Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

When the dance is over Kylie returns to her seat and picks up her book as always, buries her nose in it as always. But that’s all right. She can go home and tell her mom that she danced at the dance, that a boy asked her and she got up and did it. I’m happy for her, so happy. But I’m even more surprised when Connor, having wandered around the back of the hall with the other boys for a few songs, steps up to Kylie again. This time I see him ask her. Looking down her nose at him she’s obviously surprised, possibly having suspected that the earlier dance had been from pity, that he’d felt sorry for her. I actually see her point at her own chest: Me? Connor nods, God bless him, and they have another go on the dance floor. All the teachers are remarking on it: Oh my God, look at that, that’s so cute!

They end up spending much of the rest of the dance together, to my—and everyone else’s—amazement. They dance again and again. They go together to the punch bowl, the ever-gallant Connor serving her a glass of punch. I can just read her lips when she says Thank you and takes the glass. I hope she doesn’t drop it, spill it all over herself or something else equally clumsy, equally Kylie. Let this go well for her, I think. Let it be magic.

Late in the hour-long dance Dave Tisdale puts on a slow song. I don’t even know what it is, I don’t know young people’s music. But the sound is soft, the beat slow. It’s the first such he’s played. Connor and Kylie are standing on the sideline with most of the other kids, nervously considering matters. There are two couples already on the floor, both pairings of longtime friends. Other boys start speaking to other girls, head hesitantly out to the floor, moving as if they’re afraid there may be land mines near. Finally, yes, Connor steps forward—he takes Kylie’s hand—and he leads her to an open spot, puts his palms gently on her waist. For a moment she stands with her arms frozen at her sides, doesn’t seem to know what to do. Finally Connor starts to move a little, to circle slowly with her, and her hands flutter helplessly in the air until finally they move to his shoulders and then stay there, never move an inch. She’s stiff, holds herself as far as she possibly can from him. But when the song is done she’s danced a slow dance with a boy. All of the teachers are touched. I find myself wanting to cry, to run onto the floor and thank Connor for being just as special as I always knew he was.

And the next day it’s Connor and Kylie who are the item, the talk of the class. Connor takes it well, grinning and blushing, while Kylie actually raises her head out of her book for a while, smiling and laughing at the first teasing she’s ever received that isn’t malicious and hurtful. If anything, the girls in school seem impressed with her, as if they just discovered hidden resources in this bashful bookworm—after all, many of them didn’t slow dance.

After fourth period I stand at the door as the kids run out to lunch and I stop Connor. We’re not alone, there are still a couple of kids in the room, but what I have to say isn’t private. “Connor, I’m so proud of you,” I say, smiling down at him.

“For what?”

I nod toward Kylie, who is still at her desk, reading. “You know.”

“Oh. Yeah. Hey, Kylie!” he calls, looking around me. “C’mon, it’s lunchtime.”

Her head pops up as if she’s just pulled herself from a dream.

“Huh? Oh, okay.” She gathers her things and follows Connor out of the room. “Bye, Ms. Straw.”

“Bye, Kylie. Have a nice lunch.”

“Thank you!”

They eat together, sitting in the spring sunshine with their brown paper bags and sandwiches and juice boxes. I watch them from my classroom window curiously. It appears that he actually likes her. They’re talking about her book, whatever book she’s reading, she holds it up for him to see and they look at it together. They laugh about something. I’ve never seen Kylie’s face so animated, so happy.

“I think it’s really nice, you spending time with Kylie,” I say later, in that week’s motel room bed.

He doesn’t respond.

“I mean it,” I say. “You’re very gallant. But, sweetheart, can I make a suggestion?”

“What?”

“Don’t be too friendly with her. Don’t lead her on.”

“Lead her on?”

“You know, don’t act as if you really want to be her boyfriend or something.”

“Why not?”

“You could hurt her feelings, Connor.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“I like her,” he says at last.

“Do you?”

“She’s actually really smart.”

“Oh?”

“You just have to get to know her. She’s shy.”

They take to spending their lunch hours together every day. Every day I’m left in the classroom, watching them. They don’t sit close, they don’t touch. They’re eleven, after all. But they spend enough time together that the other kids tease them: CON-ner ’n’ KY-lie, sittin’ in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! Yet it’s all good-natured ribbing. Their classmates seem genuinely happy at their relationship, especially with Kylie’s sudden blossoming. The verbal abuse of the girl drops quickly away amidst admiring whispers: Kylie has a boyfriend! I still have to constantly tell her to get her nose out of her book during class, and she still seems oblivious to her surroundings much of the time, but during lunch she’s animated, smiling, seemingly where she wants to be when she’s with Connor Blue, just as I am.

“Mona?” Another week, another motel room bed.

“Mm?”

Silence.

“What, sweetheart?”

He turns away. I stroke his back lightly.

“Do you—do you think that we’re dirty?”

“Dirty? What do you mean?”

“What we do together. Are we dirty?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes I think what we do together is dirty.”

I kiss the back of his neck. “What we do together is natural, Connor. Everybody does it.”

His silence is discontented. I can feel it.

“Sweetheart, what? What’s bothering you?”

“It just seems dirty,” he says.

“You never said it seemed dirty before.”

“I know.”

“So why is it dirty now?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs and pulls away from me.

“Connor, I love you.” I tousle his hair. “There’s nothing dirty about love.”

“I guess.”

I try to hold down a sour ball of panic that I can feel building in me, in my stomach, my throat.

“Connor, does this have something to do with Kylie?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m happy you two are friends, sweetheart. I really am. I think it’s cute.”

“Don’t say ‘cute’.”

“What?”

“You make it sound like I’m a baby.”

“Honey, come on. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I guess.”

“Connor, what’s wrong? Please. Tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I think there is. Because it seems like you’ve been changing, sweetheart, ever since you got to know Kylie. Even before. But especially since then.”

“I’m not changing.”

“You don’t seem as happy as you used to. Don’t you know how much I love you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you like what we do together? You sure act like you do. When we’re doing it, I mean.”

Silence. Finally he sits up, facing away from me.

“I’m not sure I can come next week,” he says finally. “I have a big paper for Mr. Thorndyke that’ll take me every day to work on after school.”

I prop myself up on my elbow, look at his pale back.

“Can’t even spare an hour?” I say.

“I don’t think so. I’ll let you know.”