trouble: Ashleigh.
“There you are,” she cried. She turned her head and called behind her, “See, I told you she’d still be here!”
Parr and Ned followed more slowly, their hands full of drinks they were trying not to spill.
“Sorry that took so long,” said Parr. “They didn’t have ginger ale at the bar. I had to try three different vending machines.” With a flourish, he presented me with a cold can. Glad to have something to do with my hands, I busied myself with it, snapping it open and sipping; the bubbles got up my nose.
The feline guy gave me what I imagined he must consider an intimate look, then turned to the newcomers. “Hey, Parr, your girlfriend here was about to give up on you,” he said. “What?” he added, “no drink for me?”
“Hello, Chris,” said Parr coldly. “I hear Wattles is looking for you. Oh, look—there he is now.”
Indeed, Turkeyface appeared to be heading toward us.
The cat-guy brushed my arm with his hand. “Catch you later,” he said, and melted away in the opposite direction.
“Ig, who was that ?” said Ashleigh.
“I don’t know, W-, maybe?” I suggested, naming a seductive creep in a Jane Austen novel.
“You don’t know Chris? Chris Stevens?” said Parr. “He looked as though he knew you pretty well—or wanted to, anyway.” Parr paused, as if deciding whether to say more, then added, “I hope he wasn’t bothering you. I really am sorry I was gone so long.”
“Grand Parr is a stubborn old thing,” rumbled Ned. “Ashleigh told him you’d be just as happy with Sprite or Coke, but he wouldn’t believe it. He had to drag us all the way out to the new science library.”
“I said I’d bring ginger ale,” said Parr. “A promise is a promise. If I had known Chris would come sniffing around—Was he being obnoxious?”
“Nothing terrible, just asking me to dance,” I said.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Ned. “The waltzes are finally over. I mean, you waltz beautifully,” he added hastily, addressing Ashleigh, “but now we won’t be the only ones dancing . . . kids, I mean, not teachers . . .” He trailed off.
“I’m up for it,” I said, eager to leave my planter. Gulping down ginger ale, I followed my companions back into the ballroom.
On the dance floor, both the music and the crowd had increased in volume. A DJ had taken over from the band.
At first I felt more self-conscious than ever, dancing without the prescribed steps of the quadrille or waltz. There’s something especially awkward about free-form wiggling in a ball gown, and to make matters worse, the Guy of My Dreams was watching. But the rhythm of the music quickly took over, and with it the release that comes from vigorous physical activity.
Dancing in a group of four was a far cry from quadrilling or waltzing in couples. For one thing, Parr no longer touched me (except the occasional accidental, electrical brush). It was too loud to talk, beyond a shouted word or two. Soon several friends of Parr and Ned’s caught sight of Ashleigh and me and joined us.
After a number of songs I found myself at the center of a circle of guys, detached from my friend and our rescuers. The ginger ale began to make its presence known. I excused myself—hoping that the boys would have the guts to go on dancing without the presence of a girl to give them an excuse—and went off to find a ladies’ room.
Ladies’ rooms, it turns out, don’t flourish in boys’ schools. Each likely-looking door seemed to taunt me. I discovered a coat closet, a broom closet, a conservatory dripping with greenery, and wood-paneled, book-lined chambers of various shapes and sizes—but no restroom. At last I found a chaperone to ask. She directed me to a boys’ bathroom, temporarily reassigned to meet the needs of female guests. “Boys: STOP! Girls: GO!” read a laser-printed sign taped to the door—not, I thought, the most tactful way to put it.
The uneasy sense of trespass that I’d felt all
“There you are,” she cried. She turned her head and called behind her, “See, I told you she’d still be here!”
Parr and Ned followed more slowly, their hands full of drinks they were trying not to spill.
“Sorry that took so long,” said Parr. “They didn’t have ginger ale at the bar. I had to try three different vending machines.” With a flourish, he presented me with a cold can. Glad to have something to do with my hands, I busied myself with it, snapping it open and sipping; the bubbles got up my nose.
The feline guy gave me what I imagined he must consider an intimate look, then turned to the newcomers. “Hey, Parr, your girlfriend here was about to give up on you,” he said. “What?” he added, “no drink for me?”
“Hello, Chris,” said Parr coldly. “I hear Wattles is looking for you. Oh, look—there he is now.”
Indeed, Turkeyface appeared to be heading toward us.
The cat-guy brushed my arm with his hand. “Catch you later,” he said, and melted away in the opposite direction.
“Ig, who was that ?” said Ashleigh.
“I don’t know, W-, maybe?” I suggested, naming a seductive creep in a Jane Austen novel.
“You don’t know Chris? Chris Stevens?” said Parr. “He looked as though he knew you pretty well—or wanted to, anyway.” Parr paused, as if deciding whether to say more, then added, “I hope he wasn’t bothering you. I really am sorry I was gone so long.”
“Grand Parr is a stubborn old thing,” rumbled Ned. “Ashleigh told him you’d be just as happy with Sprite or Coke, but he wouldn’t believe it. He had to drag us all the way out to the new science library.”
“I said I’d bring ginger ale,” said Parr. “A promise is a promise. If I had known Chris would come sniffing around—Was he being obnoxious?”
“Nothing terrible, just asking me to dance,” I said.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Ned. “The waltzes are finally over. I mean, you waltz beautifully,” he added hastily, addressing Ashleigh, “but now we won’t be the only ones dancing . . . kids, I mean, not teachers . . .” He trailed off.
“I’m up for it,” I said, eager to leave my planter. Gulping down ginger ale, I followed my companions back into the ballroom.
On the dance floor, both the music and the crowd had increased in volume. A DJ had taken over from the band.
At first I felt more self-conscious than ever, dancing without the prescribed steps of the quadrille or waltz. There’s something especially awkward about free-form wiggling in a ball gown, and to make matters worse, the Guy of My Dreams was watching. But the rhythm of the music quickly took over, and with it the release that comes from vigorous physical activity.
Dancing in a group of four was a far cry from quadrilling or waltzing in couples. For one thing, Parr no longer touched me (except the occasional accidental, electrical brush). It was too loud to talk, beyond a shouted word or two. Soon several friends of Parr and Ned’s caught sight of Ashleigh and me and joined us.
After a number of songs I found myself at the center of a circle of guys, detached from my friend and our rescuers. The ginger ale began to make its presence known. I excused myself—hoping that the boys would have the guts to go on dancing without the presence of a girl to give them an excuse—and went off to find a ladies’ room.
Ladies’ rooms, it turns out, don’t flourish in boys’ schools. Each likely-looking door seemed to taunt me. I discovered a coat closet, a broom closet, a conservatory dripping with greenery, and wood-paneled, book-lined chambers of various shapes and sizes—but no restroom. At last I found a chaperone to ask. She directed me to a boys’ bathroom, temporarily reassigned to meet the needs of female guests. “Boys: STOP! Girls: GO!” read a laser-printed sign taped to the door—not, I thought, the most tactful way to put it.
The uneasy sense of trespass that I’d felt all
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