Charm and Consequence (Novella) - By Stephanie Wardrop Page 0,10

is on fire today!”

Then Rod, who smokes a lot of pot in a van in the school parking lot, goes off on this idea that there is no ghost in the play, really, that it’s just a figment of Hamlet’s imagination and Hamlet is a schizo lunatic from the beginning. But I don’t really listen to him. My heart is pounding too hard, like it’s trying to break out of my ribcage. I feel excited and foolish and vulnerable and exhilarated all at once. Maybe all of my dad’s dinner table debates have paid off at last. I mean, I’m used to discussions of literary analysis-I’m just not used to anyone listening that carefully to what I have to say in these discussions.

When I glance at Michael, he just looks thoughtful.

As class ends, Shondra gives me a fist bump and Michael stops by my desk for a second on his way out, but he doesn’t say anything, so Shondra and I walk out together after handing in our papers. I wish he’d said something, though, anything, really, just one more thing … As embarrassing as our impromptu in-class debate had been, it had also been kind of exciting. Like a verbal version of fencing – and I had actually managed to knock the foil out of his hand there for a minute. I have to admit there was something sort of fun about that. And I had a feeling that he felt that way, too.

“I think we got our As,” she says. Before we split at the end of the hall for our separate classes, she says, “Hey, do you want to go an all-ages show for Gary and Dave’s band next Saturday? They said they’re playing somewhere in Netherfield?”

“Yes!” I cry, then feel the immediate letdown of realization. “Wait, I can’t. I have to do this thing with my family. At the country club.”

Her eyebrows climb up into her braids for a second but she just shrugs and says she’ll see me later at the Alt meeting.

Now I want to go to the Harvest Ball even less.

I didn’t think that was possible.

Belle of the Ball

Still, when the dreaded night of the Harvest Ball arrives, I have to admit it is sort of nice to dress up. Tori wriggles into this amazing sapphire velvet sheath, then she twists my hair into a loose bun at the nape of my neck and my mom lends me a string of pearls. I suppose I look acceptable, the black (haired) sheep among the Barrett blondes. At least, my dad looks kind of surprised when he sees me come down the stairs and then he smiles and sort of stammers out that I look “nice.”

The country club lives up to my mother’s expectations, looking beautiful in its faux colonial finery. The dark paneled dining room is filled with a series of large tables covered in white damask tablecloths and candles in hurricane holders with bright little fake leaves scattered about, and in that room and the ballroom there are fake candles glowing above in pewter chandeliers. As we sit with Trey’s mom and dad, I try not to feel completely out of place in a room populated by people with names like Bunny Billingsley. The grownups are busy talking with each other, and while Trey and Tori include me in their conversation about some school stuff, I still feel like the table’s appendix, an unnecessary appendage. When the waiters bring dinner, I get the same plate of midget chicken (squab) that everyone else does. It’s so sad looking, like a little sparrow fell out of a tree and into a broiler somehow, and now it’s just perched there on my plate with its little legs spread. I just eat the pureed squash and salad and the crusty roll, dry, and wish I were somewhere else.

When the uniformed and silent waiters start clearing the plates, I notice that Michael Endicott is sitting a few tables away with two people who must be his parents, a tall, good looking man with steel grey hair and a really beautiful woman who has Michael’s dark eyes and hair with these really dramatic wisps of pure white running through it. Michael sort of waves at me and I wave back. I don’t know why I am surprised to see him. Of course he is here. His great- great- grandparents were probably the first people to blackball potential members way back when. He is in his element here in a