What You Always Wanted (13 page)

Angela steps closer to me and speaks low. “Keep it down, Maddie. He doesn't like to talk about it.”

I turn to her but don't decrease my volume. “For someone who likes attention from girls so much, I'd think he'd be all over it.”

“Mmm,” Tiffany ponders. “Sports are the name of the game. The theatre stuff isn't all that popular here.” Angela's eyes
narrow so Tiffany quickly amends, “Though it's gotten better since your mom took over last year. I'm just saying it's hard to get too many guys involved in it when sports are the bigger draw. More notoriety, more money in the future. I mean, unless you're good enough for Hollywood or something.”

“But,” I begin, struggling to form a coherent sentence, “I just don't see how sports are hotter than a man who can dance like that. And who doesn't think singing is hot?”

“Maddie,” Angela says, a hand on my shoulder. “As much as I wish it was different for your sake, your reality is skewed. This is high school. When most of us want to see a guy sing and dance, we ask daddy for tickets to a concert, not a high school production of
Newsies
. This is Texas, which is synonymous with football and baseball.”

“What's wrong with
News
—”

“Then there's the name calling,” Tiffany cuts in. “What did the guys call him?”

“No,” Angela defends. “He wants to forget all of it, so let him. Baseball's his thing now, and he's really good at that too.”

And just like that, I deflate. So close. I knew Jesse had dancers' legs, I just knew it. What a waste to use them standing on a pitcher's mound. I have to figure out a way to talk to him about it.

“I don't know about y'all,” Tiffany says, rising up on her toes and bouncing a few times, “but I came here to dance. Let's warm up before our dates steal us.”

I link arms with Angela as we hit the dance floor. “
Summer Stock
is my favorite Gene movie ever.”

“I knew it!” she exclaims.

As we start to dance, she sings a few lines of “You Wonderful You,” terribly off tune.

“Okay, leave the singing to Frank,” Tiffany says, “and let's dance!”

We giggle and the three of us move to the center of the dance floor, throwing our hands in the air and letting loose. I feel so free, so exhilarated.
Understood
for maybe the first time ever.

And I can't stop thinking about Jesse. I need to see what he can do.

Brian isn't a dreadful dancer, but he does like to step on my feet. By the third time, I pretend I'm thirsty and ask him to get me a pop.

“You want a what?” he asks, brows scrunched together.

“Pop, like a Sprite or something.”

“Oh, you want a Coke.” He smiles like he gets it, but he clearly doesn't.

“No, I don't like brown pops,” I explain. “I want something fruity, like a Sprite.”

“Yeah. Right. Pop.” He shrugs as he turns for the drink table.

As soon as I'm left alone, a guy I vaguely recognize from Spanish approaches and clears his throat. His lips part to unveil a set of jacked-up teeth, desperate for braces. I offer him a sympathetic smile.

“Maddie, right?” he says, hands deep in his pockets.

I pick at the flowers on my wrist. “Uh . . . Juan?”

“Francisco.” He laughs and lifts a shoulder. “Gregory, r-really.”

“Ah, Greg,” I say, twisting at my waist to watch my skirt spread out. I wish they'd play some swing music so it could get
some real action. And I wish there were a boy at this school who knew how to swing dance. . . .

I glance around, following the flashes of light across the dark room in hopes of glimpsing Jesse's face. I haven't seen him yet tonight.

The crowd parts. A figure steps into the spotlight. Black slacks, white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, suspenders. So. Adorable.

The band starts a slower swing number, something from the Glenn Miller catalog, but I can never remember the names of songs with no lyrics.

He makes his way to me one pronounced step at a time, with each beat, fingers snapping. That perfect smile comes into view, and the scar on his left cheek creates its own little shadow, proof he was once a child prone to accidents. But now he's so far from a child. And he's here. With me.

I lean in and kiss the indentation, feeling his smile widen under my lips.

His hand slides around my belt like it's a pathway, coming to rest against my lower back. We sway cheek to cheek for a moment before the music kicks into high gear and we clasp each other's hands, step-step-rock-stepping to the rhythm. In a swift movement, he grabs my waist and—

“It's j-just Gregory.”

“Oh.” I startle, having forgotten he was there. “Okay, Gregory then.”

He smiles again. The teeth. They're so unfortunate. I can't look away. And they're getting closer. The teeth are getting bigger.
What is happening?

I look up to his eyes and find him looking at
my
teeth, or mouth. My
mouth
!

Just before he crosses the point of no return, I take a step back and shove him away at the same time.

“What do you think you're doing,
Greg
?”

“I was j-just . . . I wanted to be th-the first . . .” His face goes tomato, and sweat beads along his little set of sideburns. He's still way too close.

“See you in class, Francisco.” I twirl around, hoping my dress smacks against him in a dramatic exit, but I run right into a thick body.

“Need some saving?” Red asks, steadying me, eyes examining me closely and lingering a little too long in the chest area. “Well, check you out.”

Jesse stands next to him, sleek in a black suit and tie. Now that I know he's a former dancer, it's like he's glowing, shining. All those secrets up in his head. The steps he must still have memorized, the melodies his mouth could sing at a moment's notice. All of it, waiting for me to discover, to witness for myself. Because a part of me can't believe it until I see it.

“No, I don't need saving,” I say, fluffing my curls and bringing some in front of my shoulders. “He was just—”

“Trying to stick his tongue down your throat?” Red says.

I cringe.

“Yeah. We saw that,” Jesse chimes in.

“You sure were slow to push him away. Wonder why that is? Got a little something for the younger boys, do you?” Red throws an arm around my shoulders. “Because that's what he
was. A boy. What you need is a man. Someone strong. Someone athletic. Like a baseball player.”

Or maybe just a dance with a particular baseball player
.

“
Please
, Red,” I say, shrugging out of his hold. “Not. Interested.”

He crosses his arms. “Fine, fine. Have fun twirling with the other children.” With that, he stalks toward the drink table.

I expect Jesse to follow but he's still standing there, looking at me, eyes extra green from the mood lighting splashed across his face.

“You look really nice,” he says.

At least, I
think
that's what he says. He's not exactly projecting his voice appropriately for the noise level in here.

“Thanks.” I'm about to return the compliment when my eye catches on a mark. The lights are hitting him just so, making a shadow on his left cheek. There's a tiny round indentation. A scar.

I'm about to ask what happened, but an overeager voice calls out from behind him.

“Okay, I'm all freshened up! I think this lipstick is a better shade for me, don't you?”

Gabby stands next to him to join our conversation, I assume, but instead Jesse takes her hand and leads her away. I'm left alone, struggling to stand straight in the wake of Jesse's blatant and inexcusable snubbing. And just after he said I looked nice. How do I not warrant an introduction? Am I ranked that low on his social scale that I can't even meet his homecoming date?

Well, I don't want to dance with someone that rude, anyway.

I scan the room to find Brian—who's taking an awfully long time getting me something to drink—and spot him clutching two cups, chatting with Sarah and Ryan. Sarah looks so pretty in a blood-red, knee-length dress. And the flowers on her wrist actually match, along with Ryan's tie. Good boyfriend.

Joining them and taking a cup from Brian, I down it before I figure out it's one of the brown pops. Ugh.

“So, I was practically mauled by someone from my Spanish class,” I tell them. “Is this what happens at dances in Texas? Do people get freakishly horny or what?”

“First of all, that was my Coke,” Brian says, exchanging the now-empty cup for the other. “Second, I think I know what's going on with the horniness. And I think it's my fault.”

My stomach drops. I feel the need to brace myself, but there's nothing close by to hold on to.

He exhales, eyes heavy with apology. “Apparently there are a couple creeps making bets on who can kiss you first.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After a million more apologies from Brian for having the ability to speak and unintentionally starting a kissing bet, we spend all day Sunday practicing for auditions. I sound like I'm on the verge of crying the entire time, even with the help of my magic pink allergy pill, but we're able to get some serious work done. If I didn't have such a good feeling about our chances of getting cast together, I would have abandoned him to perform his own monologue. But a strong acting partner trumps any personal issues I may have against him. I know he didn't mean for any of it to go that far.

By Monday morning, after my daily dose of meds kicks in, I'm ready to face the casting directors. Too bad auditions are after school.

And too bad I sit next to Jesse in English class. I'm still not totally clear on what happened at the dance, why I wasn't
good enough to meet his friend. I half expect him to ignore me, but I sneeze when he takes his seat, which serves as an invitation.

“Bless you,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“Allergies still bothering you?”

“A little.”

“Need a tissue?”

I clench my teeth at his helpfulness and sniffle. “Nope.”

“Need a ride home after school?”

Without looking at him, I shake my head.

“Oh, right,” he says, slouching and stretching his legs out. “Auditions today.”

He waits for me to confirm, but I pretend to read “The Yellow Wallpaper” in my lit book.

“Mom says you have it ‘in the bag.' ” I can see the air quotes in my periphery. “She doesn't usually talk about school at home. You must be pretty good.”

My confidence swells, but I'm unable to bask in it. I've been tortured by too many questions this weekend to hold all of them in.

I turn on him. “And I hear you're a pretty good dancer. What's up with that?”

He slides down farther in his seat. “I told you to drop it before, and I'm telling you again now.”

“I thought you were just acting cool, like you could do anything, but according to Tiffany and your sister, you're a regular—” I stop myself from saying Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire. “Broadway star.”

Red drops into his chair with a nod to Jesse and a lesser nod to me, Monday clearly beating him down.

“That's not me anymore,” Jesse mutters.

“I just don't believe a love for something like that can leave you so easily,” I say quietly to avoid a scene. “Especially with the level of talent you apparently have.”

Jesse's jaw hardens. “What makes you think I loved it? Just because you're good at something doesn't mean that it's what you should be doing.”

I let his words sink in along with the tone in which he delivered them. There's plenty of “Just shut up” in there, but I sense a hint of something else too. Maybe he misses it.

Maybe I'm the one who needs to give that part of his life back to him.