Look Both Ways (19 page)

Livvy and Jessa burst into our room without knocking, and I start feeling awkward all over again; I’ve barely spoken to either of them since my mom’s master class. They’re both giggling and tottering in their heels, and when Livvy reaches into the red corset she’s wearing and pulls out a flask, I see why. “You want?” she asks.

“Sure,” Zoe says. She drinks, grimaces, and hands it to me. Based on the face she made, I’m not sure I want what’s inside, but I do want the courage that comes with it, so I take a swig. It tastes like lighter fluid that’s been touched with a match, and fire flies up my nose and down my throat as I cough and sputter. Everyone laughs, and Zoe rubs my back.

“What
is
that?” I gasp when I can speak again.

“Whiskey,” Jessa says. She’s wearing this slinky silver thing that’s more like a large handkerchief than a dress. “Little sips, Shepard.”

I take another tiny sip to prove that I can, and it goes down better this time. “Good girl,” Jessa says, and her smile looks pretty genuine as she takes the flask from me. I wonder for a second if she’s gotten over all the stuff she said the other day, but I’m pretty sure she and Livvy are just caught up in the tipsy anticipation of the party. I smile back anyway. I’ll take what I can get.

Pandemonium is already in full swing when we get there. The
Dreamgirls
set has been moved into the wings, and the stage and loading dock of Haydu Hall look like a New York City club. Rows of moving lights swoop around in a synchronized dance and shoot their colorful beams through the haze produced by a bank of fog machines. In the center of the stage, raised up on a platform, is an eight-foot-tall cage with a girl and two guys inside. All three of them are dancing like they’re possessed, and for a second I think Allerdale has hired burlesque performers. But when the door swings open and the three of them spill out, laughing and whooping, I recognize them as non-eq company members. The music is so loud, I can feel the bass thundering through my chest.

Zoe grabs my hand and screams something. I have no idea what she said, but her eyes are bright and she’s smiling at me like I’m the only person in the room, so I hold on tight and let her lead me. We snake through the writhing, sweaty crowd, dodging flailing limbs and flying hair, until we’re right in the middle of the stage. When we reach the base of the cage, Zoe throws her head back, closes her eyes, and starts to dance. Normally it takes me a couple of minutes to fall into the rhythm of a dance floor, but here, everyone is so caught up in their own ecstatic motion that it feels like nobody’s watching. I’m warm all the way through from the whiskey and the heat of the crowd. As the beat speeds up, I snake both arms up above my head, raise my face to the neon lights, and spin around and around. I feel free and fizzy and dangerous and lit up from the inside.

One song fades into another and another, and I lose track of time completely. Somewhere in this crowd is Livvy in her corset and Jessa in her handkerchief and Kenji and Todd and Pandora and Russell, but all that exists for me is Zoe. The crowd presses her closer and closer to me as we dance, and I don’t back up to make room. Pretty soon she’s got her hands on my hips and her body right up against mine, and everything in me goes,
Yes.
My arms have nowhere else to go, so I loop them around her neck. Our knees scissor together, and for a minute it’s awkward, the movements of our bodies fumbling and unsynchronized. But Zoe looks straight into my eyes and smiles, and I find her rhythm and sink into it. I’ve seen girls dance like this before, rocking their hips back and forth like they’re one eight-limbed, two-hearted animal, and I know it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But I’m sure I’ve never felt this kind of connection to another person, even when Jason used to push me up against a wall and kiss me until I lost my breath.

A new song starts, one of those ubiquitous ones about freedom and summer and falling in love, and Zoe grabs my hand and leans in to say something. Her lips are so close, they brush my ear, but the music is loud enough that I can still barely hear her scream, “Let’s go!”

I look at her like,
What?
She can’t possibly want to leave already. But then she tips her head up toward the empty cage, and I realize what she means. Part of me is so not ready for this, but a bigger part is thrilled as Zoe leads me up the steps and behind the bars. The crowd cheers as she closes the door behind us and puts her hands on my hips, her front pressed to my back like she’s spooning me. Everyone is watching us, but this doesn’t feel anything like the kiss at the cast party. This doesn’t feel like a game. It’s suddenly very clear to me that after tonight, everything’s going to be different between us.

I have no idea how long we dance in the cage, but by the time we’re done, I’m soaked in sweat, and I’m delirious with exhibitionism and the feel of Zoe’s skin. My legs are trembling a little, and I stumble in my heels and trip down the last two steps, but someone catches my arm and helps me balance. I look up, up, up into Russell’s face.

“Thank you!” I shout, but I’m not sure he can hear me, so I give him a hug instead. I’m so happy to see him; I love everyone right now. Most of the company is dressed in leather and sparkles and booty-shorts and tulle, but Russell’s in his standard T-shirt and jeans, and it’s comforting. It reminds me that this evening is really happening, that it’s not some crazy fever dream.

“You okay?” he hollers when I pull back. I nod hard, and he smiles. “You looked awesome up there.”

It
felt
like we looked awesome, but it’s nice to hear it confirmed by someone else. “Thanks!” I shout. “You should go next! Is Olivier here? You should make him dance with you.”

“What?” Russell yells, and I shake my head. There’s no way I’m going to make myself heard over this music.

“Do you want—” Russell starts, but Zoe comes up next to me and grabs my hand.

“Water!” she shouts.

I give Russell a little wave. “See you later,” I yell.

There are big coolers of water on the loading dock, and Zoe and I gulp some down before we head back into the fray, grinning at each other like idiots the whole time. We pass Kenji and Todd near the edge of the stage, and they wrap us up in their sweaty arms and kiss our cheeks and grind with us in an exaggerated, hilarious way. Neither of them has really spoken to me all week, but now it’s like they want me to be their new best friend, and I just go with it. Tonight, I don’t care about whys or hows or what will happen tomorrow. Tonight, I belong with them.

I belong at this festival.

I belong with Zoe.

The party doesn’t end until nearly three. When the music finally stops and the loading dock lights flicker on, Zoe’s beside me in a moment, bedraggled and glowing. She slips her arm through mine and says, “Let’s go home,” and even though I’m way too warm, I shiver. Once we get back to the room, absolutely anything could happen. I’m pretty sure I’m ready.

Before anyone can trap us into a conversation, we slip outside and stumble across the lawn toward our dorm, clinging to each other and laughing as our heels sink into the dewy grass. Livvy’s whiskey ran out halfway through the night, and the effects have long worn off, but I’m so tired that I feel tipsy anyway. There are people everywhere, but they all seem flat, like extras who have been hired to provide background noise for Zoe and me. She’s the only one who feels solid and real. I’m hyperaware of the stripe of skin where my arm presses against hers.

Our heels click up the stairs, synchronized without us even trying. As we make our way down the hall to our room, Zoe giggles in the quiet, then claps her hand over her mouth and exaggeratedly shushes me. We’re the first up here, so it’s totally unnecessary, but I laugh and shush her back. It makes me feel like we’re getting away with something delicious and forbidden.

I unlock our door—it takes me a couple of tries—and we push inside, both bumping our shoulders into the doorframe because we’re not willing to separate long enough to go single file. Neither of us bothers to turn on the light, but the streetlamp along the path outside casts a soft glow over the room. Zoe steadies herself on my shoulder as she kicks off her shoes, then lets go of me to stretch her arms over her head. Her silver eye shadow is smeared, like a little kid at the end of trick-or-treating, and I have an unaccountable urge to press my lips to her eyelids. How much am I allowed to touch her, now that we’re not performing for anyone?

She heads toward my bed and flops down onto her back, her hair splayed across my pillow. For a second I think she’s still drunk enough that she’s gone to the wrong side of the room by accident, but then she pats the spot next to her and says, “C’mere.”

There’s barely space for us to lie next to each other, and Zoe doesn’t move over to accommodate me, so I end up on my side, curled toward her like a parenthesis. Our inside arms are pressed together from shoulder to wrist, and my top knee rests against her bare thigh. I close my eyes and try to memorize every place our skin is touching.

“Tonight was amazing,” she says. She turns to look at me, and our noses almost bump. I feel a laugh rising in my chest at our clumsiness and sudden closeness, but she looks serious, so I swallow it back down. “
You
were amazing. I’ve never seen you let go like that. You’re a great dancer.”

“Really?” I ask, and she nods. “I loved it. I loved dancing with
you.
” If there was ever a time for honesty, it’s now, when we’re both hazy and warm and not thinking too hard.

Zoe rolls away so her back is to me, and for a minute I’m certain I’ve said something wrong. But then she snuggles deeper into my comforter and mumbles, “So tired,” and I realize she’s planning to stay here all night. I’m not ready for her to go to sleep yet, though. Something started between us on that dance floor, and I need confirmation that it’s real, that we can be like that even when we’re alone.

Zoe’s hair has slipped off her shoulder and pooled behind her, right next to my nose, and it still smells like grapefruit even after all the dancing. I sink my fingers into it near the nape of her neck and slowly drag them through to the ends, which are tangled and damp from sticking to her skin. Zoe tips her head back a little, and I wonder if I’ve pulled too hard. But when I retreat, she murmurs, “Mmm, no, don’t stop.”

I plunge back in, more confident now, and comb through the whole length of her hair, roots to tips, over and over and over. The room is totally quiet except for the soft, rhythmic shushing sound of my fingers. I drag my nails gently along her scalp, just to see what happens, and I’m rewarded with a soft, appreciative sigh that’s almost,
almost
a moan. I wonder if she makes that sound when Carlos touches her other places, and the thought sends a nervous, satisfying warmth straight to my center.

In a fleeting moment of bravery, I sweep Zoe’s hair to the side and run a single fingertip down the soft length of her neck. The top flower of her tattoo is right below where my finger’s resting, and I trace the outline of it. I expect it to be raised a little, but it feels as soft and smooth as the rest of her skin. I trace the next flower and the next as they meander over her shoulder blade, down toward where they disappear under the back of her dress. Zoe’s breathing more deeply now, and even though she’s not facing me, I can tell how totally
with me
she is. There’s something about holding her captive with my touch that bolsters my tiny spark of courage and builds it up into a small, constant flame.

I trace the top edge of her dress, back and forth, until I finally work up the nerve to grasp the tiny silver zipper. So slowly that it’s almost excruciating, I pull it down. One, two, three inches of Zoe’s inked back come into view as the zipper’s teeth separate.

“Is this okay?” I whisper, and she nods. It’s like she doesn’t even want to speak for fear of tearing the web I’m weaving around us.

Her permission makes me hungry, and I slide the zipper down as far as it’ll go, right below the edge of her underwear. I spread the fabric of her dress apart, revealing the expanse of her back, and when I slip my finger underneath the clasp of her bra, she shivers and nods again.

It comes apart, and for the first time, I can see Zoe’s entire tattoo, a network of delicate branches and tiny pink flowers that reaches all the way down to her hips. It’s absolutely gorgeous. I remember what she told me about the tattoo’s symbolism—that life is beautiful but short, and you have to take advantage of every opportunity—and it makes me bold enough to reach out and run a fingertip all the way down her spine. Her back arches, and my breath catches in my chest. I’ve never felt so powerful in my entire life.

I start again at the very top and trace each flower and branch as slowly as I can, and I watch Zoe’s body move as she breathes with me, all her attention focused on that tiny point where my skin and hers come together. Her skin is soft and slightly damp, and I’m not sure if it’s from dancing all night or from what I’m doing to her now. When I reach her hips and there’s no more ink left, I kiss her back once, right where I imagine the other side of her heart would be. I lick my lips and taste salt.