Bron looked as if he was going to deny it, but admitted, "Right on all counts, I guess. I'm straight, and you... definitely check out."
"I'm Whitney," she said. "Whitney Shakespeare." She stuck out a hand to shake. He had a firm grip, callused hands. She held his for a bit longer than was necessary.
"Bron," he said.
"Bron Jones," she corrected. "You're living with Mrs. Hernandez." She smiled secretively. "You're going to love her. She's my favorite teacher." She leaned in, gave him a bump with her shoulder.
"Yeah, she's great," Bron said, and as the band packed up, they got lost in conversation. Bron's face, his voice, were dizzying. Whitney told him about her old home, down in L.A., and her father's business as a film financier, before he'd died. They talked about their favorite pizza, and she found herself taking his hand and leading him like a puppy as she strolled back into school, down the hall to Room 205.
She clung to his hand self-consciously. There were a lot of pretty girls in the school, heavy competition, and she wanted to signal that "this one is mine."
Whitney's stomach rumbled from hunger, but she decided to skip lunch in order to be with Bron.
As they began to enter the classroom, Bron suddenly looked up with a start. The little room was nearly full of students, some sitting along the back walls.
"What's this?" Bron asked.
"The Star Wars Club," she said. "You should join." She pulled him into the room, and they took a place against the back wall, since all of the seats were fall.
The teacher, Mrs. McConkie, stood at the front, next to a television with a built-in Blu-Ray. "We're going to start the semester with Star Trek, the J.J. Abrams version. Notice how it starts with the birth of a hero, who is also the son of a hero, in the very oldest of Greek tradition. Yet in reinventing the Star Trek universe, J. J. Abrams is doing what mythmakers have always done, adapting the tropes of the past to our day...."
She flipped on the television, and within moments Whitney felt lost in the story. From time to time, the teacher would make some comment: "Here's where Kirk proves that he's a hero. He gives his life in order to save his crew. Note also that in losing his life, it ensures that his son will have to come back and face the villain that destroyed him." Or, "Notice how Young Kirk is lost, impulsive, and self-destructive in this scene. All young heroes are shown this way, almost always with these same flaws. These aren't flaws in character so much as the foibles of youth...."
This wasn't just vapid entertainment. The teacher was explaining how this silly story connected with a wider world, and as she watched it, Whitney glanced over at Bron and wondered, Could he be the son of a hero?
He looked the part. He had a strong chin, a noble brow.
Bron glanced to the side, saw Whitney studying him. She smiled as if to say, "Ah, you caught me."
"Were you just checking me out?" Bron asked.
She grinned.
"Well?"
"No, we're way past that," she admitted. "I was more... admiring."
Bron couldn't wipe the grin from his face after that. Upon seeing Whitney, hearing her sing, it had seemed that joy just gushed out from her, like clear water from a mountain spring. He imagined instantly that she would be the most popular girl in the school.
There were a lot of pretty girls at Tuacahn, and he was definitely standing next to one of the hottest in the school. Whitney, with her cinnamon-colored hair, sea-green eyes, and dancer's physique was awesome, and she was holding his hand.
He'd never held hands with a girl before.
But there was more. When she'd sung, he felt that he connected on some deeper level. They were both the same inside—hurt, longing, alone, in need.
Life seemed good.
The movie had to be halted partway through, and Bron said goodbye to Whitney. She walked a few steps, turned back and caught him staring. She made the "call me" sign, and turned away.
He put it on his to-do list, promised himself that he'd call her tonight, after school.
After that, third period was a blur. Something about a Spanish class? He was so mesmerized by Whitney, he didn't remember much. She had such an astonishing effect on him that it drove out all of his concerns from the weekend, all of his worries.
The teacher was explaining how to conjugate the verb ser, to be, when the door burst open and a young man came into the room, dancing and spinning with a boom box on his shoulder, playing Owl City's "Fireflies." The teacher looked stunned and shouted for him to leave as he danced around, seemingly oblivious to her shaking fist.
Seconds later, a young man came tumbling into the room and began to break-dance, spinning on his head on the floor, followed by a ballerina.
The teacher kept shouting for them to get out, and they all ignored her, until Bron realized that it was all an act, and the teacher was in on it. A fourth girl danced into the room bearing a sign, "Dance Club Auditions: Thursday!"
The room erupted into enthusiastic applause and whistling, and the dancers whirled from the room, taking their show on the road.
Bron's last class of the day was beginning dance, his first and only real "arts" class for the semester. Most of the classes had already been full when he registered, and Bron felt silly in this class. Though it was a beginning class, Bron was less than a beginner. He'd hardly danced before. One bad experience had left him never wanting to dance again.
If he thought that this might be like any of the dance classes he'd seen at other schools, the teacher, Mr. Petrowski, quickly dispelled all illusions. One girl whispered, "He danced with the National Ballet in Moscow."
When Mr. Petrowski entered the room, he came in black tights. The man had thighs like a weightlifter's but managed to walk with the grace of a doe. In a thick accent he said, "This dance class will be toughest in your life, both on emotional level, and on physical realm. We have musical events to prepare for. The first one comes with the Renaissance Feaste, on October first, six weeks from now. We need dancers to perform in medieval costume. The Christmas Dance Recital comes in December, fourteen weeks from now.
Auditions for performances start Wednesday."
This caused a stir in class. Many girls had a hopeful gleam in their eyes, and Bron realized that this was one of the big events at the school.
A young lady at his side whispered, "Don't worry. You've got a good shot, so long as you don't trip over your own feet. They always need guys."
"Yeah, but this is a beginning dance class. We won't have a chance, will we?"
She smiled up at him. "Petrowski is always looking for beginners to put in the show. He wants the upperclassmen to know that there is always someone younger nipping at their heels."
Bron nodded.
Petrowski introduced four older students who would be working as teacher's aides, two guys and two girls. Bron recognized one of the boys—tall, broad-chested. He'd been talking with Whitney in the hall, earlier in the day.
"You any good?" the girl at his side asked. She was studying his arms, his abs. Bron knew that he was pretty ripped. Most days this summer, he started the morning with a hundred crunches and ended the day with two.
"I've never even tried dance," he admitted. "Sorry."
"You're an athlete, though?"
"Wrestling and cross-country. I wasn't that good."
"Wrestling is a lot like dancing," she whispered. "If you can learn how to do a takedown, a dip will be easy. If you're used to running, you should have good wind. All we really need to find out is if you've got rhythm and attitude."
The girl wasn't pretty so much as seductive. She was shorter than a dancer should be, with exaggerated curves. There was intelligence in her brown eyes, a quick wit.