The music had gone mellow.
“Symbols,” she muttered, then reached out and slipped her arms around me and came in close. There was a new openness in her posture: legs separated, a subtle tilt to the pelvis.
For the next hour things were fine. No talking, just motion. It all seemed appropriate. The scalps and arrows and twinkling lights, and the way she moved, athletic but graceful, and the mood, and the romantic expression in Custer’s wide blue eyes. I recognized the compatibilities. When we danced slow, I could feel her breasts against me, the give and take. There were skin smells, too, and a perfume of roses sprinkled with spice—clove or cinnamon.
The perfume was what did it to me.
First a prickly stirring below my belt, then the inevitable laws of hydraulics. I shut my eyes and tried to force it down, but Sarah suddenly jerked away.
“What the hell’s that?” she said.
“Nothing, it’s a—”
“I know what it is! Just keep it away from me!”
I was already wilting.
“An accident,” I said.
“Accident!”
“Look, I’m sorry, it’s like chemistry or something, those things happen. You shouldn’t take it quite so personal.”
Sarah winced.
“Never fails. Same old garbage—put on a letter sweater, guys automatically assume you’re Little Miss Easy Squeezie. Little Miss Huff and Puff.”
“Not me. I don’t think that way.”
“I’ve got feelings!”
For a second it seemed she might spin away. Her eyes moistened. It was real anger, and a kind of sadness, but then she gave me a resigned half-smile, almost tender, and locked her hands around the small of my back. She kept dancing even after the music stopped.
Here, I realized, was a very troubled young lady.
After a time Sarah sighed and put her cheek against mine. “All right, you couldn’t help it,” she said. “Chemistry. You’re not such a bad guy, really. Under other circumstances—who knows? It’s just too bad about your rotten personality.”
“My mistake.”
“A queer duck, aren’t you?”
“Unique,” I said. “One of a kind.”
She smiled. A volatile person, I thought, but it was a genuine smile, crooked and friendly.
We danced flat-footed, barely moving.
“You know what I remember?” she said. “I remember back in high school—even junior high—you had this tremendous crush on me. Remember that? Not that I blame you. Thing is, you never made a move. Didn’t even try, for God’s sake.”
“A little bashful,” I said.
“Maybe. But it was like I wasn’t quite good enough for you. I mean, did you ever smile at me? One lousy little smile?”
I thought about it.
“I guess not,” I said. “I didn’t know you were all that interested.”
Sarah laughed. “Of course I wasn’t interested. I would’ve shut you off like a light. All I’m saying is you never gave yourself a chance. Gutless, et cetera.”
But again she smiled.
It was tempting. Partly a dare and partly something else. Sarah looked straight at me.
“The problem,” she said softly, “is I’m bad news. Too hot to handle. You’d get burned.”
“I suppose.”
“Seriously. Don’t mess with it.”
There was still that intriguing half-smile, like an invitation, it seemed. At the corner of her mouth was a small red blister, which inspired me, and there was that hard acrobat’s body, and that perfumed skin.
I was working my way toward an act of great courage when Ned Rafferty tapped me on the shoulder and stepped in and glided away with her.
It was too quick to process. No words, just a wave, then she was gone.
“Sure,” I said, “go right ahead.”
I felt the fuses blowing. Scalped, I thought. First my father, now me.
Hard to find meaning in it.
When the music ended, I began weaving my way across the floor, but things were jammed, and by the time I got there it was too late, they were dancing again.
That fast—every time. It just happens.
I moved off to a corner and stood watching. Painful, but I had to admire Rafferty’s style, all the dips and fancy footwork. He was handsome, too—curly brown hair and gray eyes—but his greatest strength, I decided, was strength. He had that Crazy Horse power: feathers and war paint and big killer shoulders. It was pure hate. And what I hated most was the way Sarah smiled at him, that same inviting half-smile, except now it was aimed elsewhere.
Which is how it always happens.
That fast.
You get all revved up for somebody, ready to take the plunge, and the next thing you know you’re diving onto concrete.
There was a moral in it. Never underestimate the power of power. Never take chances. Because you end up getting smashed. Every time—crushed.
Safety first, that was the moral.
A half hour later Sarah found me sitting at a table near the buffet line.
“Back in the fold,” she said cheerfully, but I ignored her. I was busy twisting a scalp around my fists.
There was a hesitation before she sat down.
“You’re excited,” she said, “it’s obvious.”
At her forehead was a smudge of Rafferty’s orange war paint. I turned sideways and crossed my legs and began braiding the scalp into two neat pigtails.
For a few minutes Sarah sat watching.
“All right, listen, I’m sorry,” she finally said. She studied the scalp for a moment, then smiled. “Shouldn’t have gone off like that. The call of the wild, I guess. Fickle me. But it’s not like we’re engaged or anything. We’re barely friends.”
“Right,” I said, “barely friends. Take a walk.”
Sarah’s lips compressed.
“That old green devil. Jealousy, it gives me goose bumps.” As if by accident her hand dropped against my wrist. “Apologies, then? I didn’t mean to mess up your super ego. I was just—you know—just letting loose. Just dancing with the guy. No big deal.”
“He’s a turd,” I said.
“If you say so.”
“Fuzzball.”
Sarah laughed.
“Absolutely,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. Fuzzballs get boring. They tend to stick to your sweater.”
She liked me. She almost said so.
It was like riding ice, things seemed to skid by. I remember a saxophone. I remember Sarah leaning up against me. Not love, exactly, just intense liking. And it cut both ways. I liked her, she liked me. Late in the evening there was a Hula Hoop contest, which Sarah won, and afterward we ate sandwiches and potato salad, then danced, then sat in the bleachers and watched the party and talked about little things, our lives, which led into bigger things. Now and then she’d touch my arm. She’d look at me in a fond sort of way. At one point, I remember, she said she admired what I was doing at the cafeteria. It took guts, she said; it was honorable. I shrugged and said, “Half-assed?” and she was silent for a while, then said, “Well, listen, I’ve got this big mouth.” I told her it was a beautiful mouth. Then later we talked politics. It was soft, serious talk, not romantic, but it implied something. She said she hated the war as much as anyone. She had principles. She knew a thing or two about death—her father was a mortician—the stiffs stayed stiff—they didn’t wake up—she couldn’t see any reason for the killing. She put her hand on my arm. Her only quibble, she told me, was tactical. It was a real war, wasn’t it? Real bombs? Which required a real response. Posters were fine, but too passive, not enough drama.
She kept smiling, I remember. She kept that hand on my arm.