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School dances were designed to take the pent-up semester energy and wring it out of everyone in the building all at once – and Barbara’s functionally a sponge, sitting and soaking it up until she’s drowning in the music, the laughter, the spilled punch. She always sits too close to the speakers and starts buzzing, all carbonated blood roaring in her ears. She forgets what to do with all that energy.
You should be dancing , Melissa reminds her every year, and it feels like a revelation. She force-feeds Barbara some finger food and drags her ass out to the squeaky gym floor, and her hair spins with her and takes up the whole world, and she’s a redhead rapture — she is a revelation.
(Except this year, Melissa’s got Gary on the squeaky floor, and Barbara can’t eat a thing.)
She’s seated far enough away that Melissa would never clock her staring — but she’s still careful about it. She flicks her gaze around the room at regular intervals: the kids trying to run a distracted conga line, just adorable. Melissa spiraling in a scarlet dress under Gary’s hand, very sweet. Jacob and his boyfriend attempting a Dirty Dancing lift, strange but it’s working. Melissa’s hair falling out of her ponytail, catching on the corner of her red lip when she spins… and of course, she doesn’t brush it away. Melissa is a devoted dancer — her body commits itself to the movement. Her eyes lock on yours and she bites her lip when she starts smiling, starts really enjoying herself, and she burns holes into your hands and you forget you’re dancing because you can’t feel the floor…
(Barbara feels sick.)
It’s her own fault for pushing Melissa toward the guy, but in her defense, she hadn’t expected them to last this long. And she hadn’t realized how tall he is. Maybe it exaggerates itself from a distance, but Melissa looks like a little Thumbelina in his arms and it makes Barbara’s skin crawl. He could play frisbee with her, she’s so small — and maybe Barbara’s overprotective after Melissa’s first marriage, or maybe it’s primarily jealousy, but something in her bones wants to rush up and rip his hands off Melissa’s waist and tell him he dances like a mule -
“Do you want my ranch?”
Barbara jolts out of her brooding — glances over her shoulder, where Janine crowds her. She’s holding out her paper plate like an offering. Barbara glances at the glob of ranch dressing, draws her brows together.
“You just,” Janine stammers gently, “you weren’t eating, so I thought I’d offer. Before I threw it away.”
Barbara softens. Count on Janine to be sweet in the strangest way.
“No thank you, dear,” Barbara says — touches her wrist for good measure. Janine twitches a smile; she needs these small things.
“Well, I’ll be in the conga line if you need me,” she adds over her shoulder, and heads toward the trash cans with her glob of ranch dressing. She glances back twice on the way; Barbara nods at her. (She can’t imagine why she’d need Janine, but it’s a kind gesture.)
“Did she just offer you her garbage?”
Barbara jumps out of her skin again — twists back around, and now it’s Melissa leaned against the table. She’s so suddenly close that Barbara nearly chokes on air.
“Good Lord, Melissa,” she huffs through a weak smile. “Warn a girl next time.”
“Didn’t know I was that scary,” Melissa teases, and scrapes a chair around the table. “Scoot over.”
Barbara scoots without thinking, inviting Melissa to her side. Melissa shoves in incredibly close, hip bumping Barbara’s. Barbara feels extremely normal about this.
Elbow to the table, Melissa slouches like she’s not the most beautiful person in the room right now. She studies Barbara’s plate. Barbara already knows what’s coming.
“I’m not that hungry,” Barbara says preemptively.
“Sure loaded your plate for someone who isn’t hungry,” and now Melissa’s studying her , and Barbara feels transparent. Melissa’s pursed lips look like a cherry for biting; her hair’s spilling down to tickle her neck. Her gaze is too clever.
(Barbara’s stomach flutters. She’s so sick.)
But Melissa’s still on the food, sneaking a hand around Barbara’s fork. She pokes at the far end of the plate. “I made that one — it’s good.”
“I know it is.” Barbara’s not fool enough to mistake Melissa’s cooking for another chaperone — or to expect anything less than perfection.
“Mm, you should put your mouth,” Melissa scoops up a forkful, “where your money is. Try it.”
“Melissa-”
“Oh, c’mon,” Melissa croons, and taps Barbara’s lip with the fork. “For my pride. One bite.”
And damn her for that, and for her proud smile and those eager eyes. Barbara’s stomach is in a sailor’s knot, but there’s no saying ‘no’ to this face. So she sighs, and accepts the bite with little argument.
(Her eyes roll back in her head. She can hear Melissa’s excited inhale.)
“Lord save me, Melissa.”
“It’s good, huh? Put a little love into it,” she brags a bit, glancing out at the dance floor for the first time since she laid eyes on Barbara. “Put some other stuff you’d mispronounce.”
“You amaze me,” comes spilling out before Barbara can stop it — and Melissa’s head whips back around, ponytail nearly smacking her in the nose. Barbara’s face warms.
(Melissa’s face seems to warm, too. Just a little color in her cheeks.)
“Well, you didn’t see the first batch,” Melissa mumbles, leaning against her hand to subtly rub at her flushed cheek. It’s self-deprecating, but she’s still grinning all over, so Barbara feels like she’s won.
So she follows Melissa’s glance toward the dance floor and lets herself have another bite — remembers that the twist in her stomach is usually a loop knot. Just needs a little tug.
The song in the air ends, and a new one pipes up — and Melissa hums a noise to herself. Barbara swallows a bite, glances expectantly. “What?”
Back thudding against her chair, Melissa drops her hand under the table — finds Barbara’s wrist and squeezes.
“Dance with me,” she decides, looking back at Barbara. She nods her head toward the gym floor, as though Barbara needs any convincing at all — as though she hasn’t been waiting all night.
Barbara pulls an intentional breath, plays it cool. “I thought you wanted me to eat.”
“Mhm, and now I want you to dance.” There’s play in her eyes as she leans a hand on the table, shoves to her feet. She tugs Barbara’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“ Melissa -”
“You can’t be down in the dumps when you’re dancing with a Schemmenti,” she cuts her off through a wicked grin. She’s leaning over the table, necklace swinging like something to get tangled in. “It’s like a shot of espresso — perks you right up. C’mon, up.”
And Barbara would protest, but Melissa’s fingers wiggle between hers and gravity shifts, like nature itself has already surrendered to Melissa. She’s right — she’s a shot of espresso, and Barbara’s developing a dependence.
So she lets Melissa drag her to her feet — and once she’s up, Barbara knows Melissa won’t let her back down. She walks Barbara out to the center of the room, hand raised high, strutting in that way she reserves for a dance floor. Barbara’s whole body buzzes like sparklers, face burning because Melissa’s like a spotlight sometimes — everyone’s looking at her in this dress. She carries herself like a single woman, and Barbara hasn’t done that in years.
(Maybe it’s in her imagination, but Melissa carries Barbara with a bit of pride, too. It puffs up her chest a bit.)
When Melissa finds their spot, Barbara slinks into her other hand like a slide puzzle, and it’s almost too comfortable. They’ve been doing this for years of school dances — it’s second nature, but it feels a little more dizzying these days.
Barbara’s a mountain in most rooms she enters, but on the dance floor, Melissa always leads. She takes Barbara in her hands like something precious and locks into persistent eye contact, at least until they’ve established a movement. Barbara stops thinking when Melissa’s this close; she stops breathing, sometimes, but Melissa’s got that teacher instinct and she’ll pull an audible breath to prompt Barbara to inhale, too. Barbara would be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel any kind of shame when Melissa’s staring at her like she’s the whole wide berry-picking world -
And Melissa reels her closer, abrupt enough to catch a gasp in Barbara’s throat — and then it’s a laugh with no pretense, and Melissa’s chuckling and stepping into Barbara with confidence, and it makes Barbara confident, too. Melissa stops telegraphing her movements, and Barbara knows what to do — second nature, like tossing your keys on the kitchen counter. Like coming home.
And that’s when Melissa closes her eyes, meaning Barbara wins again. She gets this moment to watch her now, to let herself drink it all in — the happy bite on Melissa’s lip, the way she shallowly mumbles along with the song — the red hair whipping around, catching in her mouth like a temptation. Barbara’s braver when Melissa has her eyes closed — she reaches up and brushes the hair from Melissa’s cheek.
(Melissa leans into the touch for a second, but they both pretend she doesn’t. When her eyes open, she’s pink from head to shoulders.)
Then Melissa sees something in her eyes — something Barbara isn’t aware of — and she laughs to herself.
“Fuck it,” she mutters under her breath, and reaches back to tug her hair loose. It falls the rest of the way down, and then she’s everywhere — and Barbara forgets to breathe again. Melissa’s intentional inhale isn’t enough to save her now.
Fuck it , Barbara decides, and lets herself pulls Melissa back in. Lets herself laugh, too, and loosens her hips a little bit. Lets her hair down, in her own way.
Then they’re flying, even rolling into the next song, and Melissa’s dancing her pretty ass off and Barbara’s singing breathless with the music — and Melissa’s not one to sing too loud, but Barbara pulls her into it, gets her fumbling lyrics between laughs and hiding her face in Barbara’s shoulder for just a moment too long — gets her to sing the high part of the chorus, and she’s not even drunk, and Barbara feels like one of them must be, because she can’t feel the floor anymore — can’t feel anyone around them, can’t feel Gary standing off in some far corner of the room – can’t feel anything except Melissa’s collapsing laugh when her forehead falls to Barbara’s, telling her she’s won again – telling her she’s still got Thumbelina wrapped around her finger, beaming against her cheek. For this moment, she’s only Barbara’s, coming back home.
(For this moment, Barbara thinks, this is how it’s supposed to feel. She doesn’t know what that means, what ‘it’ is — maybe everything. Maybe this is how everything should feel. Because this is one of the only feelings she likes right now: looking into Melissa’s eyes and dancing to something they already know and already love, and being exactly where she wants to be. How often does Barbara get to be exactly where she wants to be? It feels too rare.)
(It feels like a revelation.)