Last Dance by Caroline B. Cooney
She could not cry; she could not be a slippery, slimy, broken mess that Mike would despise.
If I’m not going to think about Mike, what am I going to think about? Kip asked herself. She stared around the room for help and noticed the questionnaire for the VCR prize which she gripped in her left hand. The hand that wanted to be holding Mike’s.
Kip was immediately aware that the distribution of these questionnaires was not well organized. They were going to run into snags. Frowning slightly, she said, “Now if they would just—”
Mike stopped her instantly. “Kip, it’s their problem,” he said. “Give it a rest, okay?”
Kip quivered inside. Mike’s voice was sharp, irritated. And it was also embarrassed, as if he had known Kip would do something like this and wished she would behave better.
There’s really only one thing I’m terrific at, Kip thought. Organizing. I can juggle twenty balls and never drop one. I’m not glamorous, or a great singer, or a brilliant student, or even anybody’s very best friend. I’m just good at being in charge.
For the first time, Kip understood that what Mike did not want in a girlfriend was the one thing she was good at.
The air-conditioning in the ballroom was very strong. She was chilled, and being chilled depressed her.
“Some of these questions are really fascinating,” Mike said in surprise. “I have absolutely no idea who any of them could be. Listen, Kip. Who was born in Beverly Hills? Who is sixteen and has moved twenty-eight times? Who at this dance has shaken hands with the President of the United States?”
Kip stared blindly at the questions. She could not even read them. Five minutes into the Last Dance, and she was teary and tense. Oh, Mike, Mike, why don’t you love me like you did? Even as she thought this, she knew it was just an old song. How diminishing to have the very same problem as people in songs. Kip wanted to be so special they would need a new song just for her unusual situation.
“Who is the only person at the dance who doesn’t like chocolate?” Mike read on. “Who at this dance has a pet peacock?”
A pet peacock? Kip thought. How bizarre. Who does? She said, “Mike, I’m freezing. Let’s go out on the verandah. We’ll be able to watch everybody driving up, and I’ll stay warm.”
“Oh, you just want to supervise the arrivals,” Mike said rudely. He went back to the quiz and didn’t take a step toward the doors. “Who was born on an ocean liner?” Mike read. He had a smile stuck on his face, as if he’d left the smile there by accident and would come back for it.
But it was Kip herself who had been born on the ocean liner. It made quite a story, and it was one her mother loved to tell, and her father hated remembering. In all the dozens of stories she and Mike had shared, that one somehow had never come up. She and Mike talked so much about the present, about their own lives and their own thoughts, that they had never considered going back sixteen years to their births.
He’ll question every person at the dance to find out, Kip realized, but he won’t think of asking me: he’s bored by me. He figures he knows all there is to know about Kip Elliott.
Kip watched the band set up. She didn’t want a band; she wanted a DJ. Half the time the band couldn’t play the pieces you wanted, or they played some dumb arrangement of their own that just made you tense, because you wanted it to be like the recording.
“Oh, what’s the point, Mike?” she said tiredly. “We already have a VCR. I don’t even want to win.”
“I do,” Mike said. “Get organized and win and give me the VCR, okay?” He grinned at her and walked away.
Walked away!
Kip stared at her departing boyfriend. He had had another growth spurt. His pants were slightly too short and his shirt stretched too taut over his shoulders. Another time she would have loved thinking about how tall and muscular he was these days, but tonight she was just furious because his clothes didn’t fit, and he was turning his back on her.
I’d rather get organized and give you a long walk off a short dock, Kip thought.
He was her first boyfriend, and what Kip could not get over was the idea that he had gotten over it.
What on earth had happened to those crazily joyous first weeks? When he spent the whole day after school at her house? And had dinner with them? Did homework with her and practically had to be chased out with a broom by Kip’s mother? And then the instant he got home had to telephone to tell her all the things he had thought about during the drive back?
“Come on,” Mike said irritably. “You said you wanted to go outside, so let’s go.”
Kip walked after him, and he held the glass door for her, and they walked into the hot night. Mountain breezes made it pleasant, and there was no view to compare with this one. Mike appeared to be enjoying the scenery. Kip could remember a time when she was the only scenery Mike wanted to gaze upon.
Where had he gone—that Mike who loved her?
Did he miss the love himself?
Did he even remember it?
Kip remembered every minute, as if she had a tactile diary that recorded each kiss and touch and caress.
She made one final try. Stepping up close to him, touching his shoulder, using her flirty voice, she said, “Actually, Michael, the dancer who did one of those things on the questionnaire is none other than that sexy exciting woman—tah-dah!—Kip Elliott!”
And Mike, her Mike, who once thought she was the most fascinating human being on the face of his earth, said, “Aw come on, Kip, you’ve never done anything interesting.”
Matt’s family specialty was not spicy food, nor downhill skiing, nor Trivial Pursuit. It was advice.
“All right,” his mother said instantly. “All right, you must drive straight down there. Go directly to Emily’s house, and tell her we want her to live with us.”
“Absolutely not!” Matt’s father shouted. He was six feet tall, and Mrs. O’Connor was five eleven, but she rose higher than her husband because she was wearing heels and had puffy hair. “Don’t listen to your mother, Matthew. We will not interfere with the Edmundson situation. That was her mother you spoke to, and we can’t run around making things worse. Emily has to stay with her own family, that’s what families are for.”
Matt, as usual in his family, now had two absolutely opposite views of what to do. To interfere, or not to interfere, that is the question, Matt thought. He knew Emily would want him to interfere, but—
“Impossible!” Matt’s grandfather shouted. He was the tallest of them, at six four, and his voice got louder with every passing year. “Her own family just broke up. The girl needs you, Matthew, what are you hanging around for?”
Matthew, at five ten, was the family shrimp. He had to look up to all of them, which annoyed him. With all those great tall genes, how come he wasn’t six six?
“Change your clothes, Matthew,” his mother said. “That tuxedo is too dressy. Obviously you’re not going to the dance. First drive to their house, and get the address of Mrs. Edmundson’s new apartment from Emily’s father, and then drive to Lynnwood and collect Emily.”
Matthew was not wearing a tuxedo, just a summer jacket, but it didn’t seem like the right moment to give his mother a lesson in men’s fashions.
“Absolutely not the way to do it!” Matt’s father shouted. “Matt will stay right here and wait for Emily to telephone him.”
Matt stuck an arm between them all and fished around on the kitchen counter for the first available set of car keys.
“I don’t believe in waiting,” Matt’s grandfather said, leaning down to yell in Matt’s ear. “Nothing comes to him who waits except more time to wait in. Patience is not a virtue. Hit the road, Matthew.”
Matt thought this would be an excellent time to get extra gas money from his grandfather, but he was wrong. One word about wanting cash and the entire focus of the O’Connor shouting changed. “Why haven’t you saved more?” his grandfather demanded sternly. “What’s the matter with you anyway, don’t you have any backbone?”
“Yes,” Matt said, “I just don’t have any money.”
“I think it’s a disgrace that when your girlfriend needs you, all you can think about is money,” his mother said, looking shocked.
“Mom, I’m going to get her right now, okay, it’s just that a full tank of gas is a safer way to look for somebody.”
His father said, “All right, Matthew. Here’s a ten. Now you phone us as soon as you find out anything, do not invite Emily to stay here, encourage her to make peace with her parents, and stay out of the whole thing.”
“How can he stay out of it when he’s going down to interfere?” Matt’s mother asked. “You’re spoiling him, always handing him money.”
Matt said, “Anyway, her parents aren’t nice. That’s all there is to it. You guys are very sheltered here. You think other people are nice. Well, some of them aren’t, and Mr. and Mrs. Edmundson are two of the least nice people I know.”
“Nonsense,” his grandfather said. “How could a fine girl like that come from two rotten people? Of course her parents are fine people. Just going through a rough moment, that’s all.”
Matt curled the ten in his hand, backed away from his clamoring family, and said, “No, they’re crummy people. All Emily’s moments with them are rough.”
Anne gazed out the car window.
Mount Snow was green now in the middle of June: green in that thick shimmering emerald color, before the heat of summer has sunburned the leaves. The trees met in the middle of the road above Con’s car, and they whipped through a tunnel of branches and leaves. Rushing River ran fast, tumbling over rocks and through ravines, and Con drove close to the edge of the road, while Anne stared down into the rocks and looked for deer.
The sun was lowering in the sky. Purple and gold and rose-red layers of clouds drifted and shifted. The mountain leaped up out of the hills and towered above them, blocking the sun completely, so that the road was suddenly dark and cold, and Anne shivered.
Con said, “You feel okay?”
“I’m fine. Just shivered because the sun went behind the mountain.”
Con drove a little faster. She had a sense that Con was driving away from something instead of toward the dance.
They pulled in the gate at Rushing River Inn. Split rail fences edged the lane like dark brown embroidery, and blue iris bloomed in clumps. Rushing River Inn was a vast white clapboard resort with towers, circular glass porches, and roses climbing the walls. Con drove around back where the parking lots were hidden by rows of thick hemlock hedges. The flower gardens for which the Inn was famous were in splendid bloom, and Anne gasped and smiled when she saw them. The rear of the Inn had been modernized, with glass walls replacing the old wrap-around porches. There was a breathtaking view of Mount Snow. From the outside the glass reflected the mountain many times and the viewer seemed to be encircled with its majesty.
It was hot, and Con glanced at the immense outdoor swimming pool that lay below the terraces. Off bounds for the dance. Con was sorry. He would much rather go swimming than dancing.
He took Anne’s arm and thought things were going rather well.
Then Molly got out of the car opposite his.
Anne knew instantly that it was Molly Con had been seeing while she was off having his baby. She knew by the smirk on Molly’s face and the involuntary tightening of his grip on her arm; she knew because she could actually feel his pulse race, and see him lick his lips.
I still care, she thought.
And instead of wanting to weep because of it, she wanted to shout with joy.
I care! I care! she wanted to yell. I didn’t die inside! I didn’t curl up and go away! I’m still here, and I still care, and I can still love!
Con pretended not to have seen Molly.
Molly, wearing a remarkably short, aggressively purple dress, simply stood there watching the couple. Con was stiff as a board, turning neither to his left nor his right, but trying to move blindly ahead to a safety zone in the Inn.
Anne stopped walking. “Why, hello, Molly,” she said graciously. “I haven’t seen you in months. How are you?” She had never seen a more horrible dress. The fabric was cheap and clingy, and the color was not Molly’s. Actually, it probably wasn’t anybody’s color, but definitely not Molly’s. And anyone wider than a pencil would look heavy in it.
Oooh, goodie, thought Anne gleefully. I can still be catty and everything! And here I thought I was going to be a shriveled-up, depressed old hag for ever and ever.
Con examined the motionless ski lift hanging over the grassy green cut on the mountainside.
Molly said, “Oh, I’m fine, Anne. But how are you?”
If he actually loves Molly, Anne Stephens thought, he has no taste, and I despise him. Anne made an instant, and possibly very stupid, decision. “I’m excellent, thank you. That’s a very interesting dress you have on, Molly. Where did you manage to find it?” Anne began walking again, and Con fell in step with her.
He was looking at her with a mixture of nervousness and breathlessness that could only mean one thing: he was ready to confess his sins to her.
Happiness left as quickly as it had come. No, Con. No, no, no, no, no, don’t tell me anything! Let’s pretend Molly is just some dumb girl in a dumber dress. Don’t tell me you went out with her, and definitely don’t tell me you did anything more than that.
Anne said, “Oooh, look, there’s Kip and Mike! And there’s Beth Rose just getting here with Gary! Oh, I just can’t wait to see everybody again. Con, you were absolutely right, absolutely, this was the right thing, we’re going to have a great evening.”
Con blinked.
Gary yelled, “Hey, Winters!”
Con saluted him.
Anne said, “Doesn’t Beth Rose look lovely?”
Con rarely noticed Beth Rose, and he found her hard to notice now. He wanted to stand up on Mount Snow and try to figure this all out from a mile away. Where it was safe. Anne dragged him to the door where she hugged Beth Rose, who hugged her back. Con wanted to look over his shoulder and see if Molly was walking right behind them. But then if she was, it was really the last thing he wanted to know anyway, so he stared straight ahead and tried to think of something complimentary to say to Beth Rose.
Gary, who hadn’t seen Anne since she left town to live with Beth Rose’s Aunt Madge, surprised them all by giving Anne a hug and a kiss and a grin. “Anne,” he said, “you look radiant enough to light candles.”
“She what?” repeated Con. “What did you say?”
“That was on the cover of some four-inch-thick paperback romance Beth Rose was reading. I memorized it for a suitable occasion. It was pretty good, wasn’t it? Did you like it, Anne? Want to hear it again?”
They all laughed. Con laughed extra loud, to drown out Molly’s distinctive footsteps which he could now identify.
“The point is,” said Beth Rose, “you’re supposed to say it to me.”
“Oh, shucks!” said Gary. “Blew it again. Oh, well.” He offered his right arm to his date, and his left arm to Anne, and walked into the ballroom with two girls. Con leaped after them, in case Molly tried to take his empty arm herself. “You don’t have to walk that close, Con,” said Beth Rose over her shoulder. “You don’t need to protect my ankles from enemies.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Con, and he fell back.
Gary said something, and both Anne and Beth Rose giggled and gave him half a hug: a right-handed hug from Anne and a left-handed hug from Beth.
Gary always made the girls laugh. Con didn’t know how Gary did it. He could make Molly laugh, but he had the feeling that Molly had planned to laugh anyhow; it wasn’t him doing it. As for Anne, he had made her laugh maybe twice in the last six months. He tried to forget that he had not visited her many more times than that either.
We’ll stick to Gary and Beth Rose like SuperGlue, he decided. In case Molly decides to have a showdown. He could smell Molly’s perfume and hear her dress swishing faintly and the violent tap of
Anne said, “Here’s your VCR chance, Con.”
The very first question his eyes fell on said, “Whose middle name is Elmer?”
It was Molly’s middle name. So much for winning the VCR. If Con filled in that blank it would prove he had gotten to know Molly. “Let’s go out on the verandah and watch the sunset,” Con suggested. He could see Mike Robinson out there, and Mike was always good for sports stories. Crowds were safe.
“Watch the sunset?” Gary repeated. “Boy, you and I have got our romantic lines down now, Con. You should have seen me calling for Beth Rose tonight. I was amazing. She wants romance and did I ever hand it to her. Especially the way I got grease all over her hair from the hinges of the door and had to cut away one of her curls. See the bald spot there? That is a romantically derived bald spot Beth Rose has.” Con led the way, and the four of them emerged on the terrace next to Kip and Mike Robinson.
“There is not a bald spot!” Beth Rose cried.
Gary nodded solemnly. “Your mother and I didn’t tell you because we were afraid you wouldn’t come to the dance. But it’s pretty bad. Keep your head turned away from the sun so it won’t shine.”
Mike and Kip were laughing.
Beth Rose said, “Anne, is there a bald spot?”
Anne did a long and serious search of the thick curls. “Beth Rose,” she said, “I want you to stay very, very calm.”
Beth Rose closed her eyes. She said, “Gary, if there is a bald spot, I am hiring Kip’s four brothers to do away with you.”
Kip said, giggling, “They have been complaining that their allowances are awfully low. I think you could get them cheap, Beth Rose.”
Anne was truly happy for the first time in months. She was with friends, and she was laughing, and the sun was warm. It was not, after all, the last dance. It was the first, and it would be beautiful. “Beth Rose,” she told her friend, “your hair is so thick that mice could camp out and be safe. If you have a bald spot, it is the width of pine needle.”