Saturday Night (22 page)

She stopped herself.

There was always Roddy. Always. He was a sap, but an easy one. Her batting average was too good to miss with him as well. She whirled, marched over to the fountain he was tinkering with, knelt down beside him, and said without preliminaries, “I’m sorry, Roddy.”

He stared at her.

“I’ve been so bad to you. All night I’ve watched you and I’ve felt so awful. You were with Kip and I was with Christopher and oh, Roddy, how I missed being with you!” She let herself cry, opening her eyes wide so the tears would spill over. Letting herself go limp, she sagged next to him and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Molly,” he said hastily, undone by the tears.

“Roddy, forgive me?” She put her hand on his cheek and now it was Roddy’s turn to go limp. “Sure,” he said. Clumsily he tried to kiss her, but the fountain was in the way and they were crouching. Molly drew him to his feet. “Last dance, Roddy,” she murmured. “Please dance it with me.”

He looked uncertain. “I kind of came with Kip.”

“Of course you did. And I admire your loyalty. But Kip is over there straightening things. And you and I—oh, Roddy, what better way to get back together again than a long slow dance?”

She linked her fingers behind his neck, looking soulfully up at him, and then drew one thumb teasingly along his hairline. Half pouting, half kissing, she said, “Please?”

Roddy fell. As if all her meanness to him had never been, he could not ignore the delight of having Molly beg for his, Roddy’s, presence. He gave a silly little laugh, and they snuggled up against each other. Resting her head against his chest, Molly checked out the other couples in the room. Nobody was dancing any closer. He would do, poor sap Roddy, till something better came along.

Gary said, “If you can dance holding a pumpkin, may I have this dance?”

He was laughing. Beth had never heard him laugh out loud before. “It’s my coach in four,” she told him. “Any moment now my fairy godmother will wave her wand and send me home in style.”

He shook his head. “All I have to offer is a six-year-old Chrysler.”

“Magic is in the eye of the beholder,” she said. “I’ll take it.”

They danced. Gary held the hand that held the pumpkin, which was awkward, but it made them laugh, and the rest of the dancers looked over at them and laughed with them.

He said, “The photographer told me the pictures would be ready in about two weeks.”

She had forgotten the pictures.

“When they come,” Gary said, “let’s have supper at my dad’s restaurant and look at them.”

Oh, penny. You were pretty powerful, she thought. What a wish I made on you!

She waved the tiny pumpkin at him. “I’ll make pumpkin pie.”

He laughed. “Well, you might be able to make one slice.”

“We’ll share it,” she said.

He nodded and danced on.

I think, Beth Rose said to herself, I think I’m going to let myself fall in love after all. The worst thing that can happen is that nothing will happen. And the best thing that can happen is us.

Together.

The last dance.

Emily, feeling like a queen in her blue jeans, and Matt, king, as he swam in her father’s blue jeans, were ready to leave. Emily was limping. Her foot was throbbing because the pain killers had long since worn off. Totally disregarding the doctor’s orders, she danced anyhow.

Now it was hitting her.

“Matt, I can’t walk another step. I’m sorry. It hurts so bad I’m starting to cry.” She did cry, apologizing, weeping, and apologizing again. She was unable to put weight on her foot for another moment.

“The pain hit me so fast!” she said, gasping. “Oh, Matt, I’m going to whimper like a puppy hit by a car.”

Somebody brought Emily’s coat. Matt helped her into it. Perhaps because she was so tired, the pain covered everything else. She was barely aware of the dance, of Matt, the music, or anything but the cuts in her foot.

Putting one arm around her waist, Matt bent over, and tucked the other arm behind her knees. Before Emily really knew what was happening, he had picked her up in his arms.

Like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold, Matt swung Emily around, showing off his strength. Emily loved it. The rest of the kids clapped, laughing.

“How are you two getting home?” asked Kip, taking charge, as always.

“Her dad is coming,” said Matt.

“Somebody go see if Mr. Edmundson is here,” Kip called out. “I don’t know how long Matt can hold this pose!”

“Is it up to me?” said Emily, smiling into Matt’s face. “I think he should maintain it forever.”

Matt grinned. “I might,” he said. “I just might.”

W
HAT MATTERS MOST TO
every human being is to be loved, and to love in return. Five girls ended their last dance, thinking only of love.

Emily had had the courage to face her worst fear, and to conquer it, and end a winner, truly suspended in loving arms.

Beth Rose had had the courage to walk alone, and had come one step closer to her own dream of love.

Anne had had the courage to admit her private nightmare, and she was one step deeper in the worst dream of her life—but she was also one step closer to herself, and to the boy she loved.

Molly used people, and had neither love nor courage, but she did not know the difference, and Saturday night had not taught her a thing.

And Kip, who had all the love and courage in the world, but nobody yet to give them to, knew only one thing for sure: The dance was hers. Whatever memories the other dancers had, she, Kip, had given them.

Saturday night faded.

Sunday morning began.

The dance was over.

Turn the page to continue reading from the A Night to Remember series

T
HE LAST DANCE.

It celebrated the final day of the school year.

The following morning, there would be no classes where the five girls would run into their friends and compare notes. No more exams—but no more lunchroom talks, either; no hellos to shout in the halls; and no more rides to share going home.

It was the end of school, and the beginning of summer.

Next year they would be seniors.

Five girls stared into their mirrors.

Would this be a dance of love? A dance to begin on?

Or would it be a dance of loneliness? A dance to end on?

Two of the girls wished upon a star. One set her hair a second time. One shrugged. And one of them picked up her telephone, called her date, and said, “Forget it. We’re not going.”

J
UST FRIENDS.

Kip thought it was possibly the worst phrase in the English language. Yes, Mike had said, if you want to go to the Last Dance, I’ll go with you, but we’re just friends, remember. It’s not a date.

Kip remembered. Clearly.

“Just friends,” she muttered to herself as she fixed her hair. “Yuck. Boys don’t look at you until you’re thirteen. Then for the next two years they make gagging noises and jab each other in the ribs whenever they see a female person. When they’re sixteen, they show off like insane cave men. At seventeen they take a quick plunge into dating—like swimming off the coast of Antarctica. Six months later they leap back to the shore of all boys’ company and want to be
just friends
.”

Kip ran to the door of her bedroom, stuck her head down the hall, and yelled to her four brothers, “I’m against it! Just you behave better when you’re old enough to date! Do not, repeat not, be
just friends
.”

Only one of her brothers was home, and he was young enough to have been put to bed already, so nobody took her advice. It was Kip’s experience that nobody ever took her advice anyhow.

She had agonized over what to wear to the Last Dance. It was being held at the Rushing River Inn, at the foot of Mount Snow, a resort that featured an elegant ballroom and a vast screened verandah overlooking the ski lifts. Rushing River had a swimming pool, tennis courts, restaurant, game rooms, stables, croquet courts, and trails for cross-country skiing in winter and hiking in summer.

Supposedly the high school group was restricted to the ballroom, verandah, and terrace.

Kip was very grateful not to be in charge of this dance, as she had been of the Autumn Leaves Dance. She would stake two years allowance that the restrictions were going to be broken quickly and often.

What do you wear to a dance that will be chilly with air conditioning inside and hot with June mugginess outside? What do you wear if you might be sitting on the stone steps or leaning against a tree—but you also want to be perfect for flirting by candlelight near the grand piano?

Kip had bought a blouse of filmy white, with a lacy camisole under it, and a tealength skirt of hot pink with splashes of yellow and violet. It was one very loud pattern. Half of the time Kip stared into the full-length mirror and decided she looked absolutely smashing, and the other half of the time she decided she was an embarrassment to the fashion world. She had fixed her hair with three very thin velvet ribbons of the same gaudy colors, their long delicate ends trailing over her thick brown hair and down over her bare shoulders. The back, but not the front, of the blouse was very low cut. Kip liked herself better from behind and kept turning to stare at herself over her shoulder.

Oh, Mike, Mike.

They had had such a good time for ten weeks. Ten precious weeks that worked out just the way Kip had hoped they would: laughter and love and kisses and talk and time together.

Then it was baseball season. “See you later,” said Mike, and it turned out he didn’t mean later that afternoon, or even later that week, but later in the year, when baseball was over. Kip went to all the varsity games, huddled in a blanket when it was still cold, and perspired in the sun when it was not. Baseball was too slow for Kip; every game seemed to last a dusty lifetime. And Mike never even looked her way, whether he was on the bench or pitching. I don’t know the secret of life, Kip thought glumly, but that little round white ball with its little white stitches has sure got some answers.

Friends.

Okay, they would go to the Last Dance and be friends.

After all, Kip had close to seventeen years of experience at this “we’re just friends” stuff. It wasn’t as if she was a beginner at being “just friends.”

Tomorrow, summer vacation would begin.

Kip had her first full-time job: waitressing at a fish house.

If when she came home smelling of fried flounder and tartar sauce, she knew that after her shower, Mike would take her out, it would all be bearable. But she had her doubts. Mike had his first full-time job coming up, too, and it wasn’t in Westerly: he’d be driving every day to Lynnwood to work on a construction site. And he was, Kip thought gloomily, just as excited about his summer job as he had been about baseball.

Please, please, don’t let this really be our last dance, Kip Elliott thought. I want to dance with Mike forever!

The L word.

It was what all the girls wanted to hear.

But, oh, it was a scary word, that L word, and rare was the boy who was willing to use it.

Anne Stephens, trembling with fear, sat waiting for Con to come and get her. Con wasn’t about to use the old L word, that was for sure, but he was taking her, and he had promised over and over not to leave her. Not for one dance, not for one soda, not for one minute.

She was only going because Con said she had to. It would be good for her, he explained. She would get tough. She had to face everybody sometime, and it might as well be now.

Anne agreed only because there was no school the next day. She would not have to see anybody again until September 5, if she chose.

Last year, on September 5, she and Con started junior year as the most loved couple: the most beautiful girl and the handsomest boy, the brightest, funniest, most popular pair in the entire high school. Ah, but that was last year. And this was the
last dance
.

But it was Anne’s first. First in many months.

Okay, stay calm, Anne told herself. Either kids will ask about it or they won’t; either they’ll be nice or they won’t. You can’t control it.

But what will I say? she asked herself for the thousandth time. When they say, “Where’ve you been since January, Anne?” do I say, “Oh, off having a baby.” When they say. “What did you name the baby?” do I say, “Whoever adopts it gets to name it?”

Anne had held the baby for ten minutes. It was a little girl, so tiny she had a hard time believing that’s what a baby was. She had thought they were much more substantial. She kissed its tiny bald head, and her tears fell gently on its red wrinkled skin and Anne thought, I can’t give her away! I have to take care of her, and feed her, and see her grow, and—

And give this miniature daughter no father, no family, no home, no future?

And for herself, Anne—no high school diploma, no husband, no home, no future?

Anne was given a little paper to read about the parents who were going to adopt her baby. (She always thought of it as “her baby,” not as Con’s, because Con was so horrified by the whole thing you would have thought Anne had become an alligator hunter, not a mother.) The parents were over thirty, they were both college graduates, the mother (Mother? thought Anne. That’s what
I
am.
The mother.
How impossible!) planned to stop working and stay home with the baby she had been dreaming of for over ten years.