Nine Inches (13 page)

Overcome with impatience, Allie seized Amanda by the arm, forcibly tugged her over to Ben, then scampered o
ff
, leaving the newly constituted couple to fend for themselves.
Th
ey barely had time to exchange blushes before “Umbrella” began to play and Amanda’s shyness suddenly vanished. It was like she became another person the instant she started dancing, mature and self-assured, a pretty medical student just o
ff
work and out to have a good time. Ben hesitated a few seconds before joining her, his movements sti
ff
and a bit clunky, eyes glued on his partner as dozens of classmates surged onto the
fl
oor, surrounding and absorbing them into a larger organism, a dri
ft
ing, inward-looking mass of adolescent bodies.

Ethan wasn’t sure why he found himself so riveted by the spectacle of his students dancing. Individually, most of the kids didn’t look graceful or even particularly happy; they were far too anxious or self-conscious for that. Collectively, though — and this was the thing that intrigued him — they gave o
ff
an overwhelming impression of energy and joy. You could see it in their hips and shoulders, their
fl
ailing arms and goofy faces, the pleasure they took in the music and their bodies, the conviction that they occupied the absolute center of a benign universe, the certainty that there was no place else to be but right here, right now. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like that.

He was so busy staring that it took him a little while to notice Charlotte’s arm brushing against his. She was swaying in place, her elbow knocking rhythmically against his forearm, lingering a second or two before
fl
oating away. When he turned to smile at her, she responded with a long, quizzical look. In the forgiving darkness of the cafeteria, she could’ve easily been mistaken for twenty-
fi
ve, a young woman full of potential, a stranger to disappointment. She leaned in closer, bringing her lips to his ear.

“You okay?” she asked. “You seem a little sad.”

THE TROUBLE
started during a moment of deceptive calm, a lull he recognized too late as the eye of the hormonal hurricane. It was a little before nine o’clock — the home stretch — and Ethan was feeling loose and cheerful. If pressed, he might even have been willing to admit that he was enjoying himself.
Th
e kids had prevailed upon the teachers to join them for a few line dances — the Electric Slide, the Cotton-Eyed Joe, the Macarena — and he felt like he’d survived the ordeal not only with his dignity intact but with his good-guy reputation enhanced.
Th
en he’d been invited to preside over the ra
ffl
e, pulling names out of a Red Sox cap and bestowing gi
ft
certi
fi
cates for pizza and frozen yogurt on winners who couldn’t have been more excited if he’d been handing out iPods.

He was making his way back to the snack station when a vaguely familiar slow song began to play; Charlotte later told him it was “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol. He felt something stirring among the kids, a sudden sense of urgency as they scanned the room for prospective partners. At the same time, the DJ turned on his special-e
ff
ects machine, a revolving sphere that shot o
ff
an array of multicolored lights, painting the cafeteria and everyone in it with a swirling psychedelic rainbow.

Th
ere must’ve been something hypnotic about the combination of that song and those lights, because Ethan stopped in the middle of the dance
fl
oor and let it wash over him. All around him, kids were forming couples, moving into each other’s arms, and without fully realizing what he was doing, he found himself scanning the room, searching for Charlotte. It wasn’t until he located her — she was wandering among the dancers, checking for compliance with the Nine-Inch Rule — that Ethan
fi
nally emerged from his trance, remembering that he had a job to do. For the
fi
rst time since Rudy had given it to him, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his yellow tape.

Th
ere’d been slow dances earlier in the evening, but the kids hadn’t seemed too interested. Relatively few couples had ventured onto the
fl
oor, and the ones who did had been extremely well behaved.
Th
is time, though, maybe because the night was winding down, Ethan sensed a di
ff
erent mood in the cafeteria. Most of the dancers still kept a safe distance, but a signi
fi
cant minority were inching closer, testing the limits of what was permissible, and a handful had gone into open rebellion, pressing together with moony looks on their faces and no daylight between them.

When Ethan came upon one of these pairs, he tapped both partners on the shoulder and held up the measuring tape as a helpful reminder. He was pleased to discover that Rudy was right — the kids seemed to enjoy the intervention, or at least not mind it. Some smiled guiltily, while others pretended to have made an honest mistake. In any case, no one protested or resisted.

Th
e song must have been about halfway over by the time he spotted Amanda and Ben.
Th
ey had dri
ft
ed away from the herd, creating a small zone of privacy for themselves on the edge of the dance
fl
oor. Even at
fi
rst glance, something seemed strange about them, almost forbidding.
Th
e other couples had at least made a show of slow-dancing, but these two were motionless, clinging to each other in perfect, almost photographic stillness. Amanda was melting against Ben, arms wrapped tight around his waist, her face crushed into his chest. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted; he appeared to be concentrating deeply on the smell of her hair.

Ethan knew what he was supposed to do, but the role of chaperone suddenly felt oppressive to him.
Th
ey just looked so blissful, it seemed wrong even to be watching them — almost creepy — but for some reason he couldn’t manage to avert his eyes, let alone move.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at them before Lieutenant Ritchie appeared at his side. Ethan nodded a greeting, but the Lieutenant didn’t reciprocate. A
ft
er a moment, he jutted his chin at the young lovers.

“You gonna do something about that?”

“Probably not,” Ethan replied. “Song’s almost over.”

Th
e Lieutenant squinted at him. Bands of red, yellow, and green light
fl
ickered across his face.

“
Th
at’s a clear violation. You gotta break it up.”

Ethan shrugged, still hoping to run out the clock. “
Th
ey’re not hurting anybody.”

“What are you, their lawyer?”

By this point, Rudy and Charlotte had arrived on the scene, the combined presence of all four adults creating an o
ffi
cial air of crisis. Ethan could feel the attention of the whole dance shi
ft
ing in their direction.

“What’s going on?” Rudy asked. He was all business, like a paramedic who’d happened upon an accident.

Lieutenant Ritchie glared at Ben and Amanda, who remained glued together, oblivious to anything beyond themselves. Charlotte looked worried.
Th
e damn song just kept on going. Ethan knew when he was beat.

“It’s okay,” he assured his colleagues. “I’m on it.”

LATER, IN
the bar, Ethan tried to describe the look on Amanda’s face right before he pried her away from Ben.
Th
e way he remembered it, her expression wasn’t so much angry as uncomprehending; he’d had to call her name three times just to get her to look up. Her eyes were dull and vacant, like she’d been jolted out of a deep sleep.

“I don’t think she even knew where she was,” Ethan said.

“She’s a sweet kid,” Charlotte pointed out.

“Tell that to the Lieutenant.”

“Ugh.” Charlotte’s mouth contracted with disgust. “I’m surprised he didn’t use his pepper spray.”

Lieutenant Ritchie had insisted on formally ejecting Ben and Amanda from the dance, a punishment that carried a mandatory two-day suspension and required immediate parental noti
fi
cation. Ben’s dad had at least been polite on the phone — he apologized for his son’s behavior and promised there would be consequences at home — but Amanda’s mother treated the whole situation like a joke.
It was a dance,
she told Ethan, pronouncing the words slowly and clearly, as if for the bene
fi
t of an imbecile.
Th
ey were dancing at a dance.
She made him explain the Nine-Inch Rule in great detail, correctly sensing that he found it just as ridiculous as she did.

“I still remember the
fi
rst time I danced like that,” Ethan said.
Th
ey were working on their second drink — Rudy had joined them for the
fi
rst round, but le
ft
a
ft
er receiving a phone call from his wife — and the bourbon was having a welcome e
ff
ect on his jangled nerves. “Must’ve been seventh grade, with Jenny Wong. She was just a friend, a girl from down the block, but it was such an amazing feeling to have her pressed up against me like that, with all those people around. One of the highlights of my life.”

“You’re lucky,” Charlotte said, sounding like she meant it. “When I was that age, I used to sit alone in my room and make out with my arm.”

“Really?”

“It wasn’t so bad.” She glanced tenderly at the crook of her elbow. “I still do it sometimes. When nothing else is going on.”

Ethan smiled. It felt good, being here with Charlotte. McNulty’s had always been their bar of choice — they’d sat more than once at this very table — and he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the past
fi
ve years had never happened, that they were right back where they’d le
ft
o
ff
. He had to make an e
ff
ort not to blurt out something inappropriate, like how much he missed talking to her, how wrong it was that such a simple pleasure had vanished from his life.

“By the way,” he said, “I really like your glasses.”

“
Th
anks.” Her smile was unconvincing. “I prefer contacts, but my eyes get dry.”

He studied her irises — they were hazel with golden
fl
ecks — as if checking on their moisture level.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Not really.
Th
is is just kinda weird, isn’t it?”

Charlotte looked down at the table. When she looked up, her face seemed older, or maybe just sadder.

“I don’t know if you heard,” she said. “Rob and I are getting divorced.”

“No, I hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “We’ve been thinking about it for a while. At least I have.”

Ethan hesitated; the air between them seemed suddenly dense, charged with signi
fi
cance.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I never understood why you went back to him.”

Charlotte considered this for a moment. “I almost didn’t. I was all set to leave him for good.
Th
at night I slept on your couch.”

He didn’t have to ask her to be more speci
fi
c. She’d slept on his couch exactly once, and he remembered the occasion all too well. Her thirtieth birthday. He’d made lasagna and they’d killed a bottle of champagne.
Th
ey both agreed she was too drunk to drive home.

“I waited for you all night,” she told him. “You never came.”

A harsh sound issued from his throat, not quite a laugh.

“I wanted to. But we had that long talk, remember? You said you still loved Rob and couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.”

“I was stupid.” Charlotte tried to smile, but she seemed to have forgotten which muscles were involved. “I was so sure we were going to sleep together, I guess I overcompensated. Rob and I had been together since freshman year of college. I just wanted you to know what you were getting into.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding.” A bad taste
fl
ooded into Ethan’s mouth, something sharp and bitter the whiskey couldn’t wash away. “I was dying for you.
Th
at was the longest night of my life.”

“I thought you’d abandoned me.”

“But you said — ”

“I was confused, Ethan. I needed you to help me.”

“You went back to him two days later.”

“I know.” She sounded just as ba
ffl
ed as Ethan did. “I just couldn’t bear to break his heart.”

“So you broke mine instead.”

Charlotte shook her head for a long time, as if taking inventory of everything that might have been di
ff
erent if he’d just come out of his bedroom.

“I’m the one who lost out,” she reminded him. “Everything worked out
fi
ne for you.”

Ethan didn’t argue.
Th
is didn’t seem like the time to tell her about the weeks he’d spent on his couch a
ft
er she went back to her husband, the way his world seemed to shrink and darken in her absence. He didn’t go on a date for almost a year, and even a
ft
er he met Donna — a
ft
er he convinced himself that he loved her — he never lost the sense that there was a little asterisk next to her name, a tiny reminder that she was his second choice, the best he could do under the circumstances.

Charlotte wasn’t making any noise, so it took him a few seconds to realize she was crying. When she took o
ff
her glasses, her face seemed naked and vulnerable, and deeply familiar.

“I don’t know about you,” she said as she wiped her eyes, “but I could use another drink.”

IT WAS
late when he pulled into his driveway, almost one in the morning, but he wasn’t tired. He wasn’t drunk either, not anymore, though he’d felt pretty buzzed a
ft
er his third drink, pleasantly unsteady as he made his way down the long, dim hallway to the men’s room.
Th
ere were ice cubes in the urinal, an odd echo of his bourbon on the rocks, and an old-school rolling cloth-towel dispenser, the kind that makes a thump when you yank.