want to know, but not as gossip fodder. I want to know the story because I want to know something real about him, to figure out who he is, exactly, and the urge to ask is almost overwhelming, like a sneeze that you really want to come out but just sort of burns in your nostrils for awhile. But I ask instead, “So … did you hand in your Hamlet paper today?”
“Yeah. I meant it when I said you had an interesting take on Ophelia, you know.” He’s still looking right at me, almost through me now. He looks like he wants to ask me, or tell me, something, too.
“Thank you…?”
“The stuff about her being a pawn, her being used by people–that seems important to consider,” he tells me, his eyes reaching out for me and I feel my heart lurch into a higher speed. I can’t shake the feeling he is trying to tell me something without saying it, but I have no idea what it is he wants to say. Or if I want to hear it.
“Um, I thought so,” I say.
“Right. Because, obviously, nobody should use someone else for their own ends…”
I agree, and then it hits me. “Oh my God,” I cry out, then slap my fingers over my mouth. “Do you think I used you somehow tonight?”
Now Michael looks completely confused.
“No–what? What are you talking about? I asked you to dance, didn’t I? How did you use me?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I’m just trying to follow the conversation–there seems to be a subtext to it.”
He sort of sighs through his nose then and shakes his head.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says.
“Okay. What did you mean?”
He frowns and his mouth starts forming a word but then snaps itself back into a scowl again. He ducks his head slightly and says, “Nothing. I didn’t mean …Who you dance with is your business, but I’d advise against doing anything else with Jeremy, okay?”
“What else would I do with Jeremy? Not that it’s any of your business–we agree on that, at least—”
Darien Drake comes over then and takes the seat on the other side of Michael, looking like a fairy tale enchantress, with her sleek blue-black hair and deep plum satin dress.
“Come on, Michael, let’s dance,” she coaxes, placing a slim ringed hand on his arm and looking up at me with a Persian cat smile. “Georgia won’t mind, will you?”
“Of course not,” I say, but I do mind, actually, because I feel like I snapped at him again and pushed him away when I really wanted to know what he meant about Jeremy. When Michael looks back at me as Darien leads him onto the floor I feel like I’m going to cry and I have no idea why and it all seems so exhausting suddenly. When my dad comes over and asks, “Are you tired, Georgia? Should we call it a night?” I practically run to the coatroom where my mother is waiting and talking to someone from one of her clubs. I’m at the car and buckled up, ready to go, in ten seconds flat.
Tori doesn’t get home for another hour or so and says, “Hey, George,” as she sits on her bed and kicks off her shoes. “That turn you took with Jeremy on the dance floor was like something out of a movie.”
“Carrie, maybe.”
She rolls her eyes and gets up to change into her pajamas.
“Jeremy is gorgeous, isn’t he?” she prompts but I don’t say anything. Climbing into her bed, Tori ventures, “Michael didn’t look too happy about your dancing with Jeremy.”
“Actually, he seems to think that dancing with Jeremy is permissible. Which is awfully big of him, considering the depths of his passion for me, evidenced weeks ago when he ran away screaming at the very idea of going to a movie with me.”
“He did ask you to dance.”
“He was being polite.”
Tori just laughs and rolls away from me toward the wall with its yellowing flowered wallpaper.
“Do you usually think that Michael is especially polite?” she teases.
“No,” I admit. “That’s why I’m confused.” I consider telling her about the weird feeling I had that Michael was trying to warn me about Jeremy, but it’s been so long since I told Tori anything important I wasn’t sure how to do it. Plus, I wasn’t sure what to say.
I’ve never felt like this about anybody before. So irritated but, yeah, I’ll admit it, attracted, too. I don’t know how I would even explain