It had been 236 days since I’d started loving Kevin Wright.
It started on the second day of sixth grade in Mme. Clarke’s French class. He sat in the seat in front of me, and after we all settled into our seats, he turned around and asked, “Je peux t’emprunter un crayon, s’il te plait ?” I understood. He wanted to borrow a pencil. Making eye contact with him left me breathless. As I handed him the pencil, and his soft hand brushed mine, I was instantly drawn deep into the churning whirlpool of love.
Now, about a year later, after countless months studying his appearance (the lustrous cap of brown hair, the chocolate eyes, the turned-up nose, the golden skin), taking note of his idiosyncrasies (the way he triple knotted his shoe laces, his leftward-slanted handwriting, the rightward tilt of his head each time he raised his hand in class, his breezy “Yo” greeting to friends in the hall), and looking for any sign of his noticing me (the time he demanded I give him an M&M at lunch, how he urged me to “Walk faster!” in the hallway, how he was looking at me in science but quickly turned his head when we made eye contact), I was at the seventh grade spring dance. I was all dressed up, wearing my red sailor dress, my first pair of (low) high heels, three of my prized silver charm dangle rings, with my naturally straight hair curled and sprayed, my fingernails painted clear, a light sprinkle of my sparkling Liz Claiborne perfume on my neck. The gym was decorated with faux floral arches at the entrance doors, balloon garlands hanging from the ceiling, and twinkling lights at each of the dinner tables. The music was loud. I could feel the beat in the floor. Shy as I was (but not so shy as to not attend), I had arrived late to avoid as much small talk as possible. There was already a crowd.
Kevin was there. I’d told myself earlier that I wouldn’t look at him right away, but I couldn’t resist. He was in a tightly-packed group of popular kids fast dancing—a chaotic spectacle of frenetic bouncing and hip swiveling and spinning and arm waving. He was not his usual clean-cut self. His shirt was lopsided, his face was flushed, his hair was hanging down in clumps on his forehead. There was even a light but unmistakable coating of sweat on his arms. He seemed melded into the electricity of the room. It was as though he drew from it its pulsating energy, circulated it through his veins, allowed it control of his body, and then sent it out into the world again, transformed into something even more extraordinary than before.
As I watched this, I was alone, plastered to the wall at the far end of the gym, waiting for my one true friend Stacy to arrive (she was notorious for scrambling around at the last minute to get ready). I decided that if she didn’t make it in the next seven minutes, I would call my parents to come pick me up. I felt I needed her there to be brave enough to interact with others. I thought about how to look unapproachable in the meantime and settled on looking down. But this was an imperfect solution, for it meant I would not be able to watch Kevin (not to mention I might miss Stacy’s arrival). So I decided to look down, count to ten, then look up, count to ten, and so on. Every time I looked down, I checked my watch. 8:13. One, two, three, four, five, six … Time to look up. Scan the room for Stacy. Not there. One, two, three, four, five, six … Look down. Consult watch. 8:13 and 25 seconds. Focus on a seam in the wood and follow it as far as I can. One, two, three, four, five, six … Look up. Still no Stacy. Begin to count. Look down. Check watch. 8:13 and 45 seconds. Study the pearl-encrusted toe straps of my dress sandals. One, two, three, four, five, six … Look up. She’s not there. Glance over at Kevin. One, two, three, four, five, six … Repeat, and repeat, and repeat.
Just as I was about to lose hope, Stacy arrived. She spotted me, and we approached each other.
Her first words to me were about Kevin. “Have they had Ladies’ Choice yet? Have you asked him to dance?”
“No, they haven’t. Besides!” I replied. “I’m way too shy to do that.”
Her answer alarmed me. “We’ll have to do something about that.” She waggled her eyebrows.
I begged her not to meddle. Knowing her, I figured I had about a fifty-fifty chance she would honor my request.
With that, she set off to join the group of popular girls, encouraging me to follow along. I did, several steps behind her, brainstorming about things to talk to them about.
The girls were gossiping about the boys. Who is the new super cute guy? Who is Matt going with now that he and Sarah broke up? Anybody hear what Allen and Kate did on their two month anniversary? Any news on Cal? They spoke in falsetto voices, with fervor and conviction and levity, interrupted with occasional thunderous bursts of laughter. I made an attempt to speak, but they interrupted, they didn’t listen. I stopped trying. I attempted to make eye contact with Stacy, but that too failed. I began checking my watch every few seconds. 8:31. 8:31 and 35 seconds. 8:32 and 10 seconds.
While looking down (at 8:36 and 15 seconds), I noticed a pair of brown leather Oxfords approach. I looked up and saw Derek Ludwig standing before me. “Would you like to dance?” His voice was smooth, unhurried, clear.
It was a slow dance, so it would be easy. Just right step, left step, right, left, back and forth, over and over. It wasn’t Kevin, but I could do this. “Sure,” I said. I followed him out onto the gym floor.
Once there, we positioned ourselves in the standard, middle-school slow-dance stance: our bodies one and a half feet apart, arms locked at the elbows, his hands on my waist, my hands … well, my hands should have gone on his shoulders, but Derek was too tall for that, so my hands went on his waist, as well. Then, the alternating steps.
Derek was so tall that I had to tilt my head way back to see his face. I tried to do this for a while to be polite, but soon, all of the muscles in my neck were fatigued and burning. This was not going to work. I had no choice but to stare directly at his chest the rest of the dance. To pass the time, I studied his shirt buttons, noting their iridescent finish, their beveled edges, their four-hole design. I occasionally heard him talking to me, but, in that position, his words were faint and garbled. I would nod and shake my head, praying that my gestures made sense. As the song played on, I counted the seconds until it was over. When it finally ended, he fortunately showed no sign of confusion. He smiled and thanked me. I did the same. We went our separate ways.
Next was a fast dance. I hurried over to Stacy and had started telling her about the Derek debacle when Jonathon walked up. In fact, it was more of a sashay than a walk, with his hips oscillating, his arms churning as if he were imitating a choo choo train, his head rocking right and left.
“Chris, wanna dance?”
My toes curled. I thought I had made it clear throughout school that I’d wanted to be known as Christine. Not Christina. Not Christi. And certainly not Chris.
I had no idea how to fast dance. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have wanted to do it with Jonathon. He had a reputation for being a “bad boy.”
“No thank you,” I said. “I’m no good at fast dancing.” I looked at Stacy for support.
“I’m not either!” he replied. “Come on! Give it a try!”
I could tell from her expression that Stacy was about to pressure me into it. I uttered a quick and icy “No.”
“Aww man. Struck out.” With that, he walked away, swagger still intact.
Stacy put her hands on her hips, glared at me, and sighed. “Christine! You made a fool of yourself. You should’ve danced with him.”
I thought about arguing with her, but remembering her tendency toward long-windedness in these sorts of discussions, decided to change the topic. I suggested that we walk around and look at all the girls’ dresses.
After we made our stroll, Stacy went off to dance with Jason. I looked for a way to make myself inconspicuous until she returned. The band kids were congregating by the refreshment table, and I decided to go up to them and blend into the background. I did not know most them, as I wasn’t in band, but I had become acquainted with the brilliant Laura Beth. We were in the same honors classes and had both received accolades by the school and the city for our academic achievements. She was lovely: porcelain-white skin with glossy, black hair, a light dusting of freckles across her nose, pink cheeks, delicate wrists. I observed her joyous ways: her exuberant manner of talking, her feminine laugh, her scrunching of the nose. I considered moving in closer, trying to talk to her, share a laugh perhaps, but, in the end, I changed my mind. I stayed on the edge.
After finishing her dance, Stacy bolted over to me.
“I found out. Next song is Ladies Choice,” she said. “You’ve got to ask him! I won’t let you not. THIS IS YOUR CHANCE!!!”
The thought of asking him to dance made me cringe, but Stacy’s cryptic threat worried me more.
“Okay, okay, okay. Stop pestering me. I’ll do it,” I replied.
“He’s over there. Come on. I’m going to ask Wyatt.”
We walked over to where Kevin was, stopping about twenty feet away. He was sitting down with a full plate.
“I can’t ask him while he’s eating.”
“Why not?” Stacy said.
“Because, that’s just rude. I’m not going to do that.”
She argued with me for a while, but I stood firm. I thought about sitting down myself, but then I spotted Andy standing alone in the corner. I hadn’t seen him dancing with anyone the whole evening. I weighed in my mind whether I should ask him to dance. We’d worked together on a Spanish project the month before, and, to be honest, I’d found him a little odd. Still, he was approachable and not so strange that I wouldn’t have wanted to dance with him. I walked over.
“Hi Andy. Would you like to dance?” My voice was somewhat shaky but not too bad.
He was silent at first, but his eyes widened.
Then he said, “I see. You would like to circumambulate the room in unison in the pre-mating ritual known as dance, correct? I am delighted and honored. I agree to your request, my lady.” He offered me his hand.
Not knowing how to reply, I said nothing and gave him my hand. We began dancing.
It went fine (your standard slow dance) until his allergies starting acting up. His nose began to twitch, he yanked his hand from my waist, put it up to his mouth, and then, “Achoo!”: a massive sneeze directly into his palm. Next, without anywhere else for his hand to go, he put it back on my waist and rubbed it around and around. Stacy, who was dancing right next to me, looked down at the spot where he had wiped his hand, back up at me, and winced.
At the conclusion of the dance, I wasn’t feeling well. Something had happened with my braces, and now one of the wires was poking me in the cheek. Blisters were forming on the back of my feet from my new shoes. And my head was starting to throb. I told Stacy I was going to go home.
She begged me to stay, producing dental wax, Band-aids, and aspirin from her purse. She told me she’d heard that Kevin was definitely going to ask me to dance. “Please. Go sit down and rest for a while. You’ll feel better soon.”
I did as she said.
While recuperating, I searched for Kevin. I spotted him close to the middle of the room, slow dancing with Leigh. Leigh was my biggest rival. They had been an on-again, off-again item for three months. But, as of late, I had noticed he wasn’t walking with her in the hallways. They hadn’t held hands in four days (really three days, eighteen hours, forty-seven minutes). And I’d heard whispers that she had developed a crush on Brian, the star soccer player. I scrutinized their body language. They were closer than average but not as close as the long-term couples. For the most part, they were making eye contact, but occasionally, her eyes would drift off to the neighboring dancers. Their feet were moving, but, from the waist up, they were concrete rigid. Her lips formed a weak smile. His face was inscrutable.
The dance ended, and I saw Stacy dash from one side of the gym to the other, staggering from side to side as she tried to speed walk in her high heels. At first I thought she was headed to the bathroom. But she passed right by it. She continued past the refreshment table, past the chaperone post, past the bleachers, and then, there she was, looking triumphant, with Kevin and his friends.
My stomach solidified.
I saw them talking, but I was too far away to hear anything. I said a prayer that it wasn’t what I feared—what deep down I knew—it was.
But he began to move toward me. He walked, I am sure, at a regular pace, but it seemed to me to be in slow motion, each step deliberate and anticipatory. He was a spectacle of color: a loose tangerine T-shirt, bright purple-yellow-and-red floral Jams shorts, chunky turquoise high-tops. His hair and shirt had been tidied since earlier in the evening. His head was held high, his spine was straight, his shoulders were pulled back. Everything in the room except for him faded into darkness. Everything in the room except for him went mute.
Soon he was in front of me. “Okay, I’m going to try out my French. Christine, tu veux danser ?” Even if I weren’t studying French, I knew what it meant. He wanted to dance with me.
My throat clenched up immediately. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft croak. There was a flash of heat, a wave of nausea, and then I managed to pull myself together and give him a quick nod.
He took my hand. We walked out into the crowd. We got into position.
He placed his hands carefully on my waist. I laid mine on his shoulders. My elbows, like always, were straight. But then, I felt him pulling me in. I had never experienced this before and did not know what it meant. But this was no time to speculate, I told myself. I relaxed my arms and drifted toward him.
He did not dance like the others. Instead of discrete steps, he swayed. A graceful wave of the hips to the right, then back to the left, his shoulders counterturning in a choreographed ballet. I followed his lead without difficulty, feeling, for the first time that evening, fluid and open.
His hands felt warm and secure on my waist, as though they belonged there. At one point, my finger fell from his shoulder to his collarbone, and though I didn’t know if that was okay, I decided to leave it there, feeling the texture of his skin. Standing close to him, I began to study his features like I never had before: the sunburst pattern of browns and ambers radiating out from his pupils, the velvety, angled eyebrows, the fleshy earlobes. His braces glinted when they caught the light. He smiled and spoke, asked me questions, laughed. He made it easy to reciprocate.
I eventually became aware of my surroundings. Everyone seemed golden and expansive and effervescent. And then, I noticed the music. They were playing Chris de Burgh’s epic “The Lady in Red.” Suddenly, I was under a giant spotlight, my red sailor dress on full display. I couldn’t bear looking at Kevin in that moment. I turned my head, took three deep breaths, then gradually looked back. He was smiling at me, a natural smile, and his eyes looked innocent and kind. The tension that had built up in my shoulders eased.
Stacy was dancing with Derek next to us and waved to get my attention. She mouthed something I couldn’t understand. Then, in one exaggerated motion, she leaned forward, swept her arms out, and clasped her hands behind Derek’s neck. She looked at me and bobbed her head. Now I understood.
I hoped Kevin had not seen Stacy coaching me. It was unlike me, but I recognized that I might not get another chance and that I’d regret it forever if I didn’t take the opportunity now. So I took a step forward, reached out, wrapped my hands around his neck, and interlaced my fingers. As I was doing this, his hands moved to the small of my back, and he pulled me in. We were now the closest I had ever been to a dancing partner, our torsos just inches apart. My breath quickened.
Now I was weightless, floating, a beautiful fairy gliding through the air.
Something from above then landed on me, tickling my nose. Then another, and another, cascading down at increasing speed. I looked up and saw Stacy holding an assortment of flowers, sprinkling them not just on me but on Kevin, as well. This was a couple’s shower, a tradition well known throughout our school. I felt myself blush, but my body stayed calm.
All too soon, the music stopped. The dancing slowed. Couples began to separate. Slowly, slowly, we stepped away from each other, reclaiming our individual spaces, reestablishing our starched demeanors. There was a pause. Then, in an instant, something in him changed. A mysterious expression came over his face, a blend of curiosity, vitality, wonder. It seemed as though he were going to say something, but he remained silent. Once again, in slow motion, he started coming forward. As if in a dream, I saw him reach out, take my hands in his, and smile. The room then blurred, the lights blazed, and I swelled, overfilled with grandeur and buoyancy, goodwill and hope.
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