Pretty Girls Dancing
Kylie Brant
Whitney DeVries
October 30
11:48 p.m.
Whitney reached under her pillow for her buzzing cell phone, read the text on the screen, and smiled.
Are you coming?
A wash of excitement flooded her as she stared at the words. Was she? She’d changed her mind a dozen times since she and Patrick had come up with this plan. Had half expected that in the end, he would change his mind, too. Ride a moped twelve miles just so they could meet up for the first time in person? It had sounded thrilling when they’d started talking about it a couple of weeks ago. But now second thoughts dampened her excitement. Her dad would seriously kill her if she got caught.
The text alert sounded again. This time there was a cartoon pic of a sad-looking donkey sitting in a snowbank. Freezing my ass off here.
Delighted, she muffled a laugh in her pillow. Patrick’s sense of humor was the thing she liked most about him. But it didn’t hurt that he was hotter than any of the boys at her school. He was a sophomore, a year older than her, had blond hair and Liam Hemsworth blue eyes, with a majorly cute dimple when he smiled. She’d seen him only twice before when she’d visited Gram in Blackston. They’d gone to the grocery store, and he’d been stocking shelves. As they’d walked by, Gram had noticed her looking and whispered, “What a hottie.” They’d laughed about that all the way home.
And then a few months later, out of the blue, he’d friended her on Facebook. Her bestie, Macy, had agreed that was clearly a sign. Two weeks later he’d messaged. Have I seen you in Blackston? Maybe at Moulders last summer with your Grandma? Moulders had the best iced chocolate mochas, and Gram could take Whitney there only when her disapproving mom wasn’t around. Whitney had never seen him there, so the thought of Patrick Allen checking her out the way she had him at the grocery store was totally cool. Soon they were exchanging messages or texts every day. He’d told her about his football injury the year before and how depressed he’d been just sitting on the sidelines. She’d confided about the huge fight with her mom and dad over her quitting dance to spend more time on soccer, and then being stuck as third-string goalie. They’d bitched about their strict parents and pesky brothers (Patrick had two). She could talk to him—really talk to him—even though there had been no actual phone calls because Patrick had zero privacy at his house.
But tonight would be different. She could speak to him for the first time, face-to-face the way she hadn’t had the guts to last summer. A surge of courage rose, and she texted back. Be there in a few. Before she could change her mind—again—Whitney slipped out of bed, setting the phone on the nightstand, and arranged the pillows on the center of the bed, covering them with the blankets. Dad had already checked in on her when he’d gotten home after second shift, which meant he’d be asleep by now. Quickly she changed into the clothes she’d set out just in case Patrick showed up. And in case she didn’t chicken out of meeting him. She went to the dresser and dragged a brush through her hair.
She froze when she heard a small sound. Waiting, her breath tangled in her chest. When she heard nothing further, the breath hissed out of her silently. Her mom had been in bed for hours, and once Dad turned in, the only one who might wake up was Ryan. At ten, he still had the occasional nightmare, which was funny since he was a nightmare most of the time.
She put on the fuchsia peacoat she’d draped over her desk chair, grabbed her cell, and tucked it into a pocket before moving toward the window facing the side yard. Because this wasn’t the first time she’d sneaked out, she knew exactly how to slide each of the clips on the screen to unlock them. She rolled the crank to open the window, then eased the screen down and leaned it against the wall. Sending one last glance toward her closed bedroom door, she threw a leg over the casement. Followed it with the other. A moment later, she was jumping nimbly to the ground and heading toward the backyard. It had been too risky to consider taking her bike. Her parents’ bedroom was the closest to the garage, and her dad had superhuman hearing.
A chilly wind sent dry leaves swirling around her, and the sound they made crunching beneath her feet seemed abnormally loud in the surrounding silence. She shivered, buttoning her coat as she walked. The park where she was meeting Patrick was just a few blocks away. She’d spend an hour with him, max, before returning home and climbing back into her room. No one would be the wiser.
She had a sudden image of her dad in the window when she returned, and her step faltered. He was okay most of the time, but he could be completely unreasonable about some things. Curfew was one of them.
An alert sounded again, and she dug in her pocket for her cell. If I get caught, I’ll be grounded for life. Then a picture of a prisoner behind bars. She smiled, her thumbs dancing over the keys in response. You? I’m the one with a cop for a dad. Solitary for me.
The Baxters’ dog sent out a trio of barks as she hurried by the chain-link fence of her neighbors’ yard. She kept a close eye on the windows of the house. But no lights snapped on, which had her breathing easier. Just another couple of blocks now.
There wasn’t any traffic on the street when she crossed it. No surprise there. Nothing happened in Saxon Falls after dark, not that she ever got much of a chance to find out. Her mom and dad believed in Neanderthal parenting, because her curfew was still ten o’clock. She’d once asked if they’d found their rules in a cave somewhere chiseled on stone tablets, but neither had thought that was funny.