I’M HAVING A hard time focusing. Rose and I are up in my room studying for our Latin test next week. It’s a subject I usually find easy and interesting, but today my attention keeps slipping out to the back yard, where the groundskeepers are working on mowing the grass and trimming the shrubs. Today, and for the past few weekends, Beau has been out there with them.
It’s hot out, humid and stifling—so much so that Beau’s shirt is off, tucked in the back of his jeans. He yanked it off a few minutes ago, seemingly angry with the thing, and I don’t blame him. Even in September, it’s over 100 degrees out. I watch him use a towel to wipe his forehead and then he tosses it on a lounge chair by the pool, getting back to work. I have an intense urge to run down and steal it—er, just to be helpful…with laundry. Yup, don’t want him to run out of towels.
I bring my pen to my mouth and chew on the end, focused on him, on the fact that I’ve never seen a naked chest like his before. It’s tan and broad, sprinkled with just enough dark hair to assure me that I’m not looking at the body of a boy my age—not even close.
“Uh, you good there, Lou?”
Rose’s voice snaps me out of my daydreaming and I bite down on my pen so hard it splits open, spilling black ink all over me.
“Shit!”
I leap up, splattering more ink across my Latin homework. The words I’m supposed to be translating are now covered in a pool of blackness that’s seconds away from spilling onto my rug. Fortunately, Rose leaps into action, using one of my bathroom hand towels to mop up the mess before it gets even worse.
I toss the pen in the trash and Rose glances up from where she’s trying to dab ink from my homework, gets one good look at me, and falls back on my bed in a fit of laughter.
“Go…” she says, barely able to get out any words. She has to cram them in quickly before another laugh spills out. “Go-look-in-the-mirror!”
I sprint to my bathroom and sure enough, black ink is splattered across my face like I’m a Jackson Pollock.
“You better get all that off fast! Cotillion practice starts in fifteen minutes!”
No. No. No.
I’d completely forgotten about that. It’s silly, a tradition that attempts to mold high schoolers into fine, fleet-footed ladies and gentlemen. All the junior girls in my class at McGehee have to do it along with the boys from St. Thomas. Throughout the fall, we meet twice a month at the Junior League of New Orleans where we’re instructed in the arts of etiquette: table manners, proper conversational skills, and—worst of all—how to dance.
I bend down, twist the faucet, and start to scrub at my face as hard as possible, praying the ink will wipe clean quickly.
“Girls!” my mom calls from the first floor. “Are you about ready to go? I can drop you off on the way to my studio!”
“Just a second, Mrs. LeBlanc!” Rose shouts before hurrying into the bathroom. “C’mon, Lauren. It’s fine. Most of it’s gone now.”
I glance up at my reflection and groan. She’s right, the ink is gone, but what’s left behind isn’t much better.
My face is still red and raw by the time we walk into the ballroom at the League. I look like I’m having an allergic reaction.
Julie Robichaux, another girl from my grade, points it out almost immediately.
“Why is your face red and puffy?”
I shrug and try to play it off. “I washed it right before I came.”
She quirks a brow in disbelief. “You should probably switch cleansers. It looks like you just scrubbed your face with sandpaper.”
Noise behind our group draws my attention just as some of the St. Thomas boys filter into the ballroom. They’re always late, they always travel in a pack, and their leader is always, always Preston Westcott. There he is, dressed in jeans and a white polo with a baseball cap covering his blond hair. We’re supposed to dress up for these practices, white gloves and all, hence why I’m wearing one of my short, poofy church dresses, but the boys never follow the rules.
It’s been a few weeks since he messaged me.
Yo, what’s up?
He hasn’t messaged me since.
Our instructor, Mrs. Geller, claps her hands, impatient to start teaching.
The boys turn to Preston, awaiting his orders. He takes a moment to look her over then laughs and turns his back so he can make a joke to his group. They crack up and Mrs. Geller’s cheeks turn bright pink. I cringe. If it’s not already obvious, the boys from St. Thomas are less than enthused about being forced to attend cotillion practice.
“Enough, boys!” Mrs. Geller claps twice, the shrill sound piercing my ears. “Enough!”
They still don’t listen, and for a few moments, we all stand there at a loss for what to do. If they aren’t going to cooperate, this is going to take forever. I glance at Rose and see her glaring at the group with a hard stare. I open my mouth to say something, but she shakes her head and marches right over to them. With a few long strides, she reaches Preston, and then she smacks his baseball cap right off his head. It falls to the floor and a collective gasp sounds across the room.
My hands are shaking—SHAKING. Holy shit. Rose is the most outspoken of the McGehee girls, but no one ever messes with Preston Westcott—boy or girl, man or woman.
He turns slowly and his brown eyes narrow on her. I think…I think we’re about to witness a murder, though I’m not sure who exactly will be doing the killing, Rose or Preston. One thing is for sure though: there will be blood.
“We get it,” Rose says, sounding bored. “You’re too cool to be here. Newsflash: none of us really want to be here, so just shut up already so we can get started.”
With that, she spins on the ball of her foot and marches back over to the girls. Someone starts to clap and then quickly stops when no one else joins in.
Silence follows. Preston’s attention tracks Rose as she crosses the room, and then he slugs the arm of the smaller guy next to him. The sidekick hurriedly bends down and retrieves Preston’s hat.
Mrs. Geller, smart woman that she is, uses the silence to begin before another riot ensues.
“Very good. Girls, form a line across from the boys and listen up. We’ll be refreshing what we learned about the waltz last session.”
There’s a collective groan, as there always is, but she doesn’t let that stop her.
Two lines form, and somehow Rose and I end up smack-dab across from Preston—and by somehow, I mean I carefully push my way into position like a desperate bridesmaid going after a bouquet. He’s still obviously pissed, throwing hard glares at Rose every few seconds, but she just smiles overly sweetly. Her focus is on Mrs. Geller and there’s a ghost of a smirk across her lips. Every boy in that room is watching her, forming some kind of submissive schoolboy crush on her. She just Davided a Goliath and lived to tell the tale.
Mrs. Geller drones on about the step pattern for the waltz and I’m only half-listening, sneaking glances at Preston from beneath my lashes. He might be a tad immature, but he really is so cute. If he lived in LA or New York, he’d be modeling. I’m still staring when his attention flicks from Rose to me. The ice behind his eyes thaws just a little, and the corner of his mouth tips up in a little smile. My heart drops to my stomach and I turn away quickly, catching the end of Mrs. Geller’s last statement.
“…and then we’ll pick partners.”
My heart pounds.
It’s my least favorite part of cotillion practice, the part where the instruction is over and it’s time to try out the dance moves. The scene goes as follows: the one or two dating couples pop together like magnets while the rest of the shy boys and girls look to the ceiling, floor, and walls—anywhere but at the opposite sex across the room. We’re all too wimpy to march right up to our crush and ask them to dance. I hate it. I want to be courageous like Rose, so I decide on a whim that I’m going to ask Preston to dance. We’ve never danced together, never touched. Usually another girl gets to him before I even think to act.
Not today.
Mrs. Geller claps again and I take it as my cue to step forward and claim Preston as my partner. My entire body is alive with nerves and adrenaline as I take my first step. I’m doing it! I’m doing it! Oh god, I can’t believe I’m actually doing it. The world blurs around me as I cross over toward the boy’s line. My vision tunnels in an adrenaline-filled haze. They will sing songs about my bravery. It’s three steps until I’m in front of him and he’s smiling down at me—no, wait…he’s laughing.
Mrs. Geller clears her throat, and I turn, realizing that all the boys and all the girls are still lined up. No one else has stepped forward to claim a dance partner. I’m the only one who moved.
“Lauren, while I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, admonishing me in front of everyone, “I haven’t asked you all to pick partners yet. Please pay attention.”
Giggles and laughs spread through the group and my cheeks—which were red to begin with—are now burning. No! GOD NO! This can’t be happening. I swallow down the urge to sob and everyone watches as I quickly lurch back toward Rose. I try out a playful laugh, but my throat has closed up and it comes out like a goose’s honk. My heart has never beat faster. My body has never been so flushed. I have the faint realization that this is one of those moments I will be forced to relive in terror for at least a decade.
I don’t even pay attention as Mrs. Geller finishes her instruction on the waltz. My focus is on my face, on trying to keep it calm and relaxed even though tears burn at the corners of my eyes, desperate to be acknowledged. I probably end up looking like a wax figure. Rose squeezes my hand but I yank it away. I don’t want her sympathy in this moment. I want everyone to stop staring at me.
“Okay class, now it’s time to pair up,” Mrs. Geller says with a chuckle, like she’s being funny. Her voice echoes into the recesses of my long-term memory. When I’m 40, I’ll be able to reenact this scene for my therapist with chilling accuracy.
Girls and boys rush around me, clamoring to find a partner before they’re left standing alone. There’s a contest for Rose’s hand, both of Preston’s best friends practically begging to dance with her. I spin around, trying to find Preston, and when I see him across the room with another girl from my class, tugging on her ponytail, my stomach twists with jealousy. He knew I wanted to dance with him. I made a fool of myself in order to show him my feelings and he didn’t even bother finding me. That should snuff out my crush then and there. I want it to, but deep down, I know if he marched over and offered me his hand, I’d still leap at the chance to dance with him.
The music starts and Rose picks her partner. My male counterpart, Lincoln—the only other reject in the room—turns to me with a noncommittal shrug.
“D’ya wanna be my—”
I grab his hand and cut him off. Obviously, you idiot, we’re the only ones left. He smiles stupidly.
I don’t even talk to him as we dance. I don’t trust my voice, and well, maybe I wasn’t paying much attention to my footwork either because by the time we’re done with the first song, I’ve stepped on his feet so many times that he curses under his breath.
“Watch it,” he yelps.
I gulp down my tears as he spins me around the room during the second song. I think he’s trying to stay as close to Rose and her partner as possible, and his pace makes me stumble over my feet. If he’d only just slow down…
My foot comes down on his once again, and he’s had enough.
He flings my arms aside and steps back. Couples still dance around us, but he doesn’t care.
“Jesus, you suck at this. Why do you think Preston didn’t want to dance with you?”
The couples around us hear him and a few of them snicker. Most have the decency to feign ignorance.
I thought he was picked last because he was dumb, but I guess it was actually because he’s an asshole.
Mrs. Geller cuts the music and everyone stops. I think she’s going to snap at Lincoln and me for interrupting the flow of the dance, but instead she tells us to line back up so she can continue teaching. Rose finds me and I know she wants to comfort me, but there is no comforting. There is only surviving at this point. I won’t cry in this stupid cotillion class, won’t give Lincoln or Preston the satisfaction. No, I save my tears for when I get home, when I toss my purse and yank off my stupid satin gloves. The house is dark. My mom is probably still working at her studio and it’s Wednesday, which means my dad is having dinner at the Boston Club.
I welcome the solitude as my tears finally start to slip down my cheeks. I head toward the kitchen without bothering to turn on any lights.
It wasn’t that bad, I tell myself.
I know it wasn’t. I know in a few years, this day will make me laugh, but right now, I can’t stop replaying just how acutely embarrassing it felt to march across that room, right up to Preston, only to have him laugh in my face. Laugh!
I groan and let my head fall against the refrigerator door.
“Oh sorry, I didn’t think anyone was home.”
I whip around to find Beau standing in the doorway of the kitchen, cast in a gentle glow from the patio light behind him. I didn’t hear him come in. How long has he been standing there?
He takes a step forward and his hand reaches for the light switch, but I leap forward. “Don’t! Please!”
He pauses then lets his hand drop. “Are you okay? Are you crying?”
I shake my head vehemently and turn back around so he can’t see my face.
I hear him take another step into the kitchen, but only one. He’s hesitating.
“Are your parents home?” he asks.
I shake my head again.
“Is that why you’re crying?”
I can’t help but laugh. I sniffle then wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “I’m not crying, and even if I were, that wouldn’t be why.”
He sighs and I turn just enough to see him over my shoulder. He’s half-turned, ready to leave. His hand drags across his smooth jaw, and I get it—he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do in this moment.
He turns back to me and I catch the details I missed before: the inky black hair still wet from a shower, worn jeans, white t-shirt stretched across his chest. His muscular arms look tanner than they were before. I wonder if his chest is too. That thought mingles with my other emotions, gentling nudging aside the fuel for my pity party.
“Why are you in here?” I ask with a soft voice.
His gaze darts to the refrigerator and then finally to me. “Your mom told me she put a casserole in the fridge. I was just coming in to grab some, but…” He looks back behind him. He wants to flee; it’s written in his body language. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, jaw locked, eyebrows furrowed. Clearly it wasn’t on his agenda to deal with teen angst today. Yeah, well, me neither, buddy.
I’m about to speak up again, to apologize for my current state, but my stomach growls and beats me to the punch. The sound echoes around the room so loudly that I laugh. How can I be hungry at a time like this? Just minutes ago, my stomach was twisted into knots over Preston.
His scowl eases as he glances back at me. “I guess you need some casserole too.”
I nod and turn to yank open the refrigerator. Sitting on the second row is a glass baking dish covered with plastic wrap. On top, there’s a pink sticky note with my mom’s handwriting: I’ll be home a little later than usual. Do your homework before you start reading—I mean it! Also, make sure Beau gets some of this. Love you, Mom.
I crinkle the note in my hand and cringe once I see the meal. It’s supposed to be a Cajun chicken and rice casserole, but she’s left out the sliced andouille sausage and green bell peppers, and also it’s still uncooked. Nice one, Mom.
I drop it on the counter and offer Beau an apologetic smile.
“I don’t think either of us want to eat this.”
“Damn,” he says, brushing a hand over his stomach. Clearly, he’s as starving as I am.
“Why don’t I make us something else?” I say, eager to feed him, eager to prove to the world that I might be a shitty dancer, but I am good at some things. “It’ll help me take my mind off of all the not-crying I’ve been doing.”
Beau doesn’t have time to respond before I start pulling out ingredients to make my favorite sandwich: grilled cheese with a fried egg and ham. It’s delicious, unhealthy, and best of all, it only takes a few minutes to whip up. He hovers on the other side of the island, watching me flit around the kitchen. I rush, scared that if I’m not quick enough, he’ll leave. I sense that he wants to decline the sandwich and rush back out onto the back porch, but he doesn’t, at least not yet.
I butter both sides of the bread slices and set them on the hot pan, artfully layering cheese and ham. In another pan, I crack two eggs, then I glance up at Beau—at his tall frame—and crack a third.
We don’t talk as I cook. In fact, there’s no sound other than the pops and crackles from the eggs frying in butter. The smell is heavenly, and I know I have him. No one walks away from a grilled cheese like this, not even to escape your landlord’s emotional daughter.
I set out two plates and finish arranging the sandwiches. He thinks ahead and lays out napkins for us at the table. I’m happy to see he isn’t going to take the food and run.
“Do you have any more of that lemonade you made the other day?” he asks, tugging open a cabinet door to retrieve two glasses.
I made another batch, but my dad already guzzled most of it down. There’s just enough for one glass and though I’d love some, I tell Beau to take it. I’d rather watch him drink it.
It isn’t until I’m sitting across from him at the table that I realize we never turned on the lights. It’s not pitch black, not even close, but the sun is setting outside, and large oak trees block the horizon. What’s left of the golden hour filters in through the windows and leaves us in a shallow darkness, just enough that I pray he can’t tell how splotchy my cheeks are.
I pull my legs up and sit crisscrossed on the seat, watching as he picks up the first half of his sandwich. I overloaded it so much that it’ll be hard to eat, but he doesn’t complain. I wait for him to take his first bite, anticipating his response so much that I find myself leaning toward him across the table. Once he glances up at me and nods, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin, I sit back and smile.
“Bravo,” he says after he swallows.
I pick up my own sandwich and just like that, we’re eating together.