It also helps that my mother approves of him. When I told her Hollis and his date were tagging along, her expression looked like she just bit into the sourest of lemons—like she normally looks whenever I mention him. Emphasizing Dallas would be my date and Hollis and Kelsey were just tagging along helped to smooth things over with my mother considerably.
“I’m ready. Buuut”—I drag out the word playfully—“are you sure you’re ready for my amazin’ dance moves?” I move my hands in a terrible rendition of the robot.
Good Lord Almighty, I’m a dork. But Dallas laughs, and when he smiles down at me, it’s not in a patronizing way. He looks at me the way I’ve been hoping a guy would look at me someday. Like I’m pretty even though I have these awful braces, and despite the fact that I don’t have many girlfriends because, well…most of them I really can’t stand.
He grins wider, and I find myself envious of his perfect teeth. “I didn’t realize I’d have to break out the classic moves tonight.”
I try my hand at flirting and lean in closer. “I can’t wait to—”
“What’s this about classic moves?”
Dallas and I whip our heads around in surprise at Hollis’ voice. The expression on his face is one I don’t recognize. His eyes seem to silently challenge Dallas in an odd sort of stare-down.
Attempting to lighten the mood, I force a smile. “We’re talkin’ about awesome dance moves. Like this one.” I attempt the robot again, and this time, Hollis’ lips curve upward in a hint of a smile.
“Better watch it, or you’ll be challenged to a dance-off tonight.” His eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Bring it on.” I laugh and slip inside the vehicle. Dallas closes the door and strides around to get in. Hollis sees Kelsey in on her side before getting in and buckling up.
Dallas backs out of the drive and heads toward our school gymnasium. My stomach flips with nervous anticipation of tonight. I’ve never actually been on a date before, so this is all new to me. I know, Hollis tried to simplify things for me earlier, but now, it doesn’t seem so cut and dry to me.
When Dallas glances over with a shy smile and slides his right hand over the console, tipping his palm up, it takes me a second to realize he’s waiting for me to put my hand in his.
Our palms touch and he closes his fingers around mine. His hand isn’t clammy or cold. His thumb lightly grazes my hand, and it’s actually…nice.
I relax in my seat, and when Coldplay’s song “Yellow” plays on the radio, I face the window. I know I’m a terrible singer and can’t carry a tune in a bucket, so I don’t want to subject anyone to my off-tune singing.
When the radio’s volume increases slightly, I turn to find Dallas’ thumb poised over the button on his steering wheel. He starts singing along, and I’m surprised he knows the words. Not only that, but he’s not the greatest singer either. Actually, he’s probably worse than me.
He glances over at me while singing softly, and his shy smile has me matching it with my own.
“Good thing they’ve got money because, good Lord in heaven, those voices…” Kelsey mutters snidely from the back seat, but I don’t pay her any attention. Hollis’ voice rumbles, but his voice is too low to decipher his words.
It doesn’t matter, though. Because Dallas has me thinking that I might just have this whole dating thing under control.
Hollis
AFTER THE DANCE
“You’re home early.” My mom sneers when I walk into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “Did she finally realize you’re trash?”
I should be used to her nasty jabs by now, but they continue to find their target. I refuse to acknowledge her, hoping she’ll lose interest and go back to whatever she was doing while I was gone.
With a glass in my hand, I press it against the dispenser on the refrigerator door and fill it with water, trying to buy myself time. To try to calm the intense anxiety rushing through me.
I should know better. Because nothing stops her from spewing her hate.
“Did that little whore buy that shirt for you?” She practically spits out the words, and when I turn around, my grasp on the glass is so tight, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. She moves closer, and that’s when I catch a whiff of it.
Alcohol.
My eyes widen in surprise even though I reckon I shouldn’t be. Not when it comes to her.
“You probably let her pay for everythin’, huh?”
My lips flatten. “That’s kinda the point behind the Sadie Hawkins dance. The girls ask the guys and pay for everythin’.” My tone is dull, and I’m not sure why I even offer up the information.
She steps even closer, and the stench of her breath—staleness intermixed with whatever liquor she’s gotten into—makes my stomach roil. “Bet you gave her somethin’ in return, huh?”
I clench my teeth so hard it’s a wonder my molars don’t crack. Instead of responding, I chug the water and set the glass on a coaster on the table for later.
As soon as I set it down, she grabs it with more quickness than I’d expect from someone who’s been drinking. With the glass in her hand, she holds it chest level before letting go, and it shatters to the floor at our feet.
I stay stock-still, frozen to the spot. I swear she’s getting worse and more unstable with her moods. I’m never sure what’ll set her off.
I mean, obviously, I’m always a factor, but she’s never gone this far before.
I watch cautiously as she bends down, swaying slightly, and grabs one of the larger pieces of broken glass. Part of me screams internally to move away, but my feet won’t budge.
She holds up the shard of glass between us, unaware she’s cut herself, and blood trickles down her index finger. Her face is a mottled red, angry, and sneering. “You think you’re good enough for her?” She raises the glass higher, closer to my neck. “You’re wrong. You’ll never be good enough for ’em. You’ll always be the poor Barnes boy.”
Hatred fills each word that falls from her lips, and I despise how they hit that insecure part of me that’s buried deep.
I force the words out as calmly as I can while her glassy eyes hold mine. “I get it. I’m not good enough. I’m trash. But”—I lean in closer, daring her to make a move—“what does that make you?”
Our eyes clash in their own silent war. I’ll never understand why she hates me. How a mother could hate her own son without any justified reason. Why I don’t measure up in her eyes. The hatred she has for me causes me to steer clear of her, but at times like this, when she seeks me out, I’m helpless to do much. Especially without Dad here as a buffer.
I get decent grades. I don’t get into trouble. I have a job. I’m not a slob, and I help out around the house. I’ve done nothing to deserve this kind of treatment, let alone her venom-filled words.
After what’s probably less than a minute but feels like eons, I break eye contact and turn to leave the kitchen. To get as far away from her as possible.
It happens so fast, the pain doesn’t immediately register when she does it. The wetness, however, does.