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Wanda leans close and says, “Sometimes it’s hard to see what’s in front of you.”
Is this about DJ lights? I strongly doubt it. Is she talking about Dexter? Can she read my mind? Is Wanda Chamberlain like one of those phone-in psychics who says random things to make people think she can see something hidden?
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, dear,” she says, and pats my hand in a grandmotherly way that makes me want to squeeze her.
But what does she mean? Is she being metaphorical? Is she talking about Dexter without talking about Dexter?
I am going to ask.
In a minute.
I’m definitely going to ask her if she’s talking about Dexter Kaplan.
I almost decide on the words when Hank comes up and kneels at Wanda’s side.
“Ms. Chamberlain, it would be my great pleasure if you would join me in a dance.”
Wanda puts her hand on his shoulder and turns to look at me. “Is his voice not the most delicious thing?” she asks with a wink.
“Nearly as good as Val’s cookies,” I say, waving my fingers as Hank leads Wanda to the dance floor.
I glance around again and I see Adam Brillstein, his back to the wall, hovering over a plate of cookies and looking terrified that anyone might talk to him.
I am not confident enough to sit alone at a table during a dance. (And what would I do if a student came over to rescue me? Can I dance with a student? I’m guessing definitely not.) I get up to do another lap of the Hall, sure that this time I’ll catch sight of Dexter.
Nothing.
Instead, I see three different couples making out, and I have to remind myself that I’m allowed—expected—to call them out. I see many parents. I try, again unsuccessfully, to imagine my parents traveling for hours to attend any school event I’ve ever been involved in. Nope. And I see Hank spinning Wanda Chamberlain around the perimeter of the dance floor, keeping perfect time in completely charming dance moves that don’t match the style of the DJ music at all. I shake my head. Hank is growing on me.
Maybe I’m growing on him, too.
Maybe he’ll tell me where Dexter is without turning it into some big deal.
I know if I handle this wrong, it will make me look and feel like an imbecile. It will immediately and irreparably get back to Dexter, and it will look like an attack. And that is opposite of what I want. If I can find out where Dexter is without anyone knowing that’s what I’m doing, well, that’s going to be ideal. I think I’m going to have to try the small talk. Dammit.
Hank returns Wanda to the table and sinks down in a chair himself, reporting that she’s worn him out.
“Amateur.” Wanda points a ring-laden finger at him. “I could have kept going for hours.”
Hank wipes his forehead dramatically. “Clearly, my dear lady, you are far more fit for dancing than I.”
He’s joking, obviously. And Wanda eats it up.
Blond pony-tailed Uriel Garcia, who frankly looks like he could walk out of the classroom and be the starting forward on Spain’s World Cup team is the next to ask Wanda to dance. So here I sit, alone with Hank, at this small, round table. It’s perfect.
How can I subtly ask Hank about Dexter?
“Is Dexter okay?” So much for subtlety.
Hank shakes his head like he’s clearing water from his ears, or possibly re-tossing his hair. “What d’you mean?”
“Um. Just. I haven’t seen him? Since this afternoon?” I sound like Adam Brillstein. Or like a kid in a job interview. Why do I feel nervous? It’s perfectly natural for me to wonder if Dexter’s gone to the hospital or something. “And I hope he’s not sick?” Why am I still Adam Brillstein-ing?
“Blast,” Hank says in a voice that doesn’t carry far in this noisy room. He wipes his crumbs into a napkin and stands up. “Excuse me, please. Got to run.” Gesturing around the room, he says, “Great job on the party.” He gives me a little nod, and maybe a sad smile? Or is that just how he smiles? He disappears into the crowd.
Weird.
I hitch a smile onto my face and do another lap of the dance floor, reminding myself that everyone is having fun. At least, everyone else.
