The Dream - Whitney Dineen Page 0,39
Dancing with the Stars moves in the small patch of weeds that doubled as his grandmother’s front yard. Even though it gave us some room, it wasn’t enough to really cut loose.
“Why not? We’ve never been able to do it with proper space. I bet we could bring the crowd to their feet in excitement. Especially when I start whipping my suit coat around like it’s a matador’s cape.”
“No. Just no,” I tell him. “We are not doing the bull-fighter dance at the Creek Water Country Club.”
“But you don’t know how to waltz,” he laments.
“I say we go for a modified rumba.”
“Modified how?”
“No side walking and hip swiveling.”
“What fun is that?”
“Buck, we have to act like we fit in.”
“Why?” he demands.
I don’t have a good answer to that, so I allow my friend to lead me into the ballroom to meet our destiny. I promise you this, I couldn’t have dreamed this night even if I were hopped up on a whole bottle of nighttime cold medicine.
Chapter Twenty-One
May 8, 2008
Dear Molly,
I’ve spent weeks dreaming about prom, but I never stopped to think what life would be like afterwards. I still stare at Davis all the time and do my best to be near him as often as possible, but I don’t feel desperate for him to notice me anymore.
I suppose it’s because he does seem to notice me, a lot. He told me at our lockers this morning how nice I looked at prom and that he was glad I was there. But then Jessica came by and he put his arm around her and walked off. Have I been misinterpreting his politeness as potential interest? I feel like a fool.
The ballroom has filled substantially in our absence. We discover that Mrs. Holt and her husband are seated at the same table we are. Mr. Holt is just as attractive as he was when I was in high school, but there’s a bored quality about him that suggests he would rather be anywhere but here.
Mrs. Holt introduces us. “Dear, this is Alexander Freeport from Elegant Living and his date …”
“Ashley,” Buck supplies my first name only. He thinks I’m ridiculous for not wanting everyone to know who I am, but he’s letting me make the call. There’s also the small fact that my mom once fooled around with Mr. Holt, so no good could come from outing me here.
Mr. Holt stands up and bows slightly at the waist before saying, “I can’t imagine why you’d want to cover our little dance for your publication.”
“Our readers are fascinated by regional celebrations,” Buck says. “I’m sure your homage to spring will be very well received.”
Homage to spring? Who is this guy? I try to keep a passive look on my face, but I don’t imagine I’m succeeding. This is just too darn much fun.
An older gentleman stands at a microphone and taps repeatedly while it makes a high-pitch squealing sound loud enough to peel the paint off the walls. He fiddles with the buttons on the side before smiling broadly and announcing, “Welcome to the eighty-eighth annual Creek Water Spring Fling!”
The crowd claps politely as Buck takes a few pictures. The emcee continues, “As you know, we normally start out this little shindig with Frank Sinatra’s rendition of ‘Spring is Here,’ but the dance committee decided to hand off this year’s music selection to some of our younger members. Therefore, I give you a little tune called ‘Happy' by someone named Pharrell Williams.” He reads the last bit off an index card to make sure he gets it right.
Buck shoots me the side-eye before he puts his camera down on the table and grabs my hand. He drags me out onto the dance floor and before I can catch my breath, instructs, “Lindy hop!”
He bends down like a flag at half-mast and starts snapping his fingers while he comes toward me like some crazed hipster of yore. Then he grabs me around the waist and starts to spin me. “Don’t you think we should build up to this?” I yell at him to be heard above the music.
He shakes his head. “Nope. I say we bust every move we ever practiced and few more we only dreamed of.”
“You’re way better at this than I am,” I protest.
He pulls me close and whispers in my ear, “No one is going to notice. Your dress nearly lifts up over your head every time I spin you.” Then he twirls me faster to illustrate his