In Harmony(47)

“So? You want to?”

“Do I want to what?”

He laughed, perplexed. “Go with me.”

It wasn’t even a question.

“Go to the dance…?”

A dance. Bodies writhing in the dark. Pulsating music. A hand on my hip. A voice in my ear, “Can I get you something to drink?”

I pushed the black memories away. The longing to be normal and have normal experiences was a hunger in my stomach. I wanted to go to a dance. I wanted to go shopping for a pretty dress and feel a tingle of anticipation in my stomach when my date came to the door, with a corsage in a plastic box.

But in my short-lived imagination, Mom opened the door and cooed over how devastating my date looked in a tuxedo. My father shook his hand and welcomed him inside his home. I came down the stairs, and it was Isaac who was waiting for me, and he smiled…

I blinked and came back to Justin’s expectant grin.

“Oh, I’m not really… I’m not looking to be with someone…seriously. Not that you’re asking me to be serious. I mean…”

His smile widened and he leaned deeper against the lockers, as if he were used to girls stammering over their words for him.

“Great,” he said. “We can go as friends, and just…see what happens.”

My stomach clenched at the momentary gleam in his eye, and the ceiling suddenly felt like it was an inch above my head.

“We need to ask Martin…”

“What’s up, guys?” Angie asked, sidling up beside me. She gave Justin a hard look, which he returned with his easy-going smile.

“Not much,” he said. “Just working out Spring Fling details.”

Angie’s eyes flared and her finger moved between us, pointing. “You guys are going to the dance together?”

I opened my mouth to speak.

“Yeah, we are,” Justin said. “We’ll talk more at rehearsal. I gotta go.” He jerked his chin at me in a kind of farewell. “See you tonight.”

“Yeah…see you,” I said.

“See you,” Angie echoed and dragged me outside. “I am so confused. Justin?”

The early-spring afternoon was brassy and cold, bringing me around.

“Well…sure. Why not?” I said, fighting for my equilibrium. “Now there’s nothing for Tessa to blab about. Right? And…when Justin shows up at my house, my dad is going to hump his leg, he’ll be so happy. I won’t have to worry about him pulling me out of the play. Yeah. Perfect cover.”

Angie looked doubtful. “I guess, but for a second there it looked like you got railroaded—”

I stopped walking. “I did not,” I said, too loud. “I get to say. I can go to the dance with whomever I want.”

Except Isaac.

I fought for calm. Isaac flat-out told me he was done with high school. If I wanted my normal, I’d have to go and take it. Just like he said.

“Okay, okay,” Angie said. “But Willow—”

“We’ll just go as friends. All of us. Together. You and Nash, and Joc and Caroline, right? We’ll all go together, okay? Please?”

Angie’s brows came together. “Yeah, sure,” she said slowly. “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want. Yes, of course it is.”

To be normal. That’s what I want. That’s all I’ll ever want.





“Willow, dear,” Martin called from the stage. “Come up here?”

Rehearsal hadn’t started yet. The cast milled in the audience, chatting in low voices. Isaac stood onstage with Martin. As I took the steps to join them, my eyes took in Isaac’s tall body, slender yet packed with lean muscle. He stood with arms crossed over his chest, his long legs in jeans and scuffed black boots. His biceps strained at the sleeves of a white T-shirt.

Why do I notice these things about him? Why can’t I stop looking?

“I was just chatting with Isaac about your outing on Saturday,” Martin said. “Not too torturous, I presume?”

“I survived,” I said and ventured a small smile for Isaac.

He returned a faint, disinterested nod but his gray-green eyes were intense as they looked me up and down. His lips—always pressed together—parted slightly. Then he abruptly tore his gaze from me. “Yeah, it was good,” he said. “Really good.”

“Really good?” Martin said, his eyebrows raised in comical disbelief. “You hear that, folks? On this day in history, Isaac Pearce found something to be really good.”

“Knock it off, Marty.”

Martin winked at me. “I have a good feeling about this.” Louder, he said, “Let’s run your dialogue for Act Three, Scene Two.”

Thanks to afternoons in the library with my script and a Spark Notes translation, the play was no longer blocks of vague poetry. I was familiar now with every Act. The scene Martin wanted to run was a play-within-a-play—Hamlet’s scheme to have a troop of actors reenact his father’s murder. During the performance, Hamlet tortures Ophelia with bawdy jokes and sarcasm.

Two rows of chairs were set, facing stage left and cheated out so they weren’t in profile to the audience. The King and Queen were to sit in the front row. I sat behind, beside an empty chair. Isaac waited offstage for his cue.