over.

I pulled my seat belt over my shoulder and tried to think of something else to say.

As the four of us—Jake, Kelly, Nikki and I—walked from the parking lot to the entrance next to the gym, I wished I’d brought my sports coat after all. Or, even better, my winter coat.

Not for me. For Nikki.

It was freezing, and therefore I was freezing, and therefore Nikki must have been in danger of hypothermia. Her dress was strapless, and her shoulders were going white to red before my eyes.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “I mean, you must be pretty cold, huh?”

Captain Obvious to the rescue.

“You’re sweet,” she said. “But I’m fine.”

Or at least I think that’s what she said. Her chin shook too much for her to talk clearly.

The parking lot had patches of ice and snow all over the place. Jake, who was in the lead, did his best to navigate around them as the girls took wobbly steps in their high heels. As we stepped up to the sidewalk, Nikki lost her balance and grabbed my shoulder. The hand felt like ice through my shirt, but it felt kind of good, too, especially after she’d recovered her balance and hooked her arm around mine.

Finally, we made it to the side entrance and walked arm in arm into the building.

Which ended up being the only time I touched Nikki all night.

Honestly, why did she even want to go to the dance with me? Maybe she didn’t—not really. Maybe she just wanted to go with my arm. Maybe that’s why they call it “going to the dance” instead of “spending the night together at the dance.” Maybe she just needed a guy’s shoulder, elbow, wrist, and hand for a few minutes as she entered the gymnasium.

Our arms were still hooked as we walked through the darkened gym together. The basketball hoop had been raised to the ceiling on the far end, and there was a DJ station, and everyone clumped together, shifting to the music. Once we got to the fringes of the clump, Nikki broke away from me and started hugging all the girls and exchanging compliments about each other’s dresses. Evidently, my arm was no longer needed.

For a while, Nikki and some of the other girls danced in the same general area as me and some of the other guys. But it was clear right away that most of us couldn’t keep up.

This wasn’t true with all the guys. Some made-up dance moves as they went—they mimicked sprinklers, lawnmowers, and various other appliances. Others—most of them in the middle of the clump—touched and pressed and grinded against their dates. One guy, Richard Breimhorst, was on the fringes of the clump like me, but unlike me, he continuously twirled two or three girls at once. There was a line of girls forming to get twirled by Richard. (Note to self: when and if I ever go to another dance, I need to learn how to twirl girls.)

Most of the guys’ idea of dancing, though, was to hunch their shoulders and every now and then pick up a foot and set it back down.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging.

I was one of them.

No, that’s an insult to them. I wasn’t even graceful enough to be included in their dance circle.

Because that’s what the “clump” of people turned out to be—bunches of little circles, seven or eight to a circle, divided largely by degrees of confidence and skill.

And everyone seemed to be a part of some circle, except me.

There I was, standing on the outside, alone, hunching and picking up my feet and trying to make my body move naturally to the blaring rhythm of the music.

I swear the floor had better rhythm than I did.

Which was more than a little frustrating. This was the most time I had spent on the basketball court in a year. All my life the court had been the most comfortable place in the world to me, but now it has turned against me.

A slow song started, and for a brief second, there seemed to be hope. All you needed to slow dance was the ability to shuffle your feet.

That, and a date.

After a moment I spotted mine.

Dancing with John Atkinson.

His arms were around her waist. I’m an only child, but the things he was doing with his hands didn’t look very brotherly to me.

At some point, I announced to no one in particular that my knee needed a rest and I walked across the court and out the gym doors.

There was a drinking fountain there. I dipped my head, slurped.

“Hey, Mike.”

I knew the voice, but I didn’t believe it. Had Kirsten Howard decided to come to the dance after all?

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hey.”

If she had, she was a little underdressed. She was in her Rapid River basketball uniform and had a ball trapped against her hip. Her forehead was chalky from dried sweat.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just got back from the game.”

“How’d it go?”

“Okay,” she said.

“What was the score?”

“64-37.”

“Sounds like it went better than okay.”

“We played a lousy first half—then turned it on in the second. We’ve got to play the whole game if we want to go anywhere this year.”

By anywhere, I knew she meant the state tournament. I looked over her shoulder.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Changing into their dresses. Hey, any idea when this dance gets over?”

Now it was her turn to look over my shoulder.

“Think it’ll be a while,” I said.

“Shoot. I was hoping to work a little on my tear dropper.” She set the ball in her hand and looked upward at an invisible rim. A tear drop shot is where you’re in the lane and shoot the ball nice and high before the defender is expecting it. “I got blocked today by their big girl,” Kirsten said, her eyes returning to me. “My family leaves for Florida tomorrow. If I don’t fix the problem now I’ll be thinking about it my whole winter break….”

She trailed off as if what she said explained everything: why she was here, after a win, hoping to practice her game instead of hanging out with friends, or pack, or sleep, or do anything that anybody else does on a Friday night.

I knew about the trip to Florida. She mentioned it yesterday before Dad brought her home—and she didn’t sound happy about it. Mom and I were sitting at the dinner table, and she told Kirsten to have a great time. “Not likely,” Kirsten said. She wished us happy holidays and then Dad drove her home. 

“It’s dark in there,” I said, pointing my thumb at the gym. “But one of the hoops is still down. I’ll stand there and act tall if you want.”

“Are we even allowed in there?” she asked. She brushed by me, opening the door to the dance a little at a time like she was prying it open to trespass on someone else’s property. She looked back at me and smiled. “Only one way to find out.”

I followed her inside.

The two of us spent the rest of the dance at the empty end of the gym. I stood by the basket with my arms straight up as she pushed into me, stepped back, and shot one high arcing shot after another over my outstretched hands.

Maybe dances weren’t so bad after all.