Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

“I need to fix my face.”

He frowns at me. “No, you don’t.”

I quick put fresh lip gloss on while he pays the photographer.

“So if they turn out, we can order extras?”

“Scott! ”

“Just checking. My grandmother might want a copy.”

“She can have mine.”

His face falls.

“I didn’t mean you. I’m hideous in pictures.”

“Twenty years from now, we’ll need these to prove to our kids that we actually went to the prom.”

“Our kids?”

He gets pink around his edges. “Your kids. My kids. Future hypothetical miserable adolescents.”

“Like us?”

The photographer motions us to stand in front of a cheesy archway wrapped in silk leaves and twinkle lights. She looks from me down to Scott. “I think we need a chair. You should sit, hon.”

Scott glares at her. “No way.” He points to my legs. “I want those in the picture.”

“You sneaky brat.”

“I’ve never seen them before. Who knows when you’ll show them off again?”

The photographer’s laughing at us now, but Scott gets his way. She has us stand facing each other, puts Scott’s arms around me—adjusts them so his hands rest in the small of my back. She has me clasp my arms behind his neck, shakes her head, repositions my arms to mirror Scott’s. “Now, turn your heads. Chin down, dear. Stand up straight. Smile a little. This isn’t a funeral. Look here.” She holds up her hand and wiggles her fingers. “That’s good.” The camera flashes.

I feel stiff and awkward and blink.

Scott, the little sneak, tickles me. I laugh, and she snaps another shot. “Oh,” she says, “that one is nice.”

Scott keeps one hand on my back and guides me into a blue plush room with chandeliers turned low. A slow song is playing. “Let’s dance.”

I hesitate. He knows I’ve never been to a dance. Enemy territory. He went in junior high. Maybe some in high school. Guys can do that—watch from the sidelines. Maybe he even danced. I don’t know. I was home writing sad songs that I tore into tiny bits and threw out my window.

“Come on, Bethie.” He slips off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair at an empty table in the back. “Slow ones are easy.” He glances at the sparkly clutch Meadow loaned me. “Anything valuable in that? ”

“Just my face.” Who knows what that’s worth? Hundreds. Thousands. I toss the bag on the table and glance around. There are a couple teacher chaperones watching stuff at the tables. One of them nods at me.

Scott grabs my elbow and pushes me onto the dance floor. He puts his arms around my waist again. I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders, barely touching him. He’s staring straight at my cleavage.

“Stop looking at that.”

“Didn’t you wear this dress so I could look at it?”

“I wore this dress because Meadow made me.”

“Thank you, Meadow.”

“You’re creeping me out. Knock it off.”

“Where should I look?”

“How about my face?”

He tilts his head back, and we move around in a slow circle. “This isn’t going to work. My neck’s getting stiff.” His eyes drop back to my cleavage.

I step on his toes—hard. “Look to the side then.”

“Whoa. Everybody’s staring at us.”

“Crap.” Heat pours up through my body and out through my face.

“Just keep dancing.”

“No, let’s sit down. I’m thirsty.”

“You just drank that whole bottle of sparkly stuff.”

I glance around the room over the top of Scott’s soft-blond head. “They are not staring.” I look down at him. “You are the only one staring inappropriately.”

“Come closer then so I can’t.” He pulls me tight and lays his face on my chest, never missing a beat.

“That was smooth.”

“You can learn a lot watching from the sidelines.”

“So you’re comfortable now?”

“Crap, Beth. Shut up and dance.”

I rest my chin on the top of his head. Shoot, he smells so good. I close my eyes. We fall into the slow, seductive rhythm of the song. Remember when you first held me ?

And I believed love could be?

Your lips awoke my senses.

You melted my defenses.

I grip Scott’s shoulders. It feels so good to touch them. My hands slide back and forth exploring the shape of his deltoids as we sway together. This dress is lower in back, too. He has one hand on my bare skin and the other at my waist. If you love me, I’ ll still be here.

Open your heart without fear.

Come back to me

And I’ ll be everything (whoa, whoa-oa, oh).

I’m enjoying this way more than a friend should. I pull him even closer, caress his back, get my hands in his hair and stroke his head—kind of maternal, kind of not.

“That’s nice.” His breath tickles my skin.

Another blush. Does he feel the heat? “Shut up and dance.” Be my baby, and I’ ll be yours.

Don’t say maybe, say forever more.

The truth is, babe, you’re what I’m made for.

The chorus takes over, winds back, and repeats. Scott and I don’t talk much for the rest of the song. We’re both way too into the physicality of our bodies brushing against each other, moving together. Why is he doing this to me? Why am I letting him? The song melts into another song and another, and I melt into Scott.

Then there’s a fast one, and we pull apart, kind of wake up. Embarrassed.

He looks up at the clock, almost midnight, and back at me. “Do you want to leave now?”

I shake my head. “I want to dance slow some more. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

He smiles and takes my hand. “Sure.”

All this touching tonight. It’s making it harder and harder for me to remember he’s just my friend.

We wander back to the table with our stuff. He lets my hand go and pulls out my chair. I sit down.

“I’ll go get us some punch. Now you can be thirsty.”

“Make sure it’s safe.” I do not need spiked punch. I’m high enough already.

“Okay.”

He disappears. I fiddle with my purse. My lips are way dry. I fish out my Watermelon Ice and smear some on.

“Excuse me. Can I sit here?”

I know that voice. My body goes rigid. I don’t turn around. You’d think he’d leave me alone this one night. I glance to the side in the opposite direction, looking for a knot of guys watching whatever these jerks have set up. I can’t find them. They must be behind me.

Colby sits down.

I don’t look at him. Don’t engage. The first rule of bully defense.

“So you’re here with Scott? How did that happen?”

Silence.

“I mean what awful thing did a babe like you do to get stuck going to our prom with Scott? Are you his cousin? Friend of the family?”

I lose it. “Don’t you have a date?” I spit the words into his arrogant, handsome face.

“She drank one beer too many before the dance.” Colby nods toward a girl sleeping at the table beside ours. “So I can rescue you.” He moves his chair closer to mine.

I pull away from him.

“You’re supposed to be grateful.”

“Get over it, Colby. Let’s have the punch line.”

“How do you know my name?”

I stare at him. My brain finally processes what’s going on. “You don’t know mine?”

“If we’d met before, doll”—he rakes me up and down, and I want to slug him—“I’d remember you. Legs like that—a guy doesn’t forget.” His voice is low. He’s trying so hard to be sexy. He leans forward, stares down my dress. “My parents are members here. I can get into the pool.” He looks back at my face and raises his eyebrows. “Do you want to go check out the hot tub?”