Page 62 of Merrily Ever After
“Sean!” Her tone tells me she’s two seconds away from stomping her foot, and I realize I’m being annoying. It’s not intentional.
“I can’t dance,” I say before she can start snapping at me. “You know that. Sure, I’d only embarrass her.”
Rachel’s irritation fades a little, her mouth twisting like she’s thinking about it.
“I’ll tell her that,” she says reluctantly. “You’re right. But she’s a nice girl.”
“I’m sure she is.” Just not the one I want. I do another sweep of the room, disappointed when I don’t see Colleen. “We’ll have to go soon,” I tell Rachel.
She doesn’t like that. “We’ve only been here an hour.”
“I’ve got to be up early.”
“But half my friends aren’t even here yet!”
“You mean Phil Murphy isn’t here yet,” I retort, watching her expression wipe clean.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says primly, and it takes everything in me not to call her out. The butcher’s son has had his eyes on her since school started back and though I know Rachel’s well able to handle herself, sometimes her love of attention can get her into trouble.
She avoids my gaze now, pulling her hair away from her neck and smoothing it over her shoulder, only to flick it back again. It’s a new habit of hers. Her hair used to be short but seems to have grown several inches over the summer and is now flowing down her back. She likes it long. I know she does because I have to hear her and Mam argue about it every day.
“I’m getting you in thirty minutes, and we’re going home,” I state, but she remains unmoved.
“You can’t get me if you can’t find me,” she says, and slips away, disappearing into the crowd. I’m not worried. Rachel might talk a lot, but she knows the rules and, more importantly, the trouble she’ll get into if she breaks them. Our agreement is that she’ll come and go with me when I say, and so long as she does that, I won’t interfere with her night. At least not unless Phil Murphy makes an appearance.
I finish my lemonade, glancing around the room. I catch the eyes of a few others from the village, and we share a nod, but that’s about it. We’re friendly enough, but I have no real interest in discos or parties or all the things everyone else seems to set their lives around. It’s not that I don’t like people. They’re just not where I’m happiest. And after hours spent on the land with nothing but your own thoughts, it can be overwhelming to step back into their world. Loud, too.
“Lads!” Dessie shouts into the microphone. “How many times do I have to tell ye? Donotgo past the red tape. The red tape is the quake zone. When that floor shakes, the table shakes, and when the table shakes, the stereo shakes, and when the stereo shakes, the music stops. It’s common sense, folks.”
The next song starts up, something with guitars and drums that I’ve never heard before, and I’m mystified when a dozen people nearby start screaming the lyrics. We don’t have a record player in our house and only have two radio channels, which Mam controls, so I’m always a step behind when it comes to this stuff. No one else seems to have that problem, though, and the dancefloor gets more crowded as people run in from their smoke breaks outside. I catch sight of Rachel’s red dress as she forms a circle with her friends and raises her hands in the air. She seems to know the words anyway. At least one of us does.
“Sean?”
I freeze at the hopeful voice, my heart leaping into my throat as the music blares around me. After a second too long, I turn to find Colleen standing a few feet away, clutching a blue raffle book.
“Do you want to buy a ticket?” she asks, shouting slightly to be heard over the noise. “We’re trying to raise enough to get some new records. Jack’s dad gave us a football as a prize.”
“I don’t have any money.” The words come out too blunt, as they always do, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She just shrugs, holding the book by her side.
“That’s okay.” The conversation is finished, but she doesn’t move away. She doesn’t move at all. She just stands there, watching me like she’s waiting for something.
The longer the pause goes on, the more nervous I get. It’s strange. I don’t usually mind silences. Half the time, I crave them. It’s other people who get awkward. Who seek to fill them when there’s no need. But with Colleen, I want to speak. I want to say something to keep her eyes on me, to keep her here, to—
“You don’t dance?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“Two left feet. Not like you.” My face heats as soon as I say the words, but Colleen grins.
“This is more jumping,” she says. “But it’s fun. I prefer real dancing, though.”
“Real dancing?”
“Like in films?” She perks up, and my chest hurts at how happy she looks. “Mam taught me a few steps from when she used to go to the dance halls. I guess it’s too old-fashioned now. Did you ever seeThe Sound of Music? There’s this bit where Julie Andrews is dancing with Christopher Plummer and it’s so romantic. Or inWest Side Storywhen they first meet and she’s wearing this white dress and they’re …” She trails off, looking uncertain, and I realize I’m staring at her. “Sorry,” she says with an awkward laugh. “I talk too much.”
“You don’t,” I say quickly.
“Dad says I was born fifty years too late.”
“Or you just need to convince Dessie to play something slow.”
