Look Both Ways(45)

A new song starts, one of those ubiquitous ones about freedom and summer and falling in love, and Zoe grabs my hand and leans in to say something. Her lips are so close, they brush my ear, but the music is loud enough that I can still barely hear her scream, “Let’s go!”

I look at her like, What? She can’t possibly want to leave already. But then she tips her head up toward the empty cage, and I realize what she means. Part of me is so not ready for this, but a bigger part is thrilled as Zoe leads me up the steps and behind the bars. The crowd cheers as she closes the door behind us and puts her hands on my hips, her front pressed to my back like she’s spooning me. Everyone is watching us, but this doesn’t feel anything like the kiss at the cast party. This doesn’t feel like a game. It’s suddenly very clear to me that after tonight, everything’s going to be different between us.

I have no idea how long we dance in the cage, but by the time we’re done, I’m soaked in sweat, and I’m delirious with exhibitionism and the feel of Zoe’s skin. My legs are trembling a little, and I stumble in my heels and trip down the last two steps, but someone catches my arm and helps me balance. I look up, up, up into Russell’s face.

“Thank you!” I shout, but I’m not sure he can hear me, so I give him a hug instead. I’m so happy to see him; I love everyone right now. Most of the company is dressed in leather and sparkles and booty-shorts and tulle, but Russell’s in his standard T-shirt and jeans, and it’s comforting. It reminds me that this evening is really happening, that it’s not some crazy fever dream.



“You okay?” he hollers when I pull back. I nod hard, and he smiles. “You looked awesome up there.”

It felt like we looked awesome, but it’s nice to hear it confirmed by someone else. “Thanks!” I shout. “You should go next! Is Olivier here? You should make him dance with you.”

“What?” Russell yells, and I shake my head. There’s no way I’m going to make myself heard over this music.

“Do you want—” Russell starts, but Zoe comes up next to me and grabs my hand.

“Water!” she shouts.

I give Russell a little wave. “See you later,” I yell.

There are big coolers of water on the loading dock, and Zoe and I gulp some down before we head back into the fray, grinning at each other like idiots the whole time. We pass Kenji and Todd near the edge of the stage, and they wrap us up in their sweaty arms and kiss our cheeks and grind with us in an exaggerated, hilarious way. Neither of them has really spoken to me all week, but now it’s like they want me to be their new best friend, and I just go with it. Tonight, I don’t care about whys or hows or what will happen tomorrow. Tonight, I belong with them.

I belong at this festival.

I belong with Zoe.





The party doesn’t end until nearly three. When the music finally stops and the loading dock lights flicker on, Zoe’s beside me in a moment, bedraggled and glowing. She slips her arm through mine and says, “Let’s go home,” and even though I’m way too warm, I shiver. Once we get back to the room, absolutely anything could happen. I’m pretty sure I’m ready.

Before anyone can trap us into a conversation, we slip outside and stumble across the lawn toward our dorm, clinging to each other and laughing as our heels sink into the dewy grass. Livvy’s whiskey ran out halfway through the night, and the effects have long worn off, but I’m so tired that I feel tipsy anyway. There are people everywhere, but they all seem flat, like extras who have been hired to provide background noise for Zoe and me. She’s the only one who feels solid and real. I’m hyperaware of the stripe of skin where my arm presses against hers.

Our heels click up the stairs, synchronized without us even trying. As we make our way down the hall to our room, Zoe giggles in the quiet, then claps her hand over her mouth and exaggeratedly shushes me. We’re the first up here, so it’s totally unnecessary, but I laugh and shush her back. It makes me feel like we’re getting away with something delicious and forbidden.

I unlock our door—it takes me a couple of tries—and we push inside, both bumping our shoulders into the doorframe because we’re not willing to separate long enough to go single file. Neither of us bothers to turn on the light, but the streetlamp along the path outside casts a soft glow over the room. Zoe steadies herself on my shoulder as she kicks off her shoes, then lets go of me to stretch her arms over her head. Her silver eye shadow is smeared, like a little kid at the end of trick-or-treating, and I have an unaccountable urge to press my lips to her eyelids. How much am I allowed to touch her, now that we’re not performing for anyone?



She heads toward my bed and flops down onto her back, her hair splayed across my pillow. For a second I think she’s still drunk enough that she’s gone to the wrong side of the room by accident, but then she pats the spot next to her and says, “C’mere.”

There’s barely space for us to lie next to each other, and Zoe doesn’t move over to accommodate me, so I end up on my side, curled toward her like a parenthesis. Our inside arms are pressed together from shoulder to wrist, and my top knee rests against her bare thigh. I close my eyes and try to memorize every place our skin is touching.

“Tonight was amazing,” she says. She turns to look at me, and our noses almost bump. I feel a laugh rising in my chest at our clumsiness and sudden closeness, but she looks serious, so I swallow it back down. “You were amazing. I’ve never seen you let go like that. You’re a great dancer.”