Free Sing Me to Sleep by Angela Morrison Page B

now, but Scott gets his way. She has us stand facing each other, puts Scott’s arms around me—adjusts them so his hands rest in the small of my back. She has me clasp my arms behind his neck, shakes her head, repositions my arms to mirror Scott’s. “Now, turn your heads. Chin down, dear. Stand up straight. Smile a little. This isn’t a funeral. Look here.” She holds up her hand and wiggles her fingers. “That’s good.” The camera flashes.
    I feel stiff and awkward and blink.
    Scott, the little sneak, tickles me. I laugh, and she snaps another shot. “Oh,” she says, “that one is nice.”
    Scott keeps one hand on my back and guides me into a blue plush room with chandeliers turned low. A slow song is playing. “Let’s dance.”
    I hesitate. He knows I’ve never been to a dance. Enemy territory. He went in junior high. Maybe some in high school. Guys can do that—watch from the sidelines. Maybe he even danced. I don’t know. I was home writing sad songs that I tore into tiny bits and threw out my window.
    “Come on, Bethie.” He slips off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair at an empty table in the back. “Slow ones are easy.” He glances at the sparkly clutch Meadow loaned me. “Anything valuable in that? ”
    “Just my face.” Who knows what that’s worth? Hundreds. Thousands. I toss the bag on the table and glance around. There are a couple teacher chaperones watching stuff at the tables. One of them nods at me.
    Scott grabs my elbow and pushes me onto the dance floor. He puts his arms around my waist again. I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders, barely touching him. He’s staring straight at my cleavage.
    “Stop looking at that.”
    “Didn’t you wear this dress so I could look at it?”
    “I wore this dress because Meadow made me.”
    “Thank you, Meadow.”
    “You’re creeping me out. Knock it off.”
    “Where should I look?”
    “How about my face?”
    He tilts his head back, and we move around in a slow circle. “This isn’t going to work. My neck’s getting stiff.” His eyes drop back to my cleavage.
    I step on his toes—hard. “Look to the side then.”
    “Whoa. Everybody’s staring at us.”
    “Crap.” Heat pours up through my body and out through my face.
    “Just keep dancing.”
    “No, let’s sit down. I’m thirsty.”
    “You just drank that whole bottle of sparkly stuff.”
    I glance around the room over the top of Scott’s soft-blond head. “They are not staring.” I look down at him. “You are the only one staring inappropriately.”
    “Come closer then so I can’t.” He pulls me tight and lays his face on my chest, never missing a beat.
    “That was smooth.”
    “You can learn a lot watching from the sidelines.”
    “So you’re comfortable now?”
    “Crap, Beth. Shut up and dance.”
    I rest my chin on the top of his head. Shoot, he smells so good. I close my eyes. We fall into the slow, seductive rhythm of the song.
    Remember when you first held me ?
And I believed love could be?
Your lips awoke my senses.
You melted my defenses.
     
    I grip Scott’s shoulders. It feels so good to touch them. My hands slide back and forth exploring the shape of his deltoids as we sway together. This dress is lower in back, too. He has one hand on my bare skin and the other at my waist.
    If you love me, I’ ll still be here.
Open your heart without fear.
Come back to me
And I’ ll be everything (whoa, whoa-oa, oh).
     
    I’m enjoying this way more than a friend should. I pull him even closer, caress his back, get my hands in his hair and stroke his head—kind of maternal, kind of not.
    “That’s nice.” His breath tickles my skin.
    Another blush. Does he feel the heat? “Shut up and dance.”
    Be my baby, and I’ ll be yours.
Don’t say maybe, say forever more.
The truth is, babe, you’re what I’m made for.
     
    The chorus takes over, winds back, and repeats. Scott and I don’t talk much for the rest of the song. We’re both