Charm and Consequence (Novella) - By Stephanie Wardrop Page 0,11
way that I will never be, no matter what I am wearing or whom I am sitting with.
After dinner, punch and cookies are served by buffet and dancing begins in the ballroom, where a string quintet plays waltzes and swing music and other dance standards and couples actually do something besides hold onto each others’ waists and shoulders and sway somewhat to the rhythm. They have actual dance moves, which is kind of impressive. Even my parents do; I had no idea. Mom beams as she and Dad twirl among the couples, and my dad is smiling, too. In fact, he seems to be a pretty good dancer. Trey asks me if I would mind if he took Tori out on the floor and I laugh. Even though the thought of being stuck at the table alone is almost as terrifying as waltzing, I say, “Of course! Show us how it’s done.” Tori and Trey look great even if they don’t know what they are doing exactly. They are laughing softly and reasonably rhythmical and they don’t crash into anybody.
“Do you want to give it a try?”
I look up to find Michael behind my chair. He’s wearing a dark jacket and a loose teal blue tie over a spotless white shirt, open at the neck, and I notice for the first time how long and languid his neck is. It may actually be the first time I have ever noticed anyone’s neck, really. And it is a fine neck, long and not too thick or too thin. It suddenly strikes me as an elegant and beautiful limb.
“Aren’t you afraid a rabid feminist like me will stab you with this butter knife?” I ask. “Or, worse, try to lead?”
He smirks and extends a hand.
“You may be rabid, but you’re not foaming at the mouth, at least,” he says, and I don’t know what else to do but take his hand, which feels warm and strong and not at all sweaty.
I say as he leads me onto the floor, “I doubt that they would allow mouth-foaming here at the Longbourne Country Club. What’s the motto? ‘Keeping out the undesirables since 1749’?”
He looks at me with the grim amusement of an older brother or uncle who suffers a girl’s sad excuse for humor because he has to. Then the music starts, and he hesitates for just a second before he takes one of my hands and puts it on his hip and the other he rests on his shoulder.
And we’re off.
I feel so awkward I can hardly breathe. But Michael seems as assured about this as he does about anything else and guides us across the floor without incident. My mom sees us and points us out to my dad. She looks like a five-year-old who has just come downstairs to see that Santa has indeed brought a bike, and not just any bike, but one with a bell and tassels and bright shiny pink paint.
After a few moments of silence that threaten to make me run screaming from the room, I say, “Isn’t this the part where we are supposed to make polite conversation? At least, that’s what dancers do in all those movie adaptations of Jane Austen novels. My mom has seen Pride and Prejudice, like, 5,000 times.”
“All right, then,” Michael says. “What’s my line?”
“Well, you comment on the warmth of the evening or the unusually fine weather we’re having, and I say something about how lovely everyone looks in their semi-holiday finery.”
Michael doesn’t say anything for a moment, probably because no one likes to be told what to say. I know how much I hate it when he tries to tell me what to do. I’m nervous, but that doesn’t mean I have to be mean, and I kind of was.
“We could talk about books, maybe?” I suggest. “Or music.” I brave a look at his face and his eyebrows have perked up in interest.
“Do you think we have similar tastes?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “I can’t figure you out.”
Michael laughs then and asks, “What’s to figure out?”
“Just … everything.”
“You’re not exactly an open book either, Georgia.”
I don’t know what to say to that so we just keep moving. That’s the nice thing about dancing, I guess. If you don’t know what to say, you can just keep dancing and stay together. And I am not hating being together, actually. For one thing, Michael smells really nice. It’s a mixture of some warm spice and a basic