Shifting (5 page)

All the steam went out of me and I leaned into Bridger. I had become just like the girls that used to corner me and beat me up. I couldn't believe I'd sunk so low.

“If I let go of you, do you promise to leave her alone?” Bridger asked, his mouth against my ear.

I nodded because I knew if I tried to talk I'd probably start to cry. His arms fell from me and my body heat seemed to fall with them.

“What is going on?” The gathered students moved aside as the principal strode over. He gasped when he saw Danni. Her chin was streaked with blood from a split lip and her eye was swelling shut. His astounded, glasses-framed eyes turned to me. “Did
you
do that to her?”

I nodded, still unable to speak. Bridger's hand found the small of my back and lingered there. I closed my eyes and leaned against him.

“To my office, girls.” I squared my shoulders and stepped away from Bridger. Dr. Smith started herding Danni and me out of the cafeteria. “We don't need your assistance, Mr. O'Connell,” he said when Bridger tried to follow.

Slowly, like the onset of a really bad headache, my bruises and scrapes became painfully obvious. My shins hurt, my shoulder throbbed from Danni's biting, and my right hand was burning. I looked down and saw blood on my knuckles—my blood. Danni's tooth had split my knuckle and beneath the skin I could see pale bone. I pressed the knuckle against my jeans.

The three of us walked to the office in silence, and once we were inside, the interrogation began.

“Maggie Mae, what happened?” Dr. Smith asked stonily.

I shrugged. “I hit Danni.”

“Why?”

I glared at her but she was staring at the floor. “Because she is a malicious witch who deserved it.”

“And why do you feel she deserved it? You are the one dating her ex-boyfriend. I thought
she
would have swung the first punch.”

Danni finally looked at me. Her eye, the one that hadn't swelled shut, was full of hate.

“Danni deliberately put red nail polish on my chair and I sat in it without knowing. She made it look like I'm having my period.”

Dr. Smith winced. “Please stand up, Ms. Mortensen,” he said, though he looked less than thrilled.

I stood.

“Turn around,” he prodded, spinning his pointer finger in a circle. I turned and stared at the wall while he inspected my butt. Dr. Smith sighed heavily. “You may sit.”

I turned and sat back down.

“Danni, what do you have to say in your defense?” Dr. Smith asked.

Danni looked at Dr. Smith with a wide eye and batted her eyelashes. “I would
never
do something like that to a fellow female. I don't know what Maggie Mae sat in, but I didn't have anything to do with it. She hit me for no reason.”

“You're saying she hit you unprovoked?”

Danni sniffled. “Yes.”

My face started to burn and I clenched my fists. One swift punch and both her eyes would swell shut.

Dr. Smith's lips thinned. “Ms. Mortensen, we have a no-violence policy at this school. A first offense is punished with suspension. You are suspended for the remainder of today and tomorrow. And this will go down on your permanent record.”

“Does that mean she can't go to prom?” Danni asked hopefully.

“No. The dance is on Saturday, not Friday. You are excused, Danni. Go to the nurse's office. I'll call your mother and have her come and get you.”

Danni left without looking at me, and Dr. Smith sat back down.

“Ms. Mortensen, you need to leave the school premises immediately. I'll have the attendance office call your guardian and explain what has happened.”

Without a word I left the principal's office and found Danni waiting for me in the hall. She held out an empty nail polish bottle and smirked. “He only wants to take you to prom because you're a slut,” she hissed. “And it's every guy's dream to get laid at senior prom.”

I bit my tongue and walked past her, hurrying through the empty hall. As I approached the front doors, my feet slowed. Bridger stood leaning casually against the wall beside the exit. When I saw him, a dam broke inside of me. Tears began streaming down my cheeks.

“Hey, you want a ride home from a friend?” he asked, putting a finger under my chin and tilting my face up to look at him.

“Yes, please. That would be great.”

He wiped the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs, took my good hand in his, and pulled me toward the door. I glanced over my shoulder and caught Danni staring at us, eyes full of fire.

8

I could feel the pull of the nearly full moon before the sun reached the middle of the sky. It made my skin crawl. I lay atop my covers, chewing on the tip of a pen, trying to write a stupid essay on symbolism in
The Scarlet Letter
.

The phone rang. I heard the floor creak and the quiet echo of Mrs. Carpenter's voice.

“Maggie,” she called. “Phone.”

I rolled my eyes, assuming it was Mr. Petersen calling again to lecture me on how important it was to graduate—he'd called the night before. I climbed from the bed and went to the living room. Mrs. Carpenter, white hair hidden beneath a red bandanna, handed me the ancient receiver and started to dust the gun case.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It's Yana. You recovered from the fight?”

I glanced at Mrs. Carpenter. “More or less.”

“Good. Are you still going to prom?”

“Nope. When Bridger brought me home yesterday, Mrs. Carpenter told him I'm grounded.”

“Good. O'Connell doesn't deserve you.” There was a pause. “This is going to sound totally paranoid, but I promised my grandpa I'd call.”

Curious, I pulled the desk chair out and sat. “What's up?”

“Some guy came into the restaurant last night asking about you. My grandpa didn't like him, said he had negative energy.”

“That's weird. What was his name?” I asked, twirling my finger in the spiraled phone cord.

“He wouldn't say. But after he came in and asked about you, even though we said we had no idea who you were, the dude sat out front in his car and watched the restaurant. My grandpa ended up calling the cops.”

Goose bumps shivered up my arms. “Weird.”

“Yeah, totally. We thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Yana.”

“Sure. I'll see you at school.”

I hung up the phone and felt Mrs. Carpenter hovering, so I looked over my shoulder. She was still dusting the gun case and watching me.

“Everything all right?” I asked. The feather duster stopped.

“I've been thinking. Since today is your birthday, I'm going to unground you until midnight.”

“Why am I getting a Cinderella vibe?”

She chuckled. “I have no intention of being your fairy godmother. But you'd better call Bridger and see if he can still take you. And then let's go birthday shopping at Wal-Mart. You can pick out a new pair of jeans, a dress for prom, and some heels. My gift to you.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

I jumped up and hugged her.

It was the second dress I'd worn since I was twelve years old. Every time I moved, air swirled up the skirt and against my thighs. The dress was beautiful—creamy white and made for warm weather, with thin straps and an empire waist, and a skirt that fell right above my knees.

I also got new hair dye, a dark auburn almost the color of a plum, but not quite so purple. I leaned in close to the mirror and attempted to put on mascara, but my hand was trembling. It took two tries.

Danni and Yana's warnings about Bridger kept running through my head. Even so, I was hoping Bridger would kiss me after the dance—just a simple good-night kiss. It seemed like my stars were finally lining up. My first real date. My first school dance. My birthday. A guy I liked a little more than I should. A full moon. A beautiful dress. My first kiss would be the perfect end to such a night.

I took a step away from the mirror and looked at myself. Mrs. Carpenter had helped me curl my auburn hair and pile it on top of my head with a gazillion bobby pins; plus she'd loaned me a pair of real pearl earrings that matched the dress perfectly. I could hardly believe the girl in the mirror was me, Maggie Mae the foster child. A smile spread over my glossy lips.

I went to my room and checked the clock. It was five to seven, five minutes until Bridger was to arrive. I took a deep breath and left my room.

Mrs. Carpenter was waiting in the living room with a camera.

“Oh, Maggie Mae, you look absolutely picturesque!” she exclaimed, putting her hand over her heart. “Let me take a photo.”

She pointed the camera at me and I smiled just as the flash burned splotches into my vision.

“Why don't you sit down and wait,” she said. I shook my head. “Do you know where he's taking you to dinner? You've got to tell him it's your birthday so your server sings to you and brings you a slice of complimentary birthday cake.”

My hollow stomach growled at the thought. Chocolate cake was my favorite food. “I don't know where we're going to eat, but I'm starving.”

“Sit down,” Mrs. Carpenter urged again, patting the sofa beside her.

“I don't want to wrinkle my dress,” I explained, wringing my hands.

“How's your hand feeling?” She eyed the gauze bandage wrapped around my right knuckles.

“Fine.” The split knuckle, held together with several butterfly bandages, was tender to the touch and hurt if I made a fist. But other than that, I hardly noticed it.

Mrs. Carpenter and I waited in silence for a few minutes, both of us darting glances between the grandfather clock and the front window. Each time I heard the drone of a car engine, my heart whirled double-time. Yet no headlights bounced and flashed in the yard.

“He's late,” Mrs. Carpenter said disapprovingly when the clock read one minute past seven. “I guess your generation doesn't place the same stress on punctuality that mine does.”

We waited in silence some more. I stepped from foot to foot, having to move so I wouldn't burst with pent-up energy.

“Well,” Mrs. Carpenter said when the clock read eight minutes past seven, “I'm going to go heat up some leftovers. Not all of us have the luxury of eating dinner at a restaurant tonight. I'll take another picture when he gets here.”

She stood and walked from the room. I could hear her banging around in the kitchen. The phone rang and Mrs. Carpenter answered it, dragging the long spiraled cord into the kitchen. I could hear her chatting with someone about the right tension to set a sewing machine to if you're sewing quilt patches, could hear the hum of the microwave, and eventually could smell reheated beans, rice, and corn bread. My stomach rumbled.

At twenty past seven, I gave up on not wrinkling my dress and sat delicately down on the edge of the brown leather sofa. I kept my eyes glued to the window, but all remained dark in the moonless night outside. I thought that was pretty ironic, that darkness. I could feel the full moon pulsing inside of me even though it was buried behind a thick wall of clouds.

It wasn't until seven thirty, when Mrs. Carpenter came out of the kitchen to hang up the phone, that I finally began to doubt. Mrs. Carpenter looked out the window and frowned. Her silence spoke louder than words.

She went back into the kitchen and I stopped staring out the window. It was obvious he wasn't coming. I stood, hating the feel of the dress as it swished around my knees, and turned toward my room.

Light flickered against the glass face of the gun case. I looked out the window just in time to see a red sports car skid to a stop in front of the porch. My breath caught in my throat and I stared, hoping Bridger was behind the wheel.

The car door opened, Bridger stepped out, and I started breathing again. He smoothed his hair, straightened his bow tie, and walked up the porch steps. The doorbell rang and, as if on cue, my palms started to sweat.

Please don't try to hold my hand!
I swung my moist hands through the air, trying to dry them.

“I'll get it,” Mrs. Carpenter called, hustling out of the kitchen with a smile on her face. She opened the door wide. “Please, come in.” Bridger stepped inside, one hand hidden behind his back.

My heart flip-flopped at the sight of him. He wore a black tuxedo that matched his hair and made his shoulders look twice as wide as normal.

“Sorry I'm late. The florist was running behind, since I called in my order so last minute. I tried calling you—twice—but the phone was busy.” He pulled his hand out from behind his back and handed me a bouquet of yellow tulips and white daisies. “And this is for your wrist,” he said, removing from the base of the bouquet three tulips attached to an elastic bracelet. I held my hand out and he slid the elastic strap into place.

“Let me make this a permanent memory,” Mrs. Carpenter said, holding her camera up. Bridger put his arm around my waist and pulled me close. I didn't need to hear the word “cheese” to bring a smile to my face.

I wasn't going to need a photograph to remember this night forever.

We went to Long John Silver's for dinner—fish and chips had never tasted so good. Bridger apologized for the informal restaurant, said he'd made reservations somewhere nice but had canceled them when he thought I was grounded. Long John's was the only place that wasn't booked.

After dinner we drove to the high school. As we crossed the parking lot, Bridger took my hand in his and I silently prayed it wasn't damp. His fingers tightened on mine and I looked up at him.

“You look really beautiful. Did I already tell you that?” he asked.

I smiled. “No.”

“Sorry. It's the first thing I thought when I walked through your front door, but I was stressed from running late.”

We walked into the school through the gym doors and I froze, like a deer staring at headlights. My hand fell from Bridger's.

The other girls weren't dressed like me. Not at all. To say they wore dresses was like saying I was poor. I was destitute. And they all wore gowns. Gowns that showed flashes of bare shoulders, cleavage, and thighs as they sparkled beneath disco balls.

Stepping in front of me, Bridger blocked my view of the gowns and placed his hands on my shoulders.

“Maggie,” he said, leaning close so I could hear his voice over the music. “I want you to promise me something.”

I looked into his eyes, wondering if he was as embarrassed about being seen with me as I was to be wearing such an inappropriate dress.

“What promise?”

“Don't worry what anyone in this gym thinks about you except for me. I'm the one you're with. I think you're beautiful. That's all that matters.”

His words stirred something deep in my chest and I found it hard to breathe, let alone maintain eye contact. I looked down at my white sandals and wiggled my toes, wishing we'd never come to prom. A warm hand cupped my chin and Bridger angled my face up to look into his eyes.

“Do you want to leave? We can go to a movie or something.”

I nodded, relief flooding me.

“Okay. I have one favor to ask first.”

“What?” At this point, I'd grant him just about anything.

“One dance.”

My eyes flickered past him, to the crowded gym. To the other students.

“Please?”

“Okay,” I whispered, though the word scraped out of my mouth.

Bridger led me onto the dance floor and everyone stared. Girls snickered and pointed at my dress.

“That is the cheapest dress I've ever seen,” someone called. “Where'd you buy it? The Wal-Mart clearance rack?” Bridger's hand tightened on mine. “This is prom, not a church picnic,” someone else called. Bridger's hand tightened more.

He stopped in the middle of the dance floor, right beneath the biggest disco ball, and took me in his arms.

“Don't listen to them,” he said. “And if you don't want to see their faces, just look into my eyes.”

I nodded and stared into his dark eyes, trying to find the pupils in the irises, but it didn't matter. Sure, I couldn't see the other students. But I could still hear them.

“… embarrassed to be seen with her.”

“So shoddy, especially next to O'Connell.”

“I hear he doesn't have to rent his tux. He owns it, and it's Armani.”

“The least he could've done is buy a halfway decent dress for her.”

I closed my eyes and laid my head on his chest. One of his hands left my back and moved to my ear, gently pressing the voices away. So he could hear them, too. My heart seemed to double in size at his small gesture and I smiled.

Yeah. I might have been wearing the wrong dress. And the wrong shoes. And I didn't have a teeny, sequin-covered purse to clutch. But when it came to a date, I had the best one in the entire room. I lifted my head and looked into his eyes again.

He smiled and my gaze moved to his lips, to his white teeth. I licked my lips and prayed he'd kiss me good night.

“Not so bad anymore, is it?” he asked.

I bit my bottom lip and looked back into his eyes. “No. Not bad.” The song ended and I let go of Bridger, ready to bail. Prom was way overrated. But his arms tightened and he pulled me closer.

“One more song?” he asked. I looked around the gym. For the most part, I'd been forgotten. I put my hands back on his shoulders and got lost in his eyes. More than one song passed, and if the other students were talking about me, I couldn't hear them over the music and my drumming heart. My gaze moved between Bridger's eyes and his mouth. Once, when I'd been staring at his lips so long I could almost imagine how they'd feel on mine, he leaned closer to me and his lips parted. My eyes met his and we stopped moving to the music. But then he looked away and stared toward the doors we'd come in through. His hands left my lower back.

“Bridger?”

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. He took me in his arms again, gazing into my eyes. We swayed to the beat for half a song and then he slowed, no longer moving to the beat, his eyes far away. He tilted his head to the side and I wondered who he was listening to. Who was verbally beating me to a pulp this time? I strained my ears but couldn't separate one voice out of them all. Bridger frowned and he stopped dancing.

He took a step away from me and said, “I'll be back in a couple of minutes. Want some punch or a cookie or anything?”

“No, I'm—” Before I could finish, he turned and wove his way across the dance floor, disappearing through the door that led into the main part of the school. “—fine.”