6. The Dance Begins in Earnest
You should go to Morp with me,” he says off-handedly, as if my answer doesn’t really matter. I know better.
We are sitting together at lunch as we have been almost every day since the stardate-incident weekend. We sit alone since I don’t belong with his group and he definitely doesn’t belong with mine. Each of those groups watches us intently, mine with humor and his with confusion.
“Is that your way of asking me?” I try—and fail—to sound hurt by the informal asking.
He glances at me and then quickly shifts his beautiful green eyes away. He’s definitely nervous about my reaction to his asking. While in his eyes we have become something of friends—though odd ones at that—he is still unclear on the boundaries of said friendship.
Morp is the opposite of prom, casual but for couples, most couples coming either dressed the same or with some kind of “theme” to their outfits. I get an idea.
“I’ll go if you dress like me.”
“I’m not wearing a miniskirt,” he teases, finally meeting my eyes, something like relief reflected in his own.
“Party pooper,” I mutter. “How about just a little bit . . . rocker,” I say.
“Okay,” he agrees, leaning forward, grinning. “But then you come a little nerdy, like me.”
“C’mon, Trev. You think you’re nerdy?”
He rolls his eyes at me.
“Tell me you don’t.”
I shrug, then laugh.
“Well, let’s recap, Trev. You get straight A’s, you belong to all of the smart-kid clubs, and you always wear your shirts buttoned completely to the top.” He reaches up and fingers his top button self-consciously. “I’ll bet you know Star Wars inside out too.” He drops his hand and shrugs, a grimace his affirmative answer. “Maybe just a little nerdy,” I laugh.
“Which doesn’t explain why you want to be seen with me.”
“We’re an odd couple,” I agree lightly, treading carefully.
“Are we?” He’s suddenly serious.
“What? Odd?”
“No, you know, the other . . .” He trails off, unsure.
I smile inside, well aware of his confusion regarding me. “Well, if single is one, and triple is three, then couple must be two. And we’re two people sitting here. Even I know that, and you’re the one who’s supposed to be the math whiz here, Trev.”
“Trevor,” he counters automatically, quietly, unaware that he has even said the word. He watches me, seeming to decide whether to push me for a real answer for once, rather than my usual cryptic remarks meant to keep him guessing. He backs off, and I sigh inwardly in relief.
“So, what do you say? Do you want to go?”
“Isn’t it girl’s choice?”
“Is it?” I know he knows it is. He is an SBO (student body officer), and they plan all of these useless activities. He looks at me slyly from under those long lashes, and I know he’s teasing.
“Sure, why not?”
“Jen’s famous last words,” he mutters.
I lean forward and cover his hand with mine, tucking my fingers under his palm. His whole body stills. He looks at our hands, and then slowly his eyes rise to mine.
“Yes, Trevor, I would love to go to Morp with you,” I say, throwing the husky-sexy tone in, now that he’s off balance. I pull my hand away and lean back, biting into my apple, breaking the spell. He gives a little laugh. It sounds kind of like relief.
“Besides,” I say, “if you think people are surprised by us now, imagine what they’ll think if we show up as one another there.”
Trevor smiles at this.
“Could be fun,” he agrees.
“Definitely.”
⊕⊗⊕
This agreement gives my friends no end of amusement. They want photos.
⊕⊗⊕
The dance falls on a Friday, which is totally awesome because it gets me out of stupid family night for once. When Trevor comes to pick me up, I find I’m not really fond of him in black leather pants and jacket, black leather half-gloves, spiked hair, chains dangling from his waist, black lips and eyeliner, though he did a good job and could easily fit in with my friends—excepting his perfect posture and clear eyes, of course. If it isn’t necessarily my goal to get him to dress like this, it is still my goal to get him to turn bad—to be like me.
I’m wearing clothes borrowed from the cheerleader’s closet. She wouldn’t appreciate that I’m using her clothes to look nerdy. I wish she were here to know it instead of back at college. I’m wearing a letterman’s sweater (really, you letter for standing in front of a crowd and acting like an idiot while leading them in cheers?) with a pink-and-yellow plaid tweed skirt, and shoes that look like they time-warped from the fifties. I have my hair twisted into two braids, though even that doesn’t disguise its red and black coloring.
“Wow,” he says, looking at me, though only at my face and not the usual up-and-down body perusal that I get from the boys I normally hang with. “You look really good without all that makeup on.” Then realizing he might be coming across as impolite, he stammers, “I mean, you always look good, every day, but underneath all of that, you’re really beautiful.”
“I hope none of my friends see me,” I say to cover the fact that his comment actually flatters me a little.
Pat and Sue (aka the fosters) are there with their camera. I smile and make nice because I don’t want to offend Trevor—not because of anything noble like good manners, but because I need him malleable tonight.
Beth and Ella are at the dance—with their own cameras. I don’t say anything to them, though I pass in front of them twice before they see me. It takes them a while to figure out which bland girl I am. It entertains Trevor that they don’t recognize me.
Of course, his friends don’t recognize him either, so he plays my game, lying low until someone notices. Beth and Ella have an upper hand in this since they are aware of our trick. They take some future blackmail pics of us before leaving. They have better parties to crash.
It’s mousy Mary Ellen who recognizes Trevor.
“Trevor, is that you?” she asks while we’re sitting on the sidelines drinking ultra-sweet punch, a perfect complement to my costume and a natural for who Trevor is.
“Hi, Mary Ellen.” Do I hear a little longing in his voice, heightened attention in his eyes at her appearance? I scoot a little closer to him, pressing against his arm.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Her distaste is clear. She glances at me, no recognition in her eyes.
“Jen and I switched places,” he tells her.
“Jen?”
Trevor indicates me.
“Jen Jones. You remember her from school, right?”
“Oh.” It’s clear she does not. “Yeah, right. Hi, Jen.”
I slip my arm deliberately under Trevor’s, lacing my fingers with his. She notices; so does he.
“Hey,” my answer is flippant, a slight feline threat in there that she recognizes instinctively. The mice always do.
“Who are you here with?” Trevor is always polite, and only I notice the tremor in his voice. Is he nervous at my touch, or is it something else?
“Brian. He’s getting us some punch.” Brian of Trevor’s sci-fi geek friends, the one whose house we were at for the big Star Trek argument. She waves vaguely behind her, eyes darting nervously between my face, Trevor’s face, and our entwined hands. I keep my catlike smile in place, leaning closer to Trevor. Of all Trevor’s friends, Brian seems the most normal, so I’m not at all surprised that the mouse would choose him as a date. She’s geek-goddess personified, right?
“Have a seat.” Trevor indicates the empty place next to him. The mouse slowly, uncertainly sits, graceful in a way I would never have suspected. I bristle that he is keeping her nearby, recalling his posturing for her on the day I decided to make him my pet project.
“You don’t look so good dressed like that,” she tells him without malice. Honesty an
d forthrightness are apparently inbred in geeks and dorks alike. Trevor looks down at himself and for the first time tonight seems embarrassed by his appearance. It bothers me that he’s ashamed of looking how I normally look.
“It’s just a costume,” he says, shrugging.
“Yeah, but I look good, don’t I?” I interrupt. I’m irritated and let it show. “I mean, tonight anyway, tonight I look good. What’s your costume, Mare?”
“My name is Mary Ellen,” she corrects. “I’m not wearing a costume.”
“Huh.” I manage to infuse the word with derision. Trevor is watching me and something flashes through his eyes that I haven’t seen before—anger.
“Hey, guys.”
Brian finds us and plops down next to the mouse. He’s wearing a T-shirt bearing the movie poster from Starman that matches hers—I’m a little appalled that I know this—and hands her a cup of the punch that is bitter compared to her usual natural sweetness. This is way too much. I can’t take it anymore.
“Let’s dance, Trev,” I command, not exactly nicely. He doesn’t refuse me; his well-mannered upbringing won’t let him.
“Trevor,” he corrects harshly, standing and pulling me up with him, a little more roughly than I expect from him. I follow him to the dance floor; I don’t really have a choice since my hand is still tangled with his. He’s surprisingly strong.
I can feel the tension in his body as he wraps his arms around me. He still holds me at a respectable distance, though maybe not so distant as the first time we danced.
His body is rigid, and he keeps his gaze fixed over my head, not looking at me. He can’t stay quiet for long—it’s not Trevor’s style to remain silent when something bothers him.
“What was that all about?” he demands.
“What?” I try to pretend innocence, but the look he gives me lets me know he sees right through it. “Fine. I mean, come on, Trev—Trevor. She was throwing herself at you. Bad form when you’re with a date.”
Suddenly he pulls me close, tight against him, suggestive, and I feel humiliated that he is giving me exactly what I have been shooting for.
“She was throwing herself at me?” His voice is low, his mouth next to my ear. “Was it Mary Ellen who was suddenly draped all over me, holding my hand, shooting daggers at you with her eyes? What is this game you’re playing with me, Jen?”
A new sensation washes through me, one I am unfamiliar with—shame. I pull back and walk quickly away from him, out the doors into the cool night air. I’ll just call Beth and have her come pick me up; I need a real party right now. I pull out my cell phone and angrily start punching buttons before slamming it shut. I can’t call her when I have tears running down my face.
“Jen.” He’s behind me, close enough that I can feel the tension radiating from him.
“I’m sorry, Trevor. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I sound pathetic to my own ears, and I hate it.
“Jen,” he repeats softer, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Look at me.”
I shake my head. I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t.
He steps in front of me, tipping my face up. I angrily wipe the tears away.
“Jen . . .” This time compassion fills my name, which nearly undoes me, so I tell him part of the truth, breaking the mood.
“I’m sorry I was rude to your friend. But the truth is . . .” I take a deep breath and let it out. “Truth is, I’m jealous of her.”
“Of Mary Ellen?” He looks skeptical.
“Yes. But I swear I won’t admit it if you ask me again, even under threat of torture or death.” I cross my arms sulkily.
Trevor laughs.
“Why?”
“Why am I jealous or why won’t I admit it?” I stall. He just lifts his brows. I really do like his eyes.
“Because I’m not used to having my date’s attention taken from me, especially by someone like her. Because she’s obviously perfect for you, Trevor.” I lift my hand toward the door we just exited. “She’s who you should be with—she knows it and you know it.”
“Someone like her? You mean someone like me.”
I have no answer so I look away.
“I’m here with you.”
An obvious, simple statement that doesn’t really mean anything—so why does my heart lift at the words? Stupid.
“You like her,” I accuse.
“Yeah, I guess I do.” My heart plummets again. “Or I did. Maybe I still do. I don’t know. But I didn’t bring her to the dance. I brought you. It seems I spend all my time with you.”
“Why is that?” I’m genuinely curious but aware that I could be opening a door I don’t want opened. I quickly rephrase. “I mean, why do you want to?”
He looks thoughtful.
“You’re funny,” he finally says. “I laugh a lot when I’m with you. I always have fun when I’m with you. And you try to hide it, but you’re actually pretty sweet.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” I say petulantly, crossing my arms tightly again. He chuckles.
“And you’re really smart.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
“You are. But you try to hide that as well. And you’re pretty.”
“Worse and worse,” I moan. He grins.
“And when I’m with you, I don’t want to be anywhere else or with anyone else.”
My heart leaps, and I groan. Guilt was never supposed to be a part of this. I should quit now, let him off the hook.
“I know I’m not exactly your kind of guy,” he says. “But I like you. I’m not sure why you want to be around me at all, but I don’t even care anymore, as long as I get to keep hanging out with you.”
I moan again and lean forward, butting my head against his surprisingly solid chest. He puts his hands on my shoulders, rubbing his hands lightly over them.
“Why do you have to be so nice?” I moan, entwining my hands in the chains he shouldn’t be wearing.
“I can be meaner if you want.”
“No you can’t. I mean, look at you now. I’m the one being a total jerk, and you come out here to make sure I’m okay.”
I lean back and look up at him, yanking on the chains lightly.
“You wanna come back in and dance some more?” he asks.
“Are you going to make me hang out with her?”
He thinks about it for a minute. I grunt, pulling the chains again, and the dimples appear.
“Okay, no, not tonight.”
“Thank you, my knight in shining armor.”
He fingers the chains. “Well, maybe the shining part of that anyway.”
“You’re a funny guy, Trev . . . I mean, Trevor,” I say as we walk back toward the school, Trevor holding my hand, which he squeezes at my comment.
“I really don’t mind you calling me Trev.” Before I can comment on this unexpected development, he changes into some weird mad scientist voice. “You should know I have talents I have not even begun to show you, my young apprentice.”
“Can’t wait to see those,” I mutter as he laughs. “Just curious, though, Trev. Where did you get the clothes you’re wearing?”
“Uh . . .” He trails off.
“Yeah? I haven’t heard of a store called ‘Uh.’” When he doesn’t say anything, not even giving me a grin, I get suspicious. I stop, forcing him to stop with me.
“All right, Trev, ’fess up. It can’t be that bad, can it? Who did you borrow them from?”
“I didn’t borrow them.”
“Did you steal them or something?” I laugh.
“No . . .” His answer is hesitant. Now I’m really curious. Finally, he mutters, “I rented them.”
I’m stunned. “You can rent clothes?” He glances at me and something in his expression stops me cold. “Trev?”
“Fine. I got them at a costume shop, okay?”
“A costume shop?”
His jaw clenches, and I begin walking again, Trevor following slowly.
“I’m a Hallo
ween costume?”
He’s silent, waiting for my reaction.
“I don’t know whether I should be amused or . . . or insulted!”
“Don’t be insulted,” he says quietly, “because what you’re wearing could also come from a costume shop. Everyone wears some kind of costume, right?”
I grimace at his skewed logic, but he just grins and stops abruptly.
“I have an idea.”
“Is it going to hurt?” I ask hesitantly.
“Maybe.” He shrugs, turning and leading me out into the parking lot, toward his car. This has never been a good sign for me in the past. With the boys I’ve dated, leading me to their car was always a bad thing. It meant either they were sick of me and wanted to take me home, or they just wanted to make out—or more. My stomach clenches, but Trevor merely leans inside, turning his key until the radio comes on. He flips through a couple of stations until he finds a song, then turns back to me.
“There, now we can have our own dance, with no one to bother us or judge us,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me to him. We begin slowly dancing, and my stomach finally realizes he means me no harm and relaxes. I smile at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You surprise me, Trev,” I say, giving his own words back to him. He chuckles and pulls me just a little closer—still proper, but less than his usual formal stance.
Later at home, lying in bed and remembering the way he had held me a little closer during the slow dances after our fight, I realize I did not accomplish the goal I had set for the night: getting Trevor to go to the party with me following the dance. Somehow, I’m not really that upset.
7. Old Birds and Songs
On Monday, I still wear the black makeup, but I am maybe just a little less heavy with the eyeliner, and I don’t line my ruby red lipstick with black. Not a drastic change, and so none of my friends comment, but Trevor notices, I can see by the look in his eyes. He also says nothing.
He doesn’t need to.
The third Saturday of the month rolls around again, and I find myself back at the senior center, this time dressing a little more conservatively so as to not scare the old birds so much. Many of them seem genuinely pleased to see me again—equal only to the number who don’t remember me from the last time through no fault of their own but only as a result of their age. Of course there are still a few who find me distasteful even in my toned-down state, but their numbers are comparatively small to the rest.