My Boyfriends' Dogs (29 page)

Before Eric could explain, his mother clapped her hands and called us to attention. “Now, some of you have been to debutante affairs on this very dance floor. I expect more of you in the promenade. After all,
prom
has its root in
promenade
.”

She made us walk from the stage down the steps and across the length of the room on the arms of our escorts two times before switching to the “Royal Waltz.” A few kids from the junior class watched us as they set up tables and decorations.

I was losing confidence with every step. “Eric,” I whispered, “I think I forgot how to waltz.”

He put his hand firmly on my back and raised his arm to waltz position. “Relax. Just follow my lead.”

Mrs. Strang had booked the club's favorite orchestra for our prom and made them agree to give us an hour during rehearsals. I knew most of them, especially Billy, the sax player. They started with a familiar waltz tune, but I couldn't remember the name. I couldn't remember anything. I felt Eric's mother watching me, hating every step I took, as Eric tried to move me around the floor.

“Stop! Everybody stop!” Mrs. Strang shouted. “Flow, people. Don't stomp. One, two, three. Glen, raise your arm. Don't expect Jeannette to lead. Again.”

We stopped and started for an agonizing half hour. Finally, Mrs. Strang lost it. “All right! Eric and Jeannette, come out here and show them how to waltz.”

They tried to object, but they were no match for Eleanor Strang. The music started, and Eric and Jeannette took the stance. Then they danced. They flowed together as if they didn't have to think about it. They were part of the music. I don't think I'd understood the waltz until that moment.

And I understood something else. When they swept past me, Jeannette had the most joyful, and painful, expression on her face. And in her eyes—I recognized it because it was the same way I looked at Eric—in her eyes was love.

When Jeannette and Eric's waltz ended, we applauded. Even the musicians stood up and clapped for them. After that, Mrs. Strang made each of the couples practice individually, without music.

But how could I waltz with Eric after that? “Eric, I'm too tired to waltz.”

“We can use the practice,” he said.

We'd inched close to the musicians, and I could tell Billy the sax player was eavesdropping. The rest of the guys were slumped in their seats awaiting orders from Eric's mother. Mrs. Strang shouted something over to them.

“What did she say? ” asked the trumpet player.

“She wants us to play again.” The drummer didn't seem too pleased.

I grinned at Billy. “Do you know Three Dog Night's Jeremiah bullfrog song? ”

“The what? ” Eric asked. “Bailey—”

But Billy was on my side. “‘Joy to the World,' key of C!” he shouted.

The others came to life.

“Funny, Bailey,” Eric said. He turned to Billy and the band. “Forget it, guys.” Eric sounded as forceful as his mother.

The musicians laid down their instruments.

Eric put his hands on my shoulders and grinned down at me. “What am I going to do with you, Bailey Daley? Man, you can be so goofy sometimes.” Then he kissed my forehead. “Now, let's waltz.”

We waltzed to beautiful music, but Eric's words circled in my mind, echoed in my ears:
You can be so goofy.

 

Those words didn't go away all afternoon. They hung like a swarm of gnats, following me to Eleanor's exclusive hair salon, where the girl knew exactly how to fix my hair up.

While I waited at home for Amber to help me get ready, I could still hear Eric's
Man, you can be so goofy.
I tried on my Strang Unique prom dress. It fit perfectly. I stood in front of the long mirror and studied myself in that elegant dress, my hair piled on top of my head in subtle curls, the way Eric liked it best.

I turned off the light and sat on my bed in semidarkness until I heard voices from downstairs, filtering up like static. Amber and Travis had arrived. The dogs—at least Adam and Eve—were barking at them.

You can be so goofy,
Eric had said.

And inside I was whispering,
“Can I?”

Amber thundered up the stairs, burst into my room, and turned on the light. “You look great! Okay. To be honest, that dress isn't you. You've totally lost your funk. But still—wow! Why are you sitting in the dark? ”

I shrugged.

She shut the door and sat beside me. For a minute she didn't speak, but she didn't need to. It felt like a deep layer of my onion was talking to a deep layer of hers, only without words. We both teared up a little. “I'll never understand them,” she said quietly.

I knew she meant guys. “Or us,” I added.

“So true.” She lowered her voice. “Guess who called me last night.” I didn't guess, so she told me. “Steve. Remember him from summer school? ”

I did remember the tall basketball player who'd fallen for Amber the minute he saw her. But they'd lost touch during the year. “What did he want? ”

“He says he's never gotten over me. That's why he stopped calling. He thought he could get me out of his head, but he can't. Bailey, he says he loves me.”

“Wow. What about Travis? ”

“Nah, I don't think he loves Travis. Not his type.”

“Funny. How do you feel about Steve? ”

Amber plopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “We talked for two hours. And I'm telling you . . . when he started in on how he'd never meet anyone like me again, I felt like telling him I wanted to see him again.”

“So why didn't you? ”

“Your mother. You know what she always says about going back to an ex-boyfriend.”

I knew, all right. I'd heard it a million times. “It's like buying your own garage sale rejects.”

“No. Not that one. I was thinking about the cow thing. About how hanging on to an ex-boyfriend is like chewing your cud until somebody drops a fresh bale of hay in front of you. Or something like that. She's
your
mother.”

“Ah, Mom. The woman does have a way with words.”

“Yeah. And she's probably right about ex-boyfriends anyway. Do you ever think about any of yours? ”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Went.”

“Your first.”

“And Mitch.”

“Oh, Bailey! Not moody Mitch.”

We talked about old times for a while. Then she said, “Well, you finally did it.”

“Did what? ”

“Landed the perfect boyfriend.”

I pictured Eric, his smile, his great bod, the way everyone admired him and admired me when I was with him. Eric Strang's girlfriend.

Amber bounced up off the bed. “Where's that list? ”

“What list? ”

“You know!” She ran to my desk. “The ‘Perfect Boyfriend' list.”

I laughed. “I forgot all about that.” I joined her and rummaged through a stack of old papers. Finally, I found it in my top dresser drawer. I unfolded the paper and read to Amber: “THE PERFECT BOYFRIEND will be:

“A gecko
.”

“Check,” Amber said. “I've never heard of Eric Strang even looking at another girl. And I am a newspaper reporter, don't forget.”

I went on with the list.
“College bound and focused. Handsome. Thinks I'm hot.”
Amber nodded, and I agreed.
“Normal. Polite. Respects me. Considerate. Rich. Great dancer.”
I frowned over at Amber. “Does waltzing count? ” She nodded, and I forged ahead.

“Strangs go to church, right?” Amber asked. “That big one in Riverbend? ”

I nodded. I was sure Eric did believe in God. He just wasn't comfortable talking about God. Too inner-onion.

“Is that it? ” Amber asked.

I finished the list.
“Real. No mistaken identity.”
I grinned.

“Roni told me once that with her brother, what you see is what you get.”

“Check.”

“Check,” Amber said. “Although you did kind of rig that last one.”

“So that's it, then,” I said, folding up the list. “I did it. I have the Perfect Boyfriend.”

“And the perfect prom date,” Amber said.

“Hey!” Mom stuck her head in. She held up her orange dress. “Isn't anybody going to help me turn into a pumpkin? ”

 

My boyfriend arrived right on time, in a limo. He looked so handsome in his tux. He might have walked off the cover of one of the Strang Unique catalogs. Plus, he smelled like Italian leather with a hint of lime. And he brought flowers for me and for my mom and told us we both looked beautiful.

I couldn't believe the change in the sky as Eric and I dashed to the limo. A cool breeze had swept in dark, bottom-heavy clouds. “Looks like we're in for a storm,” I observed, ducking into the plush row of seats. “That's going to put a hitch in our after-prom plans.” Our class had rented the park center, with mini-golf and batting cages.

Eric scooted closer. “I have some alternative plans I want you to consider.” He wrapped his arms around me, and I snuggled in. “I've rented a suite at the Hilton.”

“You what? ”

“Don't say anything yet. I'm not pressuring you. It's your decision. I just want you to think about it. I love you, Bailey, and I want this to be the
perfect
night, a night you and I will remember for the rest of our lives.”

Eric and I sat at the prom court's special dinner table at the club. I think I was the only one not touching my food. Eric was downing everything set in front of us, with no questions about how safely food had been prepared. More than anything, I wanted to call Amber and talk to her about Eric's “alternative plans.” But I'd left my cell home because it wouldn't fit in my bag. “Eric, could I borrow your cell? ”

“Didn't bring it,” he said, finishing off his chocolate cake.

“You're kidding.” He always had his cell.

He leaned into me and whispered, “I didn't want to make it easy to track me down after the prom.” He reached over and squeezed my knee. I still felt that shudder of pleasure whenever Eric touched me. He was a magnet, or a spinning vortex, drawing me in. I knew he meant it when he said this was my decision. I could say yes or no. But how could I say no to Eric? Somewhere along the way it had become almost impossible to say no to Eric Strang.

I really had to talk to somebody. I looked around for Mom, but she'd only promised Mrs. Strang to be there when the dancing started.

All around us, lights twinkled, and tables glowed. The room smelled like a garden. The other tables had turned in their ballots for prom queen and king. Behind the scenes student leaders and faculty volunteers were tallying up the votes.

Conversations around our table seemed stilted. Jeannette, who looked elegant in a short teal gown, kept a calm smile on her face, but even she wasn't talking much to Glen or anyone else. I thought about talking to Jeannette about Eric, but I couldn't do that to her. I knew how she felt about him.

Eric's mother came to our table. “This is it, everyone,” she said. “I need you to move backstage so we can make the announcement. Don't forget. The king and queen make their speeches
before
the waltz.” Babbling more instructions at us, she herded us behind the curtain, where we stood like sheep waiting for slaughter.

Mrs. Strang sneaked up behind me. “You really shouldn't bite your nails.”

Unaware that I had been, I dropped the offending hand. “Sorry. I always eat myself when I'm nervous.”

She didn't laugh. Neither did Eric. Outside, thunder rumbled and shook the stage.

Mrs. Strang shushed us, and we could hear Brad, the junior class president, welcome everyone to the Tri-County Senior Prom. “Remember, no losers tonight,” he said into the mike. “We'll start with the fourth runner-up.”

“Eric, I can't do this,” I whispered.

“Don't be silly. You're just nervous.” He took my hand.

“I don't mean
this.
I mean all of it.”

Eric dropped my hand. “Are you talking about after the prom? ”

Was I? Or was it something more?

“Cara and Michael!” shouted Brad.

Cara groaned, then painted on a smile and walked out through the curtains with Michael as the crowd clapped politely.

“Listen,” Eric said, putting his arm around me. “Everything will be perfect. You'll see. Just leave it to me. I know you want this as much as I do.”

“How can you know that?” It wasn't a challenge. I really wanted to know.

“What do you mean? ”

“Because you don't really know me, Eric.” Maybe I was finally admitting Roni was right about her onion theory.

“How can you say I don't know you?” He laughed, but it didn't quite work. Was the vortex slowing down? “Come on, Bailey. This isn't you.”

“No,
this
isn't me.” I pointed to myself, finally beginning to understand what was so wrong. “Eric, I hate my hair this way.” I yanked at one of the plastered curls that was already giving me a headache. “This is a gorgeous dress, a fantastic dress—just not on me.”