Look Again

21

JOEY

Ilet myself into the Hall and lock the door behind me. My head feels good—almost normal. Luckily my afternoon of climbing ladders and dancing with Dexter didn’t lead to any pain or dizziness. Well, not because of the neuritis, anyway. There was a little Dexter-induced dizziness that I can’t quite make myself ignore. The medication is working, is what I’m saying. I’m so relieved. And thankful. And curious.

He held me so comfortably. I fit inside his arms so perfectly. I can still feel the shiver in my skin from when he put his hands on my hips to lift me. And every kid on the committee was watching.

But really? What did they see? Two teachers dancing. Maybe one teacher showing off. People—old people, as far as they’re concerned—sharing a swing dance. They didn’t see the way he looked into my eyes. They couldn’t see how my breath went shallow. None of them could tell I didn’t want it to end.

Not even Dexter.

I’m making it easy for him to ignore me. I don’t linger. I don’t put my hand on his arm, when all I want is to put my hand right there on his arm. I don’t let myself look at him when I know he’s looking. If there’s any possibility that he feels what I felt that day in his apartment, it’s slim. And he’s proven that he can hide it.

If he can hide it, so can I.

But he’s the one who said friends, so maybe there’s nothing for him to hide.

Hiding is lonely when it’s only me. Maybe it’s not only me. He did say want, after all. But we’re not allowed to want.

I mean, we can want all we want, we just can’t act on it.

This whole line of thinking is giving me a headache.

The kids from the committee show up on time, as expected. They ping around the room switching on battery-powered candles, adjusting strings of lights that need no adjustment, and peeking out windows to see if anyone is lining up. I wonder if the student committees feel these butterfly nerves every time there’s an event—these same nerves that plague my stomach now. Will anyone come? Will they have fun? Will this party be a success?

I shoot a few photos of the kids as they rush around the room, playing with the fake-candlelight exposure. When it’s five minutes to open-the-doors time, I call them all over for a group shot. They squeeze together, heedless of crushing suits and dresses, pure joy radiating from their faces.

When I put down the camera, they keep looking at me, waiting, I guess, for me to tell them what to do. What to do? How should I know?

I feel my face flaming, and I think my eyes are probably doing that thing that looks a lot like the rolling eyes of a panicking horse.

Make something up, I tell myself. You’re the adult here. “Hands in.”

Hands in? This isn’t a hockey match. But the kids are all for it. They stack their hands together like wheel spokes and look at me. “Take a second,” I say. “Look around.” Without moving their hands, they swivel their heads, eyes shining, to see what they created. “In a minute, this room will be full of your friends, some of their parents, and a bunch of teachers. But you’ll manage to have fun anyway.”

They laugh, and I finish the pep talk. “You made this happen. Your good work makes great things happen.” I grin around the circle at them. “Go, team.”

They cheer and raise their hands, then scatter to their stations. Except Lilian. She stays with me, hovering almost a foot taller than me in those amazing (ridiculous) heels.

“Miss Harker?” Her voice wobbles, whether with nerves or excitement, I can’t tell. “Where’s Mr. Kaplan?”

An excellent question. Such a very, very good question.

I force a smile. “I’m sure he’s on his way. Probably managing the lineup outside.”

As I say it, it sounds like a great possibility. I hope it’s true. Checking the time once again, I signal the DJ and go open the doors to let people in.

Making my way to the locked door, I hope Dexter’s face will be the first I see, waiting with the kids and maintaining order. Instead, at the door I see Adam Brillstein, history teacher and altogether uncomfortable man, practically squashed against the glass, looking like a wounded panda, somehow—however improbably—surrounded by hyenas. When he meets my eye, he tries to smile, but with no success at all. He looks like he might throw up. I don’t think any of the kids standing out there waiting to come in could be as nervous as this teacher clearly is.

I appreciate his bravery to come anyway, to be supportive and to help chaperone.

I glance at the ticket table to be sure the kids are ready for the incoming press. They give me the thumbs-up, and I unlock the door.

The surge is unremitting for a few minutes, but the kids working the card readers and the cashbox are capable and polite, and the combination of kids and adults entering the space feels far less weird than I expected it would. As the initial press turns to a constant stream, I decide to take a lap around the room. My students stop me here and there to introduce me to their parents, which is weird on a few levels. I cannot imagine my parents at a high school dance. But, I keep reminding myself, Chamberlain does things differently.

A few times, groups of kids call out, “Miss Harker, come dance with us,” in a way that’s probably sincere, but no. I make vague circular motions, hoping that communicates my need to keep moving around the room.

I make three circuits around the Hall before I realize that A) I am, in fact, looking for Dexter Kaplan and B) I do not see Dexter Kaplan.