The St. Ambrose School for Girls(60)

As I observe the two separate camps, I note the behavior of both and find the posturing a colossal waste of energy. The girls, as they dance in front of the boys, seem wholly disdainful of the very thing they appear to be trying to get the attention of. Moving their bodies in time to the music, they wear haughty expressions, turning down offers they are not being presented with. The boys, on the other hand, in their clutches of lanky frames, act as though they are completely unaware that there’s anything going on outside of the conversations they’re having with each other and the push-and-shoves they become entangled in from time to time. And yet the girls keep dancing and the boys keep sneaking glances.

I wonder where the night will end for them. Still apart? Or locked in desperate, fleeting grabs under the bleachers where the chaperones won’t see them? I know where my night will end, and it is not going to be anywhere near a warm body other than my own. As this prescient knowledge sinks in, I find myself worrying about my lack of response to Strots’s impromptu kiss. I felt nothing. No spark. No interest. Considering it was my first kiss, I become concerned that I will never respond to anybody, male or female.

As this prospect fills me with I’m-a-freak dread, I remind myself I should be encouraged by my introspection. It’s normal to wonder and worry about your sexuality when you are fifteen. I was told this in sex ed class last year. Plus anything that isn’t me going back to the beginning of the universe or growing hair that takes over a small Massachusetts town or being inside a coffin at a Kleenex-deficient funeral at the National Cathedral in Washington, DC, should be rejoiced.

The lithium is definitely working.

I try to locate Greta in the crowd. It’s difficult to isolate her among all the other blondes, and I wonder to what extent the admissions committee favors those with Anglo-Saxon coloring. Judging by this crowd before me? I would say that that particular gene pool and look are nearly a requirement. No doubt my mother failed to disclose what I do to my brown hair or I would never have gotten one foot through the door. Even with the perfect SAT score I got on that test I took last year just to see if I could beat it.

Oh, there she is. Greta’s with her two best friends, and I’m initially surprised she’s not dancing. But then I see why she isn’t on the floor. There are boys with her. Three very tall, very handsome ones. The conversation in the group appears to be flowing easily, as if they all know each other well, and I remember what Greta said about not importing Todd to this event. I thought she wasn’t bringing him here because he wasn’t worth the probation? But maybe these are other boys, boys who she knows from somewhere else like an exclusive camp, a ski resort in Colorado, or summer houses in Maine or upstate New York… places that it may be harder for her to get to as often as her family did before the bankruptcy.

I wonder if she feels lesser than the rest of them, having to hitch rides to destinations she used to be able to arrive at on her own. And they must all know about the financial reversal. How can they not? The rich and powerful community can’t be any different from the small town I grew up in, where everyone knows everybody’s business.

And yet, if she does feel inferior, she isn’t showing it. Greta is smiling. She’s petting her own hair, as if trying to subdue the strands that are not, in fact, out of order in any way. And then she touches the forearm of one of the boys, the tallest one. Other boys come over and kibitz on the periphery, probably because she is so beautiful, definitely because the ice has been broken. The purpose of the dance is finally being served.

As my eyes track her movements, I picture her running out of our dorm and throwing herself into the arms of her hometown honey. I see Strots standing in the center of their room, staring out through the windows, breaking on the inside as spring sunlight falls like a blessing on the golden couple out on the lawn.

I cannot fathom that kind of cruelty.

Something hot curls deep inside of me.

I can’t see Greta without thinking of Strots’s suffering, and whereas before, I was unable to muster anything more than self-pity in my role as that pretty girl’s target, such passive endurance goes right out the fucking window when it comes to my roommate. I feel rage.

I feel hatred.

And I feel like protecting Strots, in the visceral way she offered to protect me—

“Hey, Sarah, not going to get your groove on?”

I jump in surprise. And then try to pretend I didn’t. “Oh, hi, Nick. How are you?”

I’m grateful that the lights are dim because I don’t want him to see that I’m flushing. Part of the reason I am is that I’m happy to see him, but I’m also ashamed by my uncharitable thoughts about Greta, regardless of what she’s done. I’m fairly sure Nick Hollis hasn’t hated anything or anybody. Things go easily for people like him, and it takes strife and hardship to breed what I’m feeling toward my tormentor.

“I’m good.” He smiles. “So you don’t feel like dancing?”

“No. Are you going to?” What am I saying?

“I’m just here doing my job as a chaperone.” Nick leans in. “Also, I can’t dance.”

I am shocked, in the manner I would be if he told me he was missing a kidney. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is. I got my two left feet from my dad as well.”

He and I stand together and watch the dance, and I try not to notice the subtle scent of his aftershave. He’s wearing a pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and the shirt is tucked into slacks the color of Cream of Wheat. He looks sophisticated and polished, his hair pushed off his high forehead, his strong forearms out on display.