Burn (Pure #3)(73)

Iralene lies back too. She rests her head on his chest, nuzzling under his chin.

“Your friends hate me,” he whispers. “Aren’t I supposed to be the good guy?”

She whispers back, “They think you’re spoiled and shallow and cruel.”

“Wow. I’m spoiled and shallow? I could say the same of them.”

“They think you’ve had everything handed to you on a silver platter.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard the complaint.” The academy kids always thought he had it better than they did—Willux’s son. Weed was just accusing him of this, in so many words, too. And then when he escaped the Dome and was on the outside, he looked incredibly spoiled to Pressia and Bradwell and, well, everyone he met.

“And cruel,” she whispers. “You didn’t react to that.”

“I am cruel. They’re right about that,” he says, keeping his voice low.

Iralene lifts her head and gazes at him. “You’re not cruel. They don’t know you like I know you.”

“I’m failing everyone I know, everyone I care about.”

“Even me?”

“Yes, you. I care about you, Iralene. You know that.”

“I haven’t forgotten my promise,” she whispers. “The favor for a favor.”

“You have a plan?” Now he knows why she picked this spot. She’s very well aware of how close it is to the building with the capsules.

“I brought a radio. You’ll have to dance with me to make this work.”

“That’s part of the plan? I have to dance in front of all these people?”

She nods. “You have to dance and pick me up and spin me around. Beckley is going to help. And I have someone on the inside—an expert—waiting.”

Damn. “Dancing? Can we do this any other way?”

She shakes her head and smiles. “Nope. It’s part of the plan.”

She sits up, reaches into the oversized canvas bag, and pulls out a small radio. The crowd whispers among themselves restlessly, as if this is just what they’ve been waiting for. She turns it on and fiddles with the dial. A song comes in clear. It sounds like the dreamy plinking music of the old amusement park he went to as a kid. What was it called? Crazy John-Johns. He remembers the merry-go-round, the roller coaster, the sweet candy swirled airily on a paper stick.

And then there are drums.

He knows what he’s supposed to do. The dancing has to be his idea. He stands up and extends his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her to her feet. They step into the grass. He lifts one hand and puts the other on the small of her back. The song is happy and sad at the same time. The singer wants to be older, wants to live with his girlfriend, wants to be able to say goodnight to her and then sleep with her. The last time Partridge danced was with Lyda. They were in the academy cafeteria, which had been transformed for the dance with star decals pasted on the ceiling. He remembers the way she smelled—like honey—and the feel of the silk of her dress and beneath it, her ribs. That was when they first kissed.

But here’s Iralene. Wouldn’t it be nice, wouldn’t it be nice, wouldn’t it be nice… The singer keeps singing that same phrase. He wants to live in a kind of world that they both belong in. This isn’t it, Partridge thinks, with the crowd swaying around them. This isn’t it at all.

Iralene’s hand fits perfectly in his. She reaches up and touches the back of his hair that brushes the collar of his shirt. She whispers into his ear, “Pick me up and spin me now. Pick me up.”

He lifts her as the singer says he wants to talk about it even though it makes it worse, but still he wants to talk about it. And while spinning Iralene, Partridge thinks of Lyda, which makes it worse, but he can’t stop himself. He feels that longing. He closes his eyes. Iralene is light. He spins her around and around. He looks up at her face, backlit by the fake sunlight, and she’s smiling, yet her eyes are wet with tears. Wouldn’t it be nice… He sees this song for a second the way Iralene must see it—Wouldn’t it be nice if this were true… Wouldn’t it be nice if he really loved her… Wouldn’t it be nice if they could get married and stay together forever… Did she choose the song? Is this what it means to her? The singer wants to get married so that the two of them can be happy. Partridge feels like crying then, spinning and spinning her.

The crowd is clapping now because they know the song is dying down.

If things were different—if he hadn’t already fallen in love with Lyda, maybe he and Iralene could be together. Maybe they could even be happy. Maybe he’d love her the way she wants him to. He even wishes—for a moment—that things could be the way Iralene envisions them; it would be so much simpler. Then he feels guilty for the thought. No, he loves Lyda, and he’s going to be the father of her baby.

The singer tells her good night, tells her to sleep tight, calls her baby.

As Partridge sets Iralene down, the crowd seems to keep spinning around them. And while still holding her waist, she puts her hand to her forehead and says, “Partridge! I’m so…dizzy.” And as her knees give out beneath her, he holds her closer—so close he sees her lids flutter.

The crowd gasps, and Beckley is there, quickly. He says to Partridge, “Pick her up.”

Partridge lifts her to his chest.