Still a Work in Progress (6 page)

“Don’t start,” I warn him. Sam and Ryan know the rules, too. But it’s something they don’t talk about, either. At least not to my face.

We pass the bag around and eat the whole thing, even though it tastes like wood shavings.

“I really hope this dance isn’t lame,” Ryan says, brushing crumbs off his jeans onto the floor. The Captain immediately starts licking them up.

“I heard there’s good food,” Sam says.

“I just hope there’s no dubstep. I really hate that crap,” Ryan says.

“Yeah, me too,” Sam agrees. “Who are you guys going to ask to dance?”

Ryan smiles. “Like I’d tell.”

“Like you would dare to ask anyone,” I say.

“True enough.”

Sam pats Ryan’s shoulder reassuringly, as if he’s suddenly the experienced one. “Don’t worry: I’m sure someone will ask you guys to dance.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” I pick up the empty bag of chips and throw it into the trash basket under my desk.

Ryan turns up the music and starts dancing around the room like a maniac, making the Captain bark and Sam howl with laughter. I sit at my desk and watch, trying to focus on my friends instead of worrying about what I heard them say about Emma.

But it doesn’t really work. All I can think about is the “Free Bird” song and how Emma sang the words like they were written just for her. And what it means if she’s a bird we can’t change, no matter how hard we try.

“You boys behave yourselves,” my dad tells us when he drops us off at the school. “And don’t forget your cans!”

Ryan, Sam, and I grab the shopping bag full of canned vegetables my dad gathered for us. Instead of paying to get into the dance, we have to donate three cans each for the local food bank. Ryan hauls his bag over his shoulder.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says, like we’re on some kind of mission.

We start to cross the parking lot before we realize that Sam is still standing next to the car. We stop and turn back.

“What?” Ryan asks.

“I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Oh, gimme a break. This isn’t your high-school prom. Get ahold of yourself.” Ryan grabs Sam’s arm and drags him forward.

Molly is waiting for Sam at the steps outside. She smiles shyly.

“Hi, Sam,” she says. She doesn’t say hi to me or Ryan.

“Huh-hi,” Sam says. “You look . . . pretty.”

She blushes. She’s wearing more makeup than usual, and her hair is curled in these long coil things instead of pulled back like usual. Ryan stares at her with his mouth open as if he’s never seen her before. I don’t usually like it when girls curl their hair like that, but I have to admit she does look nice. She’s also wearing a sparkly dress that I’m pretty sure you can’t get from an L.L.Bean catalog. Still, I think I prefer the original Molly.

Lily, who was waiting with Molly, ignores us, craning her neck toward the parking lot to see if anyone better has arrived. Either that or she’s waiting for her own date. If she said yes to Zach, I’ll puke.

Ryan and I leave them and go inside.

The dance is in the Community Room. The couches have been moved along one wall, and there’s a sad excuse for a disco ball hanging from the middle of the ceiling. It looks like someone glued silver sequins to a big Styrofoam ball. On closer inspection, I see I’m right.

A few eighth-graders sit behind a table in the corner with a laptop and some speakers. They’re the DJs, I guess. There’s another table loaded with bowls of chips and bottles of soda.

“Well, this looks like fun,” Ryan says sarcastically. “Tell me why we’re here again?”

I glance around the room and spot Zach, who is already dancing with the pole.

“That?” I ask.

“Let’s just get some food,” Ryan says, disappointed.

As I pour myself some Mountain Dew, I notice Curly poking her head out from under one of the couches. She must wonder what we’re all doing back here, invading her usual quiet time. She doesn’t seem too happy about it.

Ryan and I take our drinks and napkins piled with chips to an empty couch. As more people arrive, they stand around in clusters to talk. No one dances. Every so often a good part in the song comes on and people do a mini-move, halfheartedly, and then go back to talking.

“What do you think of Sadie Darrow?” Ryan asks under his breath.

We both look over at Sadie, standing with Lily, Belle, Molly, Sam (who looks like he is having the time of his life all of a sudden), and Tate Channing, a long-haired eighth-grader.

“She’s cute,” I say. “But . . . is it just me, or does she kind of look like a guy?”

“Because she has short hair? It’s called a pixie cut,” Ryan explains. “They’re popular in the real world.”

Tate grabs Sadie and hugs her. Lily just stands there, still craning her neck around looking for cool people while Sam and Molly smile goofily at each other and hold hands.

“I think Sadie looks like a boy because of Tate,” I say as I watch them hugging.

Ryan studies them. “Yeah, you’re right. When you can’t see their faces, you’d guess Sadie was the boy and Tate the girl. Man. We are such stereotypers.”

Usually Tate wears his hair down his back in a braid, but tonight he’s wearing it loose and it’s all wavy and a little too perfect. I wonder if he curled it with the same kind of special curling iron Molly used.

Some terrible country song comes on, and Tate drags Sadie onto the dance floor. Every so often, Tate flicks his head so his hair swishes over his shoulder and bounces. He looks like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

“It’s nothing personal,” Ryan says. “I have nothing against guys who grow their hair out. Whatever. But I really can’t stand
that
guy’s hair.”

“That’s because he’s dancing with Sadie,” I say.

“He’s such a jerk.” Ryan imitates the hair flick. “Plus he has terrible taste in music. Please.”

“Don’t be mean,” I say, silently thinking the same thing.

As predicted, “Free Bird” eventually comes on, and Sam and Molly walk slowly to the dance floor. They’ve already slow-danced a few times to other songs, looking as awkward as we thought they would. But this time, Sam walks out on the floor holding Molly’s hand with a new air of confidence. Ryan notices, too, and we both sit up a little, curious to see what will happen. Sam glances over at us and nods, as if to say, “Watch this, emos.”

Sam puts his hands on Molly’s hips. Unlike earlier in the night, when she kept a far distance with her hands on his shoulders, keeping her body an arm’s length apart, now she moves in closer and hugs him, so their bodies are pressed against each other. She rests her head on his shoulder.

Next to them, Sadie and Tate are pressed together so tightly, they look like one person. Tate’s hair hangs over Sadie’s shoulder, and we get a glimpse of what Sadie would look like if she had long hair. It’s kind of disturbing, though, knowing it isn’t hers.

Zach and Lily are dancing, too, but you can tell Lily has made it clear they will
not
be close-dancing. Zach looks bored, but at least he’s better off than me and Ryan.

Belle and Miranda-with-the-Always-Stuffed-Up-Nose are dancing really close, too. I didn’t know either of them liked girls, but I guess so. I wonder how Belle can stand the constant sniffling, but it’s definitely not seeming to bother her now.

At the part in the song where the fast music kicks in, Sam follows Emma’s advice and keeps moving the same slow speed as if he’s in a love-dance trance. Molly lifts her head once to look at him, smiles, and puts her head back on his shoulder. Everyone else tries to move faster, not knowing how to handle the unexpected change in tempo, but Sam looks as cool as a cucumber.

Emma is always right.

I listen to the words again and think about how Emma sang them as she waltzed out of my room, as if they were all about her. And I get that sinking, worried feeling I always get when I think about Emma, and what can and can’t change.

Ryan crosses his arms at his chest and scowls at Sam and Molly.

“Jealous,” I say.

“Of what?”

But before I can answer, someone screams.

Lily jumps onto one of the couches and points to a corner of the room.

Everyone looks, and then there are more screams.

Ryan and I get up and try to see what’s going on. Someone turns off the music just as Lynyrd Skynyrd starts howling about being the bird you can’t change.

“Killer!” Zach says, and jumps up and down.

I crane my neck over Ryan’s shoulder and finally see what everyone else does: Curly, standing proudly, with a mouse wriggling in her mouth.

She shakes her head violently and the mouse dangles and swirls, trying to break free. It makes a sad and desperate squeak.

The Tank runs over and tries to catch Curly, but she darts out of the way, the mouse still in her mouth. People scream one by one as she gets close to them, and soon almost everyone is standing on couches, clutching one another.

“Don’t panic!” the Tank yells, panicking. “Everyone just stay calm!”

Curly trots onto the dance floor and looks at all of us. She holds her head up high and flicks her tail proudly.

A few people say “Ew.” And “Gross.” And “Save the mouse, Mr. Sticht!”

Curly looks confused, as if she doesn’t understand why no one is saying, “Good girl!”

She drops the mouse at her feet and licks her paw. She’s wearing a pink sequined camouflage vest that sparkles in the disco-ball light.

At first, it seems like the mouse is dead. But then it moves a tiny bit. Just a little twitch.

Curly stops licking and watches.

The mouse brings one paw forward and tries to drag itself forward very slowly, as if it doesn’t think Curly will notice.

But then it squeaks pitifully, as if to say, “Help.”

“Do something!” Lily yells. “It’s suffering!”

The Tank creeps toward Curly as if he’s on one of his secret missions in Iraq. Everyone gets very quiet. Curly looks up at him suspiciously, but then focuses on the mouse again. She reaches forward and pokes it with her paw.

The mouse drags itself forward another centimeter. It’s so sad, watching the mouse try to get away, even though it must know it doesn’t stand a chance.

I step off the couch and move slowly toward the mouse and Curly from the opposite direction of the Tank. Ryan moves in, too, from the other side. Once we’re surrounding her, we carefully move closer. The mouse squeaks another SOS.

Curly’s eyes dart back and forth from each of us, daring us to come closer. I take another step and she picks up the mouse in her mouth again.

There are several gasps and more
ew
s.

“Squeak.”

Slowly, I take another step forward. “Good girl,” I say quietly.

Curly looks up at me and makes a funny noise. Like a half purr, half mew. The mouse hangs limply.

“Good Curly,” I say again, stepping closer.

Suddenly, the Tank swoops in from behind her as she’s concentrating on me and wraps his enormous hands around her. He shakes her, and the mouse falls to the floor. Curly wriggles to get free.

“Get the mouse!” the Tank yells at me and Ryan.

I run to the food table and grab a plastic cup and a paper plate, the tools Emma uses to save ants, spiders, and anything else that gets inside the house that she wants to trap and let go outside. I dash back to the mouse and put the cup over it, safely protecting it from Curly.

The Tank puts her back down, and she prances over to me and meows at the cup.

I can feel everyone watching. I carefully slide the plate under the cup, having to shove it a few times when the edge touches the mouse. The mouse doesn’t move.

My stomach churns, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

When I’m sure the body is on the plate, I scoop it up and hold it out to the Tank.

“C’mon,” he says quietly. “Let’s take it to my room and see what we can do.”

Ryan, Curly, and I are the only ones who follow him.

A few people clap as we leave, but it’s not to make us feel like heroes or anything, and I’m glad.

The music comes back on as we start down the hall. Curly makes these funny chirping noises as she trots behind us, like she thinks we’re taking the mouse to her food bowl.

“Never knew you were a killer,” Ryan tells her.

I stop and look down at the murderer and see that her sparkly pink camo vest has blood on it.

She chirps again and runs after the Tank, holding her head up high.