2000
One Friday night per month, a dance is held in the dining hall. With the tables cleared away and the lights dimmed, itās a scene that could be set in any other high school. Thereās the hired DJ, a cluster of people dancing in the middle of the floor, and the shy kids huddled around the perimeter, divided by gender. Some teachers are there, too. As chaperones, they mill about, maintaining their distance, paying less attention to us than to each other.
This is the Halloween dance, so people are wearing costumes and two giant buckets of candy sit by the double doors. Most costumes are lazyāboys in jeans and white T-shirts calling themselves James Dean, girls in pleated miniskirts and pigtails calling themselves Britney Spearsābut a few have gone to elaborate lengths with supplies bought downtown. One girl moves through the dining hall as a dragon with spiny wings and a train of blue-green scales, trailed by her boyfriend, a knight in cardboard armor stinking of spray paint. A boy in a suit waves a fake cigar in girlsā faces, laughing behind a rubber Bill Clinton mask. Meanwhile, Iām a half-hearted cat, black dress and black tights, drawn-on whiskers and cardboard ears thrown together in ten minutes. I came only to see Mr. Strane. Heās working as a chaperone.
Usually, I never go to the dances. Everything about them makes me cringeāthe bad music, the embarrassing DJ with his goatee and frosted tips, the kids pretending not to stare at the couples grinding against each other. Iām forcing myself to suffer through this one because itās been a week. A whole week since Mr. Strane touched me, since he put his hand on my leg and told me he could tell we were similar, two people who like dark things. Since then? Nothing. When I spoke in class, his eyes darted to the table like he couldnāt bear to look at me. During creative writing club he gathered his things and left Jesse and me alone (āDepartment meeting,ā he explained, but if it was a department meeting, why did he need his coat and everything in his briefcase?), and later when I sought him out during faculty service hour, his door was closed, the classroom dark behind textured glass.
So Iām impatient, maybe even desperate. I want something to happen and that seems more likely at an event like this where boundaries are temporarily blurred, students and teachers thrust together in a dimly lit room. I donāt really care what the something else might beāanother touch, a compliment. It doesnāt matter so long as it tells me what he wants, what this is, if itās anything at all.
I eat a fun-size candy bar in tiny bites and watch the couples dance to a slow song, swaying around the floor like bottles in a pool of water. At one point, Jenny strides across the room wearing a satin dress that vaguely resembles a kimono, chopsticks shoved through her nubby ponytail. For a moment she seems to be headed straight for me and I freeze, chocolate melting on my tongue, but then Tom emerges from behind her wearing his normal clothes, jeans and a Beck T-shirt, not even attempting a costume. He touches her shoulder; Jenny jerks away. The music is too loud to eavesdrop, but itās obvious theyāre fighting and that itās bad. Jennyās chin wobbles, her eyes screw shut. When Tom touches his fingers to her arm, she plants a hand flat on his chest and shoves him so strongly he stumbles backward. Itās the first time Iāve ever seen them fight.
Iām so fixated that I almost donāt notice Mr. Strane duck out the double doors. I almost let him get away.
When I step outside, the night is pitch black, no moon and close to freezing. The sounds from the dance muffle to a heartbeat bass line and faraway vocals as the door clicks shut behind me. I look around; my arms break into goose bumps as my eyes search for him but find only the shadows of trees, the empty campus green. Iām about to admit defeat and go back inside when a figure steps out from under the shadow cast by a spruce tree: Mr. Strane in a down vest, a flannel shirt, and jeans, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
I donāt move, unsure what to do. I sense heās embarrassed to be seen with the cigarette and my mind takes overāI imagine him smoking in secret, like how my dad does in the evenings down by the lakeshore; I imagine he wants to quit and sees his inability to do so as a weakness. Heās ashamed of it.
But even if heās ashamed, I think, he could have stayed hidden. He could have let me leave.
He twirls the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. āYou caught me.ā
āI thought you were leaving,ā I say. āI wanted to say goodbye.ā
He pulls a lighter from his pocket and turns it over in his palm a few times. His eyes stay on me. With a sudden clarity, I think, Somethingās going to happen, and as the certainty of this settles over me, my heart slows, my shoulders drop.
He lights the cigarette and gestures for me to follow him back under the tree. Itās enormous, probably the biggest on campus, its lowest limbs still far above our heads. At first, itās so dark all I can see is the red ember from the cigarette as it moves up to his mouth. My eyes adjust and he appears, as do the boughs overhead, the orange-dead needle carpet beneath our feet.
āDonāt smoke,ā Mr. Strane says. āItās a nasty habit.ā He exhales and the cigarette smell fills my head. Weāre standing about five feet apart. It feels so dangerous itās strange to think weāve been closer plenty of times before.
āBut it must feel good,ā I say. āOtherwise why do it?ā
He laughs, takes another drag. āI guess youāre right.ā Looking me over, he notices my costume for the first time. āWell, look at you. Little pussy cat.ā
I laugh from the shock of hearing him say that word, even if he isnāt using it in the sex way. But he doesnāt laugh. He only stares at me, the cigarette smoking in his hand.
āYou know what Iād like to do right now?ā he asks. His words flow together more than usual and he sways as he points the cigarette at me. āIād like to find you a big bed, tuck you in, and kiss you good night.ā
For a second, my brain short-circuits entirely and Iām as good as dead. Moments of nothing pass, a static screen, a wall of noise. Then I come roaring back to life with a harsh, choked soundānot quite a laugh, not quite a cry.
A door opens from inside the dining hall and music spills out from the dance. Over that, a womanās voice calls, āJake?ā
The moment sputters. Mr. Strane turns and hurries toward the voice, throwing down his cigarette without stamping it out. I watch the smoke rise from the fallen needles as he strides back to the doors, to Ms. Thompson.
āJust taking a bit of a breather,ā he says to her. Together, they slip back inside. Iām hidden by the tree, like he was when I first came outside. She didnāt see me.
I stare down at the smoking cigarette, consider picking it up and bringing it to my lips, but instead grind it out with my heel. I return to the dance, find Deanna Perkins and Lucy Summers swigging from a Nalgene bottle as they hold a running commentary on everyoneās costumes. Strane stands only a few feet away beside Ms. Thompson, his eyes locked on her. Jenny and Tom stand close together on the periphery of the dance floor, their fight resolved. She winds her arm around his shoulders, nuzzles her face into his neck. Itās a gesture so intimate and adult, I instinctively look away.
Whatever they have in the Nalgene bottle sloshes around as Deanna and Lucy pass it back and forth. Deanna, taking a swallow, notices my stare. āWhat?ā
āLet me have some,ā I say.
Lucy reaches for the bottle. āSorry, limited supplies.ā
āIāll tell if you donāt let me.ā
āShut up.ā
Deanna waves her hand. āLet her have a drink.ā
Lucy sighs, holds out the bottle. āYou can have a sip.ā
The alcohol burns my throat worse than I expected and I start to cough, like a clichĆ©. Deanna and Lucy donāt even try to hide their laughs. Thrusting the bottle back at them, I march out of the dining hall, willing Mr. Strane to notice, to understand why Iām angry and what I want. I wait outside to see if heāll come after me but he doesnātāof course he doesnāt.
Back in Gould, the dorm is quiet, empty. Every door is closed, everyone still at the dance.
I stare down Ms. Thompsonās apartment door at the far end of the hall. If she hadnāt called to him, something would have happened. He said he wanted to kiss me; maybe he would have done it. Still in my costume, I walk toward Ms. Thompsonās door. Mr. Strane is probably making her laugh right this moment. At the end of the night, theyāll probably go to his house and have sex. Maybe heāll even tell her about me, how I followed him outside and he said that stuff just to be nice. She has a crush on you, Ms. Thompson will say, teasing. As though itās all in my head, a narrative sprung without a source.
I grab the marker attached to her dry erase board. Notes from the previous week are still scribbled there: the date and time of a dorm meeting, an open invitation to a spaghetti dinner in her apartment. With one swipe of my hand, I erase the notes and write BITCH in big bold letters that take up the whole board.
The first snow comes that night after the dance and covers campus in a heavy four inches. On Saturday morning Ms. Thompson calls us all into the common room and tries to find out who wrote bitch on her door. āIām not mad,ā she assures us. āJust confused.ā
My heart thumps in my ears and I sit with my hands clasped in my lap, willing my cheeks not to burn.
After a few minutes of sitting in silence, she gives up. āWe can let it go,ā she says. āBut not if it happens again. Ok?ā
She nods, prompting us to say ok. On my way back upstairs I look over my shoulder and see her standing in the middle of the empty room, rubbing her face with both hands.
Sunday afternoon I approach her door, my eyes lingering on the whiteboard, bitch still faintly visible. I feel guiltyānot enough to admit what I did, but enough to want to do something nice. When Ms. Thompson opens the door, sheās in sweatpants and a hooded Browick sweatshirt, her hair pulled back, no makeup on her face, acne scars on her cheeks. I wonder if Mr. Strane has ever seen her this way.
āWhatās up?ā she asks.
āCan I take Mya for a walk?ā
āOh god, sheād love that.ā She calls over her shoulder, but the husky is already barreling toward me, ears pricked and blue eyes dilated, propelled by the sound of the word walk.
Ms. Thompson reminds me that it will be dark soon as I slide Myaās harness over her head and clip the leash. āWe wonāt go far,ā I say.
āAnd donāt let her run.ā
āI know, I know.ā Last time I took Mya for a walk, I let her off-leash to play and she ran straight into the garden behind the arts building and rolled in fertilizer.
The temperature rose overnight to fifty degrees and the snow is already gone, leaving the ground spongy and slick. We walk the trail that winds around the sports fields, and I let the leash out long so Mya can sniff and romp around, darting from side to side. I love Mya; sheās the most beautiful dog Iāve ever seen, her fur so thick my fingers disappear to the second knuckle when I give her back a good scritch. Mostly, though, I love her because sheās difficult. Bossy. If she doesnāt want to do something, sheāll talk back at you in a grumbly howl. Ms. Thompson says I must have a special gift with dogs because Mya doesnāt really like anyone except me. Dogs are easy to win over, though, way easier than people. For a dog to love you, all you have to do is keep some treats in your pocket and scratch behind their ears or at the base of their tail. When they want to be left alone, they donāt play games; they let you know.
At the soccer field, the trail forks into three smaller paths. One leads back to campus, the other into the woods, and the third downtown. Even though I promised Ms. Thompson Iād stay close, I take the third path.
The storefronts downtown are decora...