UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Being with Peter is easy. Easier than not being with Peter ever was.
Mom and Jordan continue to love him. The Sunday after Hamlet, he went with me to Mom’s show at the Goblet. We held hands by the punch bowl. He introduced himself to Mom’s friends as my boyfriend. Mom beamed at us all night, and when Peter said her work reminded him of Sally Mann’s, she cried.
I met Peter’s mom and stepdad. His mom was polite but shy. His stepdad was a joker, more like a big kid than a dad. They let us go down to the basement where Peter lives without even a warning to behave ourselves. That first day it was raining, and Peter’s room needs a sump pump to keep it from flooding. We lay on his bed and listened to the spatter of the rain, the hiss and gurgle of the pump, and pretended we were kissing underwater.
We spend lots of time together, but not too much. I need time with Mandy and Livia, and if Peter spends too much time with me, Drew gets grouchy. Sometimes we go out as one big group. We’ve even tried hanging out as a foursome with Mandy and Drew. They make fun of each other nonstop, and sometimes that gets ugly, but mostly they’re friends.
In a month, in a year, we might fight, we might lose what we’ve found. An infinity of bad possibilities hang in the balance, waiting to hurt us. But not tonight.
Tonight, we dance.
It’s our one night at Bard, the night of the party, and the music’s already going when we get there. The room is so dark, it’s impossible to make out faces more than a few feet ahead. Lights with pink and purple gels catch people from the side, making them glow but distorting them too. Way off in the distance a band plays on a raised platform, lit by lights that change color and spin. Disco balls send silver haloes dancing around the walls.
I like being able to step into this flood of swirling bodies, not minding if one or two of them brush against me. The music is its own kind of flood, sucking us in at the door, while the dark promises there won’t be consequences for anything that happens in this space. That’s a lie, but a nice one.
“All right, ladies,” Hank says. “Who wants to dance?”
Livia smiles and holds out her hand. He tugs it so she spins into him, her green skirt flaring. When she hits his chest, he dips her with all the brooding swagger of a black-and-white movie star. It’s hard to tell how much is from the lights, and how much is from Hank, but Livia’s cheeks are flushed, her smile silly.
He starts up a swing step and leads her deeper into the churning dancers.
April turns to Drew—Nadia brought her along to reward her assistance—and says, “Don’t let the gay boy show you up. Dance with me.”
“She doesn’t waste any time,” Mandy mutters to me, and I nod.
Drew looks intimidated but willing. April yanks him, and he stumbles, bumping into a couple of kids from another school. “Sorry, so sorry,” he says. “Forced dancing happening here.”
He allows April to drag him after Hank and Livia, shooting one last desperate look at us.
Mandy turns in a sulky circle. “I don’t see any cute, straight boys,” she says.
“Thanks,” says Oscar.
She sticks out her chin. “I will dance with you if you promise that your hands will stay at ten and two.” She indicates her shoulder and her hand.
Oscar bobs his head up and down with great enthusiasm. “Promise.” He takes Mandy’s hand and follows her as she weaves her way through spinning bodies.
“We’ve been abandoned,” I say to Peter. “Should we dance?”
“Not unless you want your toes to get flattened.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“Look who’s brave.” Peter holds out his hand.
We walk past the pocket of light at the entrance and slip into the swimmy darkness, scoop out a space where we can slow dance even though the music’s fast.
The urge to say something tickles my tongue, the same way the energy between us tickles my skin, telling me to pull him close. “I feel so good here with you. I didn’t know I could feel like this,” I say, and we kiss.
“I didn’t either,” Peter says, close to my ear. “You were right. I was afraid, a little bit, of falling for you.” He meets my eyes. “I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. Now it seems silly.” He winds his hand in my hair.
This morning, after the short drive from Birmingham, we did Mandy’s scene on a spindly stage in a rehearsal room. It wasn’t as grand as I’d imagined, performing at Bard, but we transformed that stage into Denmark. The scene was for Mandy, and Drew committed himself to every second. He scared me a little. Peter and I did the scene as directed, no touch, but there was so much fire between us, a fleet of twirlers tossing sparkler batons marched between our lips. The audience gave us a standing ovation.
After that, we did a series of scenes on the Festival stage, including “Get thee to a nunnery,” and that was almost too grand, overwhelming. The heat from a hundred stage lights spilled down on us, blinded us, so we could barely make out the box seats and balcony. Past the light, hundreds of judging eyes waited to swallow us up, but we focused on each other, and we must have done well, because at the banquet they gave out awards, and we won more than once. We all sat at long tables. Peter played with my hand while they called out the names. They called his name twice and Mandy’s and mine at one point, too. Mandy had to get up to take a trophy. Peter stood and brought one back for all of us and a scholarship certificate for himself. I didn’t have to stand up, but Nadia reached across the table when they called my name and squeezed my hand.
In the downtime between our performance and the banquet, Peter and I watched another school do some scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We laughed at the fairies’ costumes, but they were supposed to be funny, so that was okay. Peter played with my fingers while the lovers fought. We kissed a lot there in the dark. We were supposed to be learning by watching other schools perform. I learned that Peter has a scar on the scoop of skin between his finger and his thumb, that his fingers twitch when someone yells onstage, that the skin on the inside of his wrist is as soft and as warm as his lips.
I like touching him there.