“Hey, Beau?” he asked.
I wanted to hurry out of the rain, but Jeremy was barely shuffling forward. I slowed my pace to match his.
“What’s up, Jeremy?”
“I was just wondering if anyone’s asked you to the spring dance yet. You know, it’s girls’ choice.”
“Oh. Um, no.”
“Huh. Do you want… I mean, do you think McKayla will ask you?”
“I hope not,” I said, maybe a little too fast.
He looked up at me, surprised. “Why not?”
“I don’t do dances.”
“Oh.”
We shuffled forward for a minute in silence. He was thoughtful. I was impatient to get out of the drizzle.
“Do you mind if I tell her that?” he asked.
“No. That’s probably a good idea. I don’t want to have to tell anyone no if I don’t have to.”
“Okay.”
“When’s the dance again?”
We were close to the cafeteria now. He pointed to a bright yellow poster advertising the dance. I’d never noticed it before, but it was curling around the edges and a little washed out, like it had been up for a while.
“A week from Saturday,” he said.
I was pretty sure Jeremy had already said something when, the next morning, McKayla was not her usual bubbly self in English. At lunch she sat away from both Jeremy and me, and she didn’t say much to anyone. She stayed quiet as she walked with me to Biology, but she came over like usual to sit on the edge of my lab table. As always, I was too aware of Edythe sitting close enough to touch, but still so far away she might as well have been a product of my imagination.
“So,” McKayla said, looking at the floor instead of at me. “Jeremy said that you don’t do dances.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
She looked at me then, her expression hurt and a little angry. I hadn’t even told her no yet, and I already felt guilty.
“Oh,” she said. “I thought maybe he was making it up.”
“Uh, sorry, no. Why would he make up a story like that?”
She frowned. “I think he wants me to ask him.”
I forced a smile. “You should. Jeremy’s great.”
She shrugged. “I guess.” Then she took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye with a quick, nervous smile. “Would this ‘I don’t dance’ thing change if I was the one asking you to go?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Edythe’s head suddenly tilt in my direction. Like she was listening to my answer, too.
It took me a little too long to respond. I still felt guilty, but mostly distracted. Was Edythe listening?
“Um, sorry, again.”
McKayla’s face fell. “Would it change if someone else asked you?”
Did Edythe see how McKayla’s eyes flickered in her direction?
“No. It’s a moot point anyway. I’m going to be in Seattle that day.” I needed to get out of town—two Saturdays from now was the perfect time to go.
“Does it have to be that weekend?” McKayla asked.
“Yeah. But don’t worry about me. You should take Jeremy. He’s much more fun than I am.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she mumbled, and she turned to walk back to her seat. I watched her shoulders slump forward, and I felt horrible. I closed my eyes and pushed my fingers against my temples, trying to force McKayla’s dejected posture out of my head. Mrs. Banner started talking. I sighed and opened my eyes.
Edythe was staring straight at me, that familiar expression of frustration even more obvious now in her black eyes.
I stared back, surprised, expecting her to look away. She didn’t. Her eyes kept boring into mine, like she was trying to find something really important inside them. I continued to stare also, totally unable to break the connection, even if I wanted to. My hands started to shake.
“Miss Cullen?” the teacher called, looking for the answer to some question I hadn’t heard.
“The Krebs Cycle,” Edythe answered, seeming reluctant as she turned to look at Mrs. Banner.
I put my head down, pretending to stare at my book, as soon as her eyes released me. It bothered me—the rush of emotion pulsing through me, just because she’d happened to look at me for the first time in six weeks. It wasn’t normal. It was actually pretty pathetic, and probably more than that. Unhealthy.
I tried hard not to be aware of her for the rest of the class, or, since that was impossible, at least not to let her know that I was aware of her. When the bell finally rang, I turned away from her to stack up my books, expecting her to rush out as usual.
“Beau?”
Her voice shouldn’t sound so familiar, like I’d been hearing it all my life instead of just an hour here and there a few weeks ago.
I turned slowly toward her, not wanting to feel what I knew I would feel when I looked at her too-perfect face. I’m sure my expression was guarded; hers was unreadable. She didn’t say anything.
“Yes?” I asked.
She just looked at me.
“So… um, are you… or are you not talking to me again?”
“Not,” she said, but her lips curled up into a smile, her dimples flashing.
“Okay…” I looked away—down at my hands, then over toward the chalkboard. It was hard to concentrate when I looked at her, and this conversation wasn’t making much sense.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and there was no joke in her voice now. “I’m being very rude, I know. But it’s better this way, really.”