expression. By the end of their week of private lessons, the sisters had their dance down cold. Brooke’s ears and lead combined with Leah’s grace and style would be, as Mrs. Stafford confidently declared, “a showstopper!”
The night before the Ball had the participants scattered in various directions. Paul was at home with his headphones on (Jethro Tull’s Warchild) and car magazines in hand. Brooke was on a blind date with a computer whiz from the local state college (“we’ll shuffle his deck of key cards” she said with deliberate double entendre).
And Leah attended the Ball pre-party, for Debs only (and three parent chaperones) and held at Memorial Hall where the Ball would be the next night. The girls ate a meal of barbecue and fried chicken catered gratis by a local family restaurant (in return for a mention in the Ball program) and spent their time decorating the stage and stairs and dance floor with ribbons and bows, streamers and plastic flowers (the real ones would be added the next day by the florist). By now Leah was quite comfortable with all the other girls, as they’d learned to face her head-on when wanting to speak to her and granting her considerable latitude to move among them ignorant of their ambient chatter or exclamations. Leah for her part interacted with confident self-possession, consciously and instinctively aware of those around her, both their overt and, more importantly, their subtle gesture and expression. She would identify bruised feelings or hidden pride before anyone else—including, sometimes, the subject—and respond accordingly with a touch of consolation or a smile of affirmation. To the other girls, she was just one of the girls—a special one. To Leah, it was a chance to be more—more relaxed, more engaged, more included. She was almost beside herself with joy and satisfaction.
After the meal she stayed late to help the parents, Mrs. Erwin and Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Mangum, clean up then waved her good-bye—till tomorrow she signed with a loop of her hand before heading to the parking lot. There were several cars near the building, including their old station wagon now largely at Leah’s disposal; but these weren’t what caught her attention. Far off in the shadows at the edge of the parking lot, just where it had been two years earlier, was Danny’s bright red pickup with its chrome trim sparkling in the glow of the lot’s streetlight. Leah thought for a minute her mind was playing tricks on her, had summoned the image out of memory. But a second look proved the truck was present, not drawn from the past.
In the days and weeks to come she would frequently wonder what motivated her next action. Was it curiosity or hubris or something else, some invisible force or calling or need? The answer to that question was not obvious, then or later. Whatever the reason, she turned from the path to the station wagon and walked across the empty parking lot to the pickup.
Danny sat in the shadow of the driver’s seat, the window down, smoking a cigarette. The bright orange tip of the cigarette as he inhaled seemed the only real thing in the picture before her. Everything else—Danny’s silhouette, the interior of the cab, even the truck itself and the cracked asphalt it rested on—blurred into surreal. Then even the cigarette’s bright glow faded.
She revived her paralyzed muscles enough to curl her lips into a friendly grin and move her right hand to sign a question mark—Why are you here?
Danny faced her with a teasing smile, his very white teeth gleaming within his shadowed face. His hand, the cigarette loosely held between index and middle fingers, reached out of the cab and pointed behind her.
Leah turned to look. Walking across the shadowed parking lot from one of the remaining cars was one of the other debs, Megan. She approached with a silly look on her face. Leah smelled beer on her breath or clothes when she was still several feet away.
“Hi, Leah,” Megan said. “Do you know my cousin?”
Then Leah realized the connection—Megan Ashford. In all the various ball preparations and introductions, she’d paid little attention to last names. And even if she had noted Megan’s surname, there were many Ashfords in town. What were the chances of a connection to Danny?
As it turned out, the chances were quite high. Megan turned toward Danny. “I don’t need a ride. Jackie will take me home.” Jackie was another one of the debs, the one with the car.
Danny shrugged, a gesture only apparent from a slight ripple in his silhouette.
Megan nodded then looked again to Leah. “See you tomorrow night, Sparks,” she said, using the nickname the debs had given Leah, short for Sparkles. “Get a good night’s sleep,” she laughed then turned to meet Jackie’s car that was now slowly approaching. A few seconds later the car zoomed by, Megan’s hand fluttering out the back window.
Leah turned back to the truck.
Danny had switched on the dome light and smiled out at her from above—full-faced now, real skin, that familiar easy and disarming lop-sided grin. Most importantly, his dark eyes were now clearly visible, held that same magnetic mix of knowing and intimacy that had held—and, she now realized, haunted—her since that first meeting at the Fair’s livestock pavilion. He tilted his head toward the passenger side then, without breaking eye contact, reached behind him and opened that door.
Simple logic would say that she must’ve walked around the front of the truck to the door and climbed onto the seat, or around the darker rear of the truck past the fenders and bumper and tailgate and on to the door and the seat. But the fact of the matter is Leah didn’t remember how she ended up on that seat. She might’ve floated or been instantly transported for all she knew or could say.
Inside the cab with her door pulled shut, she faced Danny. The truck smelled of cigarette smoke, beer, and sweat. If she could never say how she’d got around the truck and into the cab, she would always be able to say what she saw in Danny’s cool and soothing stare—pure bliss. She leaned forward across the seat and past the shift knob and kissed that bliss.
And Danny kissed back. The dome light went dark. His hands found their way up under her blouse then downward past her belt loosed, her jeans unzipped. Her legs parted readily, or so it seemed to him.
Brooke sat on the side of her bed lightly brushing Leah’s long blond hair flowing out over the covers. Leah’s face was buried in the pillow but Brooke could tell she was awake, and could tell that she was crying by the few tears that had splotched the lemon colored pillowcase and the methodical gentle heaves of her shoulders. Brooke cried all the time. It was an outlet for her, as natural as her robust laughter or shrieks of delight. But Leah never cried, at least not since her occasional childhood cuts and bruises, and rarely even then. It wasn’t that Leah was opposed to tears or uncomfortable with them—she always knew the exact right thing to do when Brooke cried. But Leah had better ways to process her emotions, better ways to get herself to the other side of a challenge or sadness. So Brooke didn’t know what to do as she sat there in silence in the diffuse morning light leaking around the drawn curtains.
Momma had waked her ten minutes earlier with a sharp shake of her shoulder and a whisper tinged with worry, “You sister needs you!”
Brooke’s mind, still clouded by sleep, couldn’t process the words. “Who?”
“Leah! She needs you!”
Though Brooke still didn’t understand, and grumbled in protest at the early wake-up on a weekend day, she’d managed to climb out of bed and stumble to Leah’s room, closing the door behind her before sitting on the bed.
But Leah still hadn’t rolled over or made any acknowledgement of her presence since. Maybe she didn’t want Brooke here and couldn’t say so. But no, she could’ve indicated that desire by rolling away or shirking contact. Brooke felt lost by this unprecedented Leah, this unprecedented sadness in one that had always found a way to stability and calm and, eventually, the hope that would fill in behind the calm. What could be wrong? She lay down beside Leah atop the covers and placed her head on the vacant half of the pillow, facing the side of Leah’s head. Her hand still lightly brushed Leah’s hair.
Leah rolled her head to face Brooke from inches away. Her eyes were red and her cheeks damp,
but the tears seemed to have stopped. But when she saw Brooke’s worried gaze, she started crying again. She pressed her face into her sister’s shoulder.
Brooke held her, pushed her lips against the top of Leah’s head, cooed lightly in a sound she hadn’t known she had in her until just that moment. She somehow knew Leah could feel the vibration and know its meaning.
Over some minutes that seemed like no time to Leah and an eternity to Brooke in this uncommon role of consoler, Leah’s sobs subsided and her shaking stilled. Eventually she rolled her face and entire body away from Brooke so she could look at her from a foot or so away and free her hands from beneath the covers. She signed with downcast eyes, I cannot believe I did it!
“Did what?” Brooke whispered.
Leah raised her eyes. It seemed she might start crying again, but she took a deep breath and held the sobs at bay. Had sex with Danny!
Though they’d long ago worked out their own sign for sexual intercourse—an obvious but ambiguous gesture of the left-hand index finger buried in the right hand’s loose fist but no sliding motion to draw attention—and had their sign for Danny—a teasing mimic of his sardonic lop-sided grin and intense stare—well-memorized if not recently used, Brooke