Page 17 of Maid of Dishonor

She gives a jerk of her head and turns away, and Sam and I follow, though I have to curb my impatience at moving so slowly. I watch Sam’s hair as it swishes mesmerizingly back and forth, leading my eyes to trail over the rest of her body. Her jean shorts showcase her curves in a way that I can appreciate.

Not that Iamappreciating them, of course, or that I should. Or even that I’m tempted to, because I’m not. But I can acknowledge, solely as an impartial outsider, that those shorts look great on her.

I wrench my gaze away and give my wrist a few snaps with my rubber band as we emerge into Winifred’s living room. The wooden floor creaks as we move, warm beneath my feet as I move through patches of dappled sunlight. Winifred settles herself into a faded red recliner and then looks sternly at Sam and me as though wanting to speak.

We glance at each other before sitting slowly on the couch, separated from Wini’s recliner by a small wooden coffee table. The old lady just narrows her eyes at the two of us, her gaze darting back and forth. I swallow, trying not to shift or fidget. Like horses, Winifred can smell fear. Except no horse has ever frowned at me the way Wini is at this very second.

Finally, when I’ve had enough of the tense silence, I say, “What can I do for you? Do you need help moving furniture or something?” I give the coffee table a few thumps. Then I begin to rise from the sofa, but Wini says,

“Sit, boy.”

I freeze awkwardly mid-stand, then sink back to the couch again.

I don’t even get a name now? I’m just “boy”?

Wini’s eyes narrow again, and I can feel the caged energy in Sam, the tenseness of her body—she, like me, is clearly making an effort not to fidget or act weird.

This is ridiculous. Am I really going to be scared of an old woman? Even if it isthisold woman? She’s wearing house slippers, for goodness’ sake. I don’t need to be intimidated by someone in house slippers.

“So,” Sam says, her voice awkward, but Wini cuts her off the same way she did me.

“Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?” Wini says, pointing one crooked finger at Sam and then at me.

I’m relieved when Sam answers.

“Yes,” she says, her voice…strange. Emotionless. “We’re sure.”

But her words conceal what her body can’t; she’s suddenly too still next to me. What’s that all about?

Wini harrumphs. “I don’t believe you. There’s a spark. An attraction.”

Sam sighs. “There’s not a spark, Wini. We’re just friends.”

I’m not sure I can honestly say I don’t feel attraction—it’s the whole reason for the rubber band, after all—so I stay silent. The spark doesn’t matter, anyway. Any man would feel a spark with Sam; she’s gorgeous and hilarious and awesome all around. It’s how Ihandlethe spark that matters. I push past it, ignore it—I’ve done it for years. Sparks lead to feelings, which lead to broken hearts. No, thank you.

Wini’s gaze turns, if possible, even more calculating, and a tiny sliver of foreboding shoots through me. I stop myself from glancing at Sam, because I know she won’t be looking at me. She’ll be staring down Wini, showing no fear, except for maybe the little twitch of her jaw that indicates she’s trying to keep her features composed.

But does Winifred know Sam’s tells the way I do?

“Prove it,” Wini says.

Prove it? What does that even mean? How are we supposed to do that?

My exasperation finally gets the better of me, and I look at Sam. She turns her head toward me at the same time, and the look we share is part annoyance, part commiseration.

Then she looks back at Wini. “What do you mean?” she says.

“You heard me. Prove it,” Wini says again. The words remind me of a dog barking—loud and commanding. They ring throughout the small room, bouncing off of red couch cushions and popcorn ceilings and returning to me, making no more sense this time than they did when they were first spoken.

Sam sighs again. “I really don’t see how that’s possible. Nor is it any of your business,” she says, her voice gently chiding. Gently chiding is better than I would be able to do, though. I’m pretty sure I’m about to snap at Wini to mind her own business.

Maybe it’s better to let Sam do the talking.

“Kiss,” Wini says briskly. “Give each other a nice kiss on the lips. Five seconds of kissing.”

My insides give a little jolt of…what? Fear? Anxiety? Anticipation? Silence descends on the room for one eternal second. Then, as one, Sam and I begin to laugh.

My fake laugh isn’t quite as convincing as Sam’s fake laugh, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. I can always tell when Sam’s laugh is genuine; it has a ringing quality to it—a free, effortless sort of sound. This laugh is very definitely not real. She’s just as uncomfortable as I am.

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