Free Oddballs by William Sleator Page B

Asking us to her imaginary folk-dancing group was safe, since she certainly did not expect us to skip the party to go with her. Leah’s phone call was nothing but a feeble attempt to improve her credibility.
    â€œWhat do you think she’d do if we did agree to go?” I wondered.
    â€œIt might be interesting to see what kind of excuse she’d come up with,” Bart said. “Why don’t you tell her we accept?”
    I was reluctant to put Leah on the spot, but I was also curious. And it wouldn’t be so embarrassing to do this to her over the phone. I called Leah back and nodded knowingly to myself when she said that unfortunately Russ was not picking her up in his Rolls that night, after all. It was so irritatingly predictable that I couldn’t keep from saying, “So you weren’t really inviting us?”
    There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, as I expected. But I was not prepared when Leah asked if one of us could get a car tonight. She didn’t have access to a car, but she knew the way. I said sure and slowly hung up, wishing I hadn’t accepted. We would miss the party. And probably all that would happen was that Leah would pretend to get lost, and we’d just drive around aimlessly, listening to more of her stories. Nicole and Bart felt the same way. But it was too late to back out now.
    We didn’t get lost; Leah gave Bart excellent directions. We could hardly believe it when she pointed out an old warehouse downtown and told him to park at the next space he could find. As we walked back toward the building, there was no need for her to draw our attention to the gigantic and gleaming Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud reposing majestically in front of the shabby, unlit doorway. No one could not have noticed that car. We exchanged glances of amazement. None of us had ever seen a vehicle like that in our lives.
    Lively ethnic music in a minor key grew louder as we climbed the four dingy flights of metal stairs. Leah pushed open a door on a landing lit by an unadorned light bulb and stepped inside. We shyly followed her into a large room with bare walls and a scuffed wooden floor. Unfamiliar instruments tooted and trilled rhythmically from a phonograph equipped with two large, expensive-looking speakers.
    A group of about a dozen people, college age and older, danced in a line holding hands. The women had long hair and no makeup and wore bright peasant skirts and blouses. Many of the men had beards, and all wore jeans and T-shirts—except one, who stood out from the rest in black trousers and turtleneck. He was tall and very lean, with short hair and no beard or mustache, and he danced at the head of the line, leading the others along.
    Their feet moved in complicated patterns, hopping occasionally, jumping back and then forward again, as the line snaked around the room. Sometimes the leader would lower his head and glide underneath two other dancers’ joined hands, pulling the line around and through itself. Everyone was sweating and smiling. The leader never missed a beat, one arm held above his head, his face lifted almost ecstatically as his feet breezed through the intricate steps. Some of the others, I was relieved to see, stumbled at times, losing count, looking down at their feet, their mouths moving silently as though repeating instructions. They were too involved to pay any attention to our arrival. Leah ran out onto the floor, grabbed the hand of the person at the end of the line, and plunged skillfully into the dance—though she wasn’t particularly graceful.
    When the music ended, they all dropped hands and began talking and laughing, wiping their brows and catching their breath. Leah introduced us to Russ, the leader, and his wife, Maria.
    Russ wasn’t nearly as handsome as Leah had described him, but he was good-looking enough, with a narrow face and a long jaw. He didn’t say much; he was clearly eager to get on with the next