The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

The Main Chance

Previously: "Every Chance You Take" 

She is slinky, she is sexy, and you can't believe that you are dancing with her.

Like a cat that's been turned human by a magic spell, this girl Sydney is effortlessly smooth and graceful on the dance floor. She must be doing something with her feet, but you can't guess what, because you can't take your boggling eyes off her body. She has breasts and hips, but also tight, lithe curves in between, and her satin dress—the color of ink, but with shimmering highlights—hugs and uplifts and teases her shape. Her arms are bare, as are her legs from the hem of her very short skirt to the tops of her strappy, high-heeled sandals. She is tan all over, and her hair is a golden halo about her head.

Standing stock-still, she would be a knockout. In motion, she is one of the wonders of the world.

She undulates from side to side in perfect, rocking rhythm to the music, with a sleek, serpent-like grace. She scoops out the air with upraised palms, as though beckoning to you, but when you advance on tottering feet, she slides away, drawing you further and further in. She smiles at you with hooded eyes, and lifts her face now and then with a soft gasp to show you her alabaster throat.

You are quickly impaled on your own erection, and on your agonized fear that if you even so much as try to touch her, she will evaporate like an iridescent bubble.

So preoccupied, you don't notice the advancing figure until he has stepped between you and her.

You stop and blink stupidly, as though woken from a dream, and for moment you actually wonder if you have not been dreaming on your feet, and that this Sydney girl was not some kind of fantasy. You glare dully at the back of a letterman jacket—its owner gliding and grooving to the music, then step around to peer.

No, Sydney is real alright, and she's still dancing. But now she's dancing with a gorilla in a letterman jacket. And she's dancing just as happily with him as she was with you.

Except ... Is she? Her mouth is set in a grim line, and unless you're deluded, there is a light of faint anger in her eye as she looks between you and him.

Your whole arm and hand are numb as you grip the shoulder of the guy who interrupted you. He ignores you, though.

"Excuse me!" you shout over the music.

"You're excused," he retorts with a quick glance over his shoulder. "Just don't do it again!"

"I was here first!"

"Yeah, and now I'm taking my turn!"

You catch Sydney's eye. Now she look amused, but there's also a challenge in her glance. You feel yourself flushing as you shove letterman-jacket in the shoulder, pivoting him around. He stumbles a little, and stops dancing as he turns to confront you.

It's the blonde guy, who almost ran over you then set you back on your feet. He's a handsome son of a bitch, now that you've got a good look at him, as blonde as Sydney, with wide shoulders and a deep chest, whose width and depth are only accented by his padded jacket. From bitter experience, you can guess he could put you on the ground with only a hard, rude shove, and could probably pick you up and hurl you a dozen feet if he got really sore at you.

He doesn't look sore, though, and only breaks into a bright grin as you glower at him.

"I was with her!" you holler.

"And now I am! Look, cowboy," he says with an encouraging smile, "there's a dozen other girls here, every one of 'em dying to ride your big, beautiful, bouncing pony! So give them a chance, willya, and lemme have this one!"

You plant your feet, and feel your frown deepen.

He sighs.

Then his gaze brightens and his smile sharpens in a way you don't like. You are just raising your hands to ward off the blow you know is coming when a searing flash from a strobe overhead catches you full in the face, blinding you.

A hard hand grabs you by the arm as you try to rub the light from your eyes, and you feel yourself hustled fast off the floor. You stumble on your feet, then are thrown against a wall and briefly pinned there. You are still busy rubbing at your eyes—that flash is stuck there, almost as though it was glued inside your eyeballs—so when the hand withdraws you have to catch yourself from falling forward. As your sight slowly returns, you find that your eyes are streaming tears.

And when your sight is fully back, the first thing you see is Sydney.

"Come on," she says as she slides her arm through yours, and pulls you gently toward the doors. "Let's get out of here."

* * * * *

She leads you outside and you wind up sitting in the back of your pickup truck, talking.

"Yeah, I go to Westside," she tells you after you break the silence with the obvious question. "I'm new to town, though. Just moved here at the start of the school year."

"Where'd you move from?"

"Kansas City. My, uh, stepdad has a job with a textbook publisher, they transferred him here."

"You look like you come from California," you tell her. She has the hair, the tan, and the figure that you associate with Hollywood-honed cheerleaders.

She smiles. "And what would I look like, Will, if I looked like I came from Kansas City?"

"I dunno," you reply. "Fat?"

She laughs. You hardly notice, though. You're struck by the fact that she still remembers your name.

"We have sunshine and exercise in Kansas City, too," she says as she draws her knees up under her chin, and clasps her arms around her calves. "If you have that and good genes— That's 'genes' with a 'g', like chromosomes," she adds with a little acid as your eyes flick down the length of her legs. "Well, if you've got that, you can look like you're from California, or from anywhere, really."

"Why haven't I seen you around at school?"

"I dunno. Maybe you've always got your nose in a book?"

"Not me!" you exclaim.

"You really think you'd have noticed me?"

"Uh ... Yeah!"

She smiles.

"That's sweet. Do you wear your cowboy hat to school?"

"Huh? Oh!" Self-consciously, you lift it off your head. "No. In fact, I just bought it tonight. To wear out here."

"Well, wear it to school on Monday. I'll look for it."

You lift your eyes to look at her. Though she is smiling, she seems serious.

And you seriously consider bending in to kiss her.

Maybe she read the thought in your eyes, for she turns away before speaking again.

"This is my first time out at Legends," she says. "Do you come out here a lot?"

"No. This was actually my first time out here too."

She looks puzzled. "Was it the first time here for your friend?"

Friend? you briefly wonder. "Oh, you mean, uh, Patrick?"

"I don't know his name."

"Uh, no, I guess he comes out here all the time. Fact is, I'm not really friends with him. I mean, this is actually my first time really hanging out with him. I ran into him and some others up at the, uh—" You feel yourself reddening. "Up close to the mall," you mutter, for you don't want to admit to anything so juvenile as going "mini-golfing." "And we kept hanging out after that."

"Your friend was really into Kayla. He's quite a dancer."

"You're quite a dancer."

"Thanks," she says, dryly.

"I've never known anyone who could dance like you."

"You don't go out much, do you, Will?"

"I'd like to go out more," you blurt. Your heart has rocketed into your throat.

She smiles at you again. But there's a warning inside it.

"There's a lot of girls you could go out with," she says. "You wanna go with some? Just ask some out."

Taking your heart and guts and very existence in both hands, you ask, "Would you go out with me?"

"I already did," she says. "But if you're talking about next weekend or something—"

She gets to her feet, and easily—like a gymnast—lofts herself over the side of your truck onto the ground.

"Your friend Patrick was about to start getting handsy with Kayla," she says, "and the other girls were going off to rescue her. That's why they shoved me at you. It was my job to distract you, so they could do that without it getting messy."

She smiles.

"But it turns out you also rescued me, from that guy in there. So I owe you. Only, let me pay you back on my own schedule."

With a last, tight smile, she turns and with rolling hips goes strolling gracefully back toward the dance club.

And you, after sweeping up the wreckage of your emotions—your bones feel like powder, and your guts are puddling in your butt—crawl into the cab of your truck and drive home.

It's no consolation that you'd have had to head back pretty soon anyway. Your dad has set you a stupidly early curfew, and you learned as a sophomore how painful he could make it when you violate it.

* * * * *

Sunday morning means church, and it's the longest church service you've ever endured. At home, you don't even bother changing out of your church clothes, but huddle on your bed waiting for lunch to be ready.

You find a text, though, when you turn your phone back on. It's Dean, asking if you're up for getting together this afternoon.

* To meet with Dean: "The One Who Has It Worse" 
* To turn him down: "Three Bastards" 

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"