The Pretty One(15)

I look once again at our reflection in the mirror. I wonder if George would sing to me if he saw me looking like this. I’m too excited to worry about my closed-mouth smile. I answer my sister by giving her a toothy smile and a tight squeeze.

Simon shows up right on time, dressed not as Luke Skywalker, but in a very stylish and expensive-looking black tux with black bow tie. Although he’s still wearing his thick black-rimmed glasses, he looks really good. In fact, I’m pretty sure he was wrong about Marybeth. If he asked her to the dance looking like that, he would’ve been pinning a corsage on her chest instead of mine.

Since it’s raining (a cold, steady drizzle that is undoubtedly capable of destroying even the simplest of hairstyles), I’m glad Lucy asked us to ride in the limo with her and Tommy, even if Simon and I had (privately) made fun of them for renting a limo when the school was only six blocks away. Simon signals for me to wait while he pops open his umbrella. Even though I’m taller than him by a good three inches in my bare feet and I’m wearing three-inch heels, he somehow manages to hold the umbrella over the top of my head, minimizing my hair damage. During the ride to the school, Simon bends over backward to be nice to Tommy, engaging him in a discussion over their favorite Shakespeare character even though I know Simon can’t stand Shakespeare (and neither can I, but I would never admit to it). I don’t chomp on my thumb a single time, although at one point I come close but stop when Lucy smiles at me and winks as she takes my hand, like, Isn’t it great our fellows are getting along? Maybe we can have a double wedding!

Two limos are already parked in front of the school, so our driver pulls up in front of the church next door. I adjust the black shawl that I borrowed from my mother and take a deep breath to calm the butterflies doing backflips in my belly. Tommy grabs Lucy’s hand and Simon and I follow them into the school and turn to our left, heading in the opposite direction of the production studio, toward the gym. We enter behind Lucy and Tommy and stop, giving ourselves a moment to digest the scene around us. My sister has arranged for the lights to be dimmed, which pretty much means that the janitor had to unscrew every other fluorescent lightbulb. The sparkly balls that we made spin and reflect the scenic apple orchard backdrops. In spite of everything though, it still looks (and smells) like a gym. A gym with hanging, glittery Styrofoam snowballs and full of dressed-up people.

Almost immediately, a crowd of ravishing drama majors envelops Lucy and Tommy. As everyone comments on how amazing the other looks, Simon and I step away from them, shuffling backward as we slowly but surely make our way toward the perimeter of the gym.

“Are you okay?” Simon asks me quietly. He’s staring straight ahead and he looks like he’s on high alert, as if he had just managed to give a pack of violent criminals the slip and is concerned they might return at any moment to finish us off.

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, taking another step backward, so that my butt is actually touching the wall. I’m scared and excited at the same time. I feel like I’m on the ledge of a building and one wrong step may send me plummeting into either a giant vat of fudge ripple ice cream or boiling oil. “What about you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

We stand side by side for a minute, neither saying a word as we stare at the action around us. The DJ is playing a Beyoncé song and the dance majors have flocked to the dance floor, contorting and spinning around like six-year-olds high on Halloween candy.

Simon and I spend a couple more minutes holding up the wall, watching the dancers. The music turns into a slow song and the couples pretty much fling themselves into each other’s arms. When the song ends, the DJ changes gears once again, lighting up the room with an old disco tune. “Should we dance?” Simon asks. He asks this as if he’s really wishing and praying I’m going to say no. Like: “Should we take a hot poker and stick it in our eyes?”

I look at him and flash him a courageous smile. “We’ve come too far to turn back.”

I drape my shawl over the back of a chair and Simon and I walk to the dance floor and bravely plant ourselves in the middle of the action. And suddenly I realize something: Simon and I have never actually danced with each other before. In fact, the only time I can ever remember touching him was when we were fighting over a box of Famous Amos. “I’m not a very good dancer,” I say, which is putting it mildly.

“You just shake it,” Simon says, wiggling his rear end. “And imitate animals.” He begins flapping his arms and sticking out his neck like a chicken. I laugh, which only seems to encourage him. He jumps up and down as I stand back, laughing and shaking my head, watching him goof around.

Suddenly, the obviously schizoid DJ throws us a curveball, changing the music back to a slow song. The couples meld together, their hips pressed against each other as they sway back and forth. Simon and I both take a step back. Simon looks at me and says, “How about some punch?”

Good thinking. Even the stale, chalky, vanilla-flavored boxed cookies they always serve at school events sound good right now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Drew with his arm around Lindsey’s waist, heading to the dance floor. He’s wearing a black tux and a crisp white shirt. His hair is slicked back, curling up over the sides of his jacket, and his blue eyes look irresistible, almost dangerous. My hands begin to shake as I stand there, unable to take my eyes off him. It’s just like in my fantasy. The crowd parts as he begins to walk toward me. He looks up and…