Leah on the Offbeat
Page 47
“Nick, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” He grins.
“You’re acting weird.”
“Why did you talk to the deejay?” asks Simon.
“Aha.” Nick’s smile widens. “All will be revealed.”
Simon glances at me nervously.
I look Nick dead on. “Just tell me this. Is it Abby-related?”
He opens his mouth to reply—but then the song switches, and his whole demeanor changes. He pats us each on the shoulder before jogging back to the soccer boys as Simon and I watch, agape.
“Fuck,” Simon mutters, but it just sort of hangs there.
Because I’m staring at the boys as they assemble themselves into a triangle formation. Nick’s at the front, flanked by Bram and Garrett, with the rest of the soccer boys fanning out behind them. Music blasts from the speakers.
CH-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch-CH-ch-ch ERM. CH-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch-CH-ch-ch ERM.
Moving in unison, they sway rhythmically from side to side, and then suddenly freeze. Then Nick thrusts his hips out, and the other guys follow—and then they all kick their legs out, and they’re off.
Holy shit.
It’s the choreographed prom moment, straight out of a teen movie.
Suddenly, we’re surrounded by people, cheering and singing along to a song I’ve never heard before, about a girl being poison.
I lean toward Simon. “Is this . . . about Abby?”
“I mean, it’s a real song . . . ,” Simon starts to say, but he trails off, staring at Bram. I can’t even blame him. There is so much gyration happening right before our eyes. I didn’t even think boys knew about hips. I definitely didn’t think Bram and Nick knew about them.
“ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THE HOUSE?” the emcee yells.
Nick falls to his knees, head thrust backward for the grand finale. I turn to gape at Simon—but he’s disappeared, and all of a sudden, I find myself standing next to Abby. She smiles faintly.
“So, this is awkward,” I murmur.
She nods. “Yup.”
“I guess he’s making a statement.”
“Well, it’s funny.” She leans toward me. “They’ve been working on the choreography for months. I actually knew they were planning this.”
“Are you serious? With that song choice?”
Abby laughs flatly. “Just a coincidence. They didn’t know I was poison yet.”
“You’re not . . . ,” I start to say, but my eyes drift back to the dance floor. “Oh shit.”
It’s the theater boys—Simon, Martin, Cal, and a few others—and they’re doing what appears to be a country western line dance. To the poison song.
Abby shakes her head slowly. “Okay, that’s definitely one of their dances from the play.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And they’re doing it to ‘Poison.’”
“Yes. Yes they are.” I murmur while Simon and Martin do-si-do in their tuxes. “I’m just.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so confused.”
Abby takes my hand, and leans in closer. “I think we’re witnessing a dance battle,” she whispers, threading her fingers through mine.
My heart slams in my chest. This can’t actually be happening. I’m next to Abby, who’s dressed like Cinderella, and we’re literally just standing here holding hands. Watching a dance battle, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“You okay?” she asks, peering at me.
I nod quickly.
She keeps peering. I rack my brain for something to say. Don’t mention the hands. Don’t mention the kiss. Don’t mention Nick—
“Nick should be dancing with them. He’s a theater boy now,” I say.
Awesome. My brain actually hates me.
But Abby just grins. “Well, his character’s dead in this song. Kind of.”
“Oh, so it’s a fuck you, Nick song.”
“Basically, yeah.”
But Nick’s laughing so hard, he can’t even stand up straight. He’s literally leaning into Bram’s shoulder, head buried in the folds of his jacket. Meanwhile, the theater guys have assembled into their final pose, complete with jazz hands.
Someone starts a slow clap, and Abby untangles our hands to join in. I feel a tiny punch of disappointment. My hand feels so useless now.
“That was amazing,” Abby says as soon as Simon wanders back to us. “Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
Simon beams. “Obviously, I had to defend your honor.”
“Because I’m the poison girl.”
“No way,” he says. “I mean, kind of. But you’re not.”
Abby raises her eyebrows.
“Do you want to dance?” Simon blurts.
There’s a slow song playing—I think it’s Ed Sheeran. Simon tugs my hair, and then takes Abby’s hand. She smiles at me over her shoulder as he leads her to the dance floor.
For a minute, I stand there, watching them. Simon’s actually a decent slow dancer. Somehow, he knows to hold Abby’s hand up, like grandparents do. I bet he practiced with his mom. It’s funny how ten seconds ago, he was tiny Simon Spier in a wolf shirt—and suddenly, out of nowhere, he’s this dapper guy in a tux. How did we get so old?
“Why, hello, Burke.” I look up, and it’s Garrett, hands clasped behind his back.
“Hey.” I tear my eyes away from Abby and Simon. “So, who knew you were this amazing dancer?”
He smiles, just a little. “You thought I was amazing?”
“I mean, you weren’t terrible.”
“Oh my God. You loved it. What did you love most? Was it this move?” He thrusts his pelvis three times, in rapid succession.
“Definitely that one.”
“Or was it this one?” He shoots his hands up, like he’s holding on to monkey bars. Then he swivels his hips in circles.
“Yes. All of the above.”
“Damn.” He grins. “So that’s what it takes to impress you, huh?”
I shrug and smile vaguely. God, I’m such a shitty person. I should shut this down. Right now. I’m just going to spit it out, really nicely, so we’re all on the same page and no one gets their hopes up. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, and then we both speak at once.
It comes out in a jumble. “You go first,” I say quickly.
“Okay.” Garrett inhales. “Do you want to dance?”
And . . . fuck.
I just stand there. “Sure,” I say finally.
I mean. He’s my date. We should dance. It’s not even a question.
We walk hand in hand to the dance floor, and then Garrett pauses, facing me. “So, should we just . . .”
His hands fall to my waist, and I wrap mine around his shoulders. And we sway. He tugs me closer—so close that our chests are mashed together, which is actually pretty unnerving. I think I’m radiating awkwardness—like it’s some sort of gaseous substance, rolling off me in waves.
And the thing that freaks me out most is that Garrett hasn’t said a word. He’s just looking at me with this sweetly dopey expression, and I feel like the biggest asshole on earth.
I am very much not in love with Garrett Laughlin. And he probably deserves to know that. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is “What happens when they’re seventy?”
“What?”
“In the song. He says he’ll love this girl until they’re seventy. But then what? He’s just like, peace, I’m out?”
“Wow,” Garrett says, laughing. “You are the actual least romantic person on earth.”
Not true, I think. Case in point: at this very moment, it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to stare wistfully at Abby.
Instead, I peer over Garrett’s shoulder and gasp. “Are you kidding me?”
Garrett furrows his brow.
“Turn around sideways.”
Because, holy shit. It’s Nick. Dancing with Taylor Metternich. But not just dancing. Their hands are everywhere. Nick’s fingers trail down the back of Taylor’s Kate Middleton wedding bodice, way too close to her ass, and there isn’t an inch of space between them anywhere.
“What do you mean?” He grins.
“You’re acting weird.”
“Why did you talk to the deejay?” asks Simon.
“Aha.” Nick’s smile widens. “All will be revealed.”
Simon glances at me nervously.
I look Nick dead on. “Just tell me this. Is it Abby-related?”
He opens his mouth to reply—but then the song switches, and his whole demeanor changes. He pats us each on the shoulder before jogging back to the soccer boys as Simon and I watch, agape.
“Fuck,” Simon mutters, but it just sort of hangs there.
Because I’m staring at the boys as they assemble themselves into a triangle formation. Nick’s at the front, flanked by Bram and Garrett, with the rest of the soccer boys fanning out behind them. Music blasts from the speakers.
CH-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch-CH-ch-ch ERM. CH-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch-CH-ch-ch ERM.
Moving in unison, they sway rhythmically from side to side, and then suddenly freeze. Then Nick thrusts his hips out, and the other guys follow—and then they all kick their legs out, and they’re off.
Holy shit.
It’s the choreographed prom moment, straight out of a teen movie.
Suddenly, we’re surrounded by people, cheering and singing along to a song I’ve never heard before, about a girl being poison.
I lean toward Simon. “Is this . . . about Abby?”
“I mean, it’s a real song . . . ,” Simon starts to say, but he trails off, staring at Bram. I can’t even blame him. There is so much gyration happening right before our eyes. I didn’t even think boys knew about hips. I definitely didn’t think Bram and Nick knew about them.
“ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THE HOUSE?” the emcee yells.
Nick falls to his knees, head thrust backward for the grand finale. I turn to gape at Simon—but he’s disappeared, and all of a sudden, I find myself standing next to Abby. She smiles faintly.
“So, this is awkward,” I murmur.
She nods. “Yup.”
“I guess he’s making a statement.”
“Well, it’s funny.” She leans toward me. “They’ve been working on the choreography for months. I actually knew they were planning this.”
“Are you serious? With that song choice?”
Abby laughs flatly. “Just a coincidence. They didn’t know I was poison yet.”
“You’re not . . . ,” I start to say, but my eyes drift back to the dance floor. “Oh shit.”
It’s the theater boys—Simon, Martin, Cal, and a few others—and they’re doing what appears to be a country western line dance. To the poison song.
Abby shakes her head slowly. “Okay, that’s definitely one of their dances from the play.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And they’re doing it to ‘Poison.’”
“Yes. Yes they are.” I murmur while Simon and Martin do-si-do in their tuxes. “I’m just.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so confused.”
Abby takes my hand, and leans in closer. “I think we’re witnessing a dance battle,” she whispers, threading her fingers through mine.
My heart slams in my chest. This can’t actually be happening. I’m next to Abby, who’s dressed like Cinderella, and we’re literally just standing here holding hands. Watching a dance battle, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“You okay?” she asks, peering at me.
I nod quickly.
She keeps peering. I rack my brain for something to say. Don’t mention the hands. Don’t mention the kiss. Don’t mention Nick—
“Nick should be dancing with them. He’s a theater boy now,” I say.
Awesome. My brain actually hates me.
But Abby just grins. “Well, his character’s dead in this song. Kind of.”
“Oh, so it’s a fuck you, Nick song.”
“Basically, yeah.”
But Nick’s laughing so hard, he can’t even stand up straight. He’s literally leaning into Bram’s shoulder, head buried in the folds of his jacket. Meanwhile, the theater guys have assembled into their final pose, complete with jazz hands.
Someone starts a slow clap, and Abby untangles our hands to join in. I feel a tiny punch of disappointment. My hand feels so useless now.
“That was amazing,” Abby says as soon as Simon wanders back to us. “Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
Simon beams. “Obviously, I had to defend your honor.”
“Because I’m the poison girl.”
“No way,” he says. “I mean, kind of. But you’re not.”
Abby raises her eyebrows.
“Do you want to dance?” Simon blurts.
There’s a slow song playing—I think it’s Ed Sheeran. Simon tugs my hair, and then takes Abby’s hand. She smiles at me over her shoulder as he leads her to the dance floor.
For a minute, I stand there, watching them. Simon’s actually a decent slow dancer. Somehow, he knows to hold Abby’s hand up, like grandparents do. I bet he practiced with his mom. It’s funny how ten seconds ago, he was tiny Simon Spier in a wolf shirt—and suddenly, out of nowhere, he’s this dapper guy in a tux. How did we get so old?
“Why, hello, Burke.” I look up, and it’s Garrett, hands clasped behind his back.
“Hey.” I tear my eyes away from Abby and Simon. “So, who knew you were this amazing dancer?”
He smiles, just a little. “You thought I was amazing?”
“I mean, you weren’t terrible.”
“Oh my God. You loved it. What did you love most? Was it this move?” He thrusts his pelvis three times, in rapid succession.
“Definitely that one.”
“Or was it this one?” He shoots his hands up, like he’s holding on to monkey bars. Then he swivels his hips in circles.
“Yes. All of the above.”
“Damn.” He grins. “So that’s what it takes to impress you, huh?”
I shrug and smile vaguely. God, I’m such a shitty person. I should shut this down. Right now. I’m just going to spit it out, really nicely, so we’re all on the same page and no one gets their hopes up. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, and then we both speak at once.
It comes out in a jumble. “You go first,” I say quickly.
“Okay.” Garrett inhales. “Do you want to dance?”
And . . . fuck.
I just stand there. “Sure,” I say finally.
I mean. He’s my date. We should dance. It’s not even a question.
We walk hand in hand to the dance floor, and then Garrett pauses, facing me. “So, should we just . . .”
His hands fall to my waist, and I wrap mine around his shoulders. And we sway. He tugs me closer—so close that our chests are mashed together, which is actually pretty unnerving. I think I’m radiating awkwardness—like it’s some sort of gaseous substance, rolling off me in waves.
And the thing that freaks me out most is that Garrett hasn’t said a word. He’s just looking at me with this sweetly dopey expression, and I feel like the biggest asshole on earth.
I am very much not in love with Garrett Laughlin. And he probably deserves to know that. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is “What happens when they’re seventy?”
“What?”
“In the song. He says he’ll love this girl until they’re seventy. But then what? He’s just like, peace, I’m out?”
“Wow,” Garrett says, laughing. “You are the actual least romantic person on earth.”
Not true, I think. Case in point: at this very moment, it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to stare wistfully at Abby.
Instead, I peer over Garrett’s shoulder and gasp. “Are you kidding me?”
Garrett furrows his brow.
“Turn around sideways.”
Because, holy shit. It’s Nick. Dancing with Taylor Metternich. But not just dancing. Their hands are everywhere. Nick’s fingers trail down the back of Taylor’s Kate Middleton wedding bodice, way too close to her ass, and there isn’t an inch of space between them anywhere.
