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“I think it’s easier to dance the whole thing,” Alison says. “I’d rather learn all of it and practice it straight through than keep stopping to perfect each section.”
“Totally,” I say, feeling a little awkward but forcing myself to remember that even though I don’t know Alison, she thinks she knows me. “And you know how if you learn something then sleep on it, you’ll remember it better?” She nods. “Well, I bet if she teaches us the ending today, we’ll all nail the dance tomorrow.”
“Genius,” Alison says, smiling warmly.
“Hardly,” I say, laughing as I pull my long hair into a knot at the back of my head, checking for strays in the wall of mirrors.
“Showtime,” Alison says as the teacher takes her place.
And for forty-five minutes, I’m in heaven.
I leave my hair pulled back for creative writing, because it’s sweaty and I used all my shower time going over the routine—the whole routine—three more times with Alison. Still high on dance, Madonna ringing in my ears, I walk into the creative writing classroom and cut straight to the front desk on the right. Not until I’m practically in the lap of the desk’s occupant do I realize that it’s taken. I stop short, no clue what to do. Should I just sit in a free seat or run out of the room and call Ella? While I’m deciding, the guy in my seat feels my stare and turns around.
Suddenly I notice that the room has grown very warm.
“Hi?” he asks, smiling with his brow furrowed. I don’t know him, but his greeting seems to be translatable to Gawk much?
He moves in a funny way, almost levitating the desk while he’s still in it. Then he makes the walls ripple, too. How does he do that? I wonder, but not for long, because the floor buckles. I reach out for the desk next to me; we’re having an earthquake. Except no one else seems to be alarmed.
“Are you okay?” I hear the guy ask.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I pass out.
When I wake up seconds or minutes later, my classmates are looking at me from their desks, some of them smirking, some of them concerned. My first thought is that I’m thankful that I’m not wearing a skirt. My second thought is of the necklace. My hand flies to my throat, and for once this week, I catch a break: The necklace isn’t there. I must have left it in my gym locker after dance.
“Elizabeth?” Mr. Ames says, standing over me, concerned. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, feeling like an idiot. I look at Guy, who’s half out of his seat; he eases back down.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Ames asks. “You look quite pale.”
It’s weird to be on the floor while he’s hovering over me like this; I can see up his prominent nose. I start to sit up and choose to look back at Guy while I do it.
That’s when I realize that he’s actually pretty cute. Except not in the traditional way. Picking apart the pieces, he’s too angular. His chin and mouth are sharp; his nose looks like it started out perfectly straight then met up with a tree or another guy’s shoulder at some point. His hair can only be described as a side spike, like he stood sideways in front of a fan blowing hairspray instead of air. He’s tall and towering even seated, watching me curiously with light brown eyes. Just as I decide that he looks like the daytime alter ego for a nighttime superhero, he speaks.
“She hit the ground pretty hard,” he says in a low, smooth voice. “Maybe she needs to go to see Miss Brady.”
“Excellent idea,” Mr. Ames says, nodding. “Let me help you up, Elizabeth,” he says, offering me a hand. Then, to everyone else, “Who wants to volunteer to walk her to the nurse’s office?”
“No!” I say, jumping up. I can’t go to the nurse’s office. She’ll call my mom, who will make me go home and then prescribe chicken broth and a bedtime earlier than a toddler’s. “Really, I’m fine,” I say. “I had dance last period and overdid it. I just got a little light-headed.” Mr. Ames is frowning at me, so I add, “I didn’t eat lunch.”
“Well, at least go get a snack,” he says, shaking his head. “You girls.” I can’t help but wonder whether he thinks I’m anorexic or something.
“Great,” I say quickly. “I’ll go right now.”
“Someone needs to go with you,” he says, “just to make sure you’re all right. Anyone?” He and I both look around the class; no one volunteers. I don’t blame them: We’re only a few weeks into the school year and I didn’t go here last year. Technically, I’m still new.
“I’ll do it,” Guy volunteers. The hairs on my arms stand up.
“That would be fantastic,” Mr. Ames says. Even in my slightly woozy state, I wonder: Really? Fantastic?
Mr. Ames writes us hall passes and hands them over. “Take your time.”
My legs are shaky as I turn to leave the room; Guy follows me. Mr. Ames resumes class before we’re to the doorway. “As for everyone else, please open your notebooks for a fun new writing assignment. I’d like you to write two pages that begin with the phrase, ‘It all started when the dog…’ ”
