How did Rat get from sitting at the popular table at lunch to dating Briella? Have I been so busy with Whitney that I didn’t notice what was happening between the two of them? No way.
“Want to dance?” Jackson asks me, but I shake my head.
“Not yet,” I say. Briella is laughing at something Rat said.
“Okay, then I’m going to go get some punch. Want me to bring you back some?”
I smile up at him and nod. I notice he didn’t offer me any food. I guess he doesn’t want to undo all of Whitney’s hard work. I wait for Skinny to comment, but she’s still oddly silent.
It should make me happy that the horrible hiss of her voice is gone, but it feels like there’s an empty space in my head where she used to be, like the bloody hole that remains after you pull a tooth. Something should fill it up. I stare down at the glittery tabletop in front of me.
“Evidently you can dress me up, but you can’t cover my scars,” I whisper softly to no one.
Someone takes the chair beside me, and I glance up. “You look beautiful,” Rat says.
“Thanks,” I say. Even without his glasses, his eyes are familiar. Comforting. Everything else fades away. Whitney, Briella, Skinny. Even Jackson. Just seeing Rat makes me feel more relaxed.
“You look pretty hot yourself,” I say, and he does. He pushes his bangs away from his eyes, making my stomach dip. I stare at him for a long time. Then I remember and glance around quickly.
“Where’s Briella?”
“She’s talking to Wolfgang,” he says.
Of course she is. I see her over by the food table, laughing up at Wolf, one hand on his big, square shoulder. I turn back to face Rat, but he is looking at me. Not at Briella.
“Do you want to dance?” he murmurs, so quietly I’m sure I’m the only one who hears it.
I nod at him, wide-eyed. “I guess so,” I say. My voice is nothing more than a whisper.
He stands and holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he leads me to the dance floor. When we reach the middle of the small dance space, he turns to face me very slowly until his eyes meet mine. The music is slow and familiar. “My Funny Valentine.” A strange song for a high-school dance.
“I think they’re playing our song,” Rat says.
“You requested this?” I am trying very hard to keep my voice level.
“You said it was the most romantic Broadway song ever written when we watched that show. . . .” His voice trails off as he tries to remember the name, snapping his fingers.
“Babes in Arms,” I say.
“That’s it,” he says.
He gives me a little bow and opens his arms wide, his grin full and dazzling. I don’t have to be an elephant or a swan. There is no pretending. That fourth wall that Ms. DeWise is always talking about finally slides up between me and the audi ence. It is only the two of us on this stage.
Stepping into his arms, I put my hands on his chest, but I’m not trying to push him away. I don’t have to. He already knows all the terrible secrets I’ve swallowed down for so long. He knows how much I weigh. It doesn’t matter. I spread my fingers wide to feel the muscles under his shirt and let my hands slide up around his neck, touching the curls at his collar.
I can’t resist. “You make me smile with my heart,” I sing softly, along with the song.
I don’t have to worry about his hands touching my waist or any other part of my body. It’s Rat. He knows me. The real me. And it doesn’t matter. I lay my head down on his shoulder in relief, and I don’t flinch as he wraps his arms around me. The music is slow and we sway back and forth in time.
“How did you learn to dance?” I ask.
“YouTube videos,” he says, and I laugh.
“You made it to the ball,” he says. “I predicted last summer you would.”
I lean back against his arms and look up. Our eyes lock. I know we’re both remembering. The hospital, the weigh-ins, the exercise. I’m surprised by the feelings pulsing through my body.
“That seems like a long time ago.” Ninety-nine pounds ago now and a body that has been rearranged inside to never be the same again. “I still have a long way to go,” I say.
“Yes, and an audition. That will be the final step of our master plan.” He fake laughs like a mad scientist. “You’re going to break an arm.”
My forehead crinkles in bewilderment. “You mean break a leg?”
“Whatever.”
I laugh, and rest my head on his shoulder again. It feels so good to be here. I don’t want it to stop. But it does.
“Can I cut in?” It’s Briella, standing there in all her pink Saran Wrap glory with a stunning smile on her face. “I think your date was looking for you,” she says to me. “You know . . . Jackson?”