Frozen Beauty

by Lexa Hillyer

  Lilly could still taste the cinnamon burn of their shared whiskey on her tongue, felt it warming her stomach as they entered the building.

  “There’s your sister,” Dar pointed out as soon as they were inside.

  Lilly followed her gaze. The standard method of mood lighting for school dances involved putting on just a single fluorescent overhead at each end of the gym, leaving all the rest off. As a result, everyone danced in the darkest part of the floor—the center—while the chaperones hung around guarding the overly lit banquet-style snack tables, where giant bowls of Doritos were consumed slowly and steadily by grubby-handed freshmen boys, as though the offensive-smelling chips would somehow speed up their growth spurts.

  Sure enough, across the room, Tessa was lounging on the indoor risers, wearing ripped jeans and a black tank top, pale hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head. She seemed to think it created the illusion she was taller. Nearby were a couple of junior boys—Greg Heiser, who Lilly recognized as one of Boyd’s friends from band, and some other guy, Nate something, whose hair frizzed out like he’d stuck his fingers in an electric socket.

  Lilly was overcome with disappointment and annoyance. First of all, why did Tessa always surround herself with freaks? Her one job was to show up with Boyd and Kit. And more importantly, where was Boyd?

  She’d been imagining a more magical entrance. He’d turn and see her in the short, silky green dress that showed off her legs and accented her ginger hair—worn down, of course, practically reaching her butt. He’d make his way through the throngs of sweaty dancers and approach, raising his eyebrows, telling her she looked nice—stammering a little, maybe, to show that he really meant it, and that she made him nervous.

  Instead, he was . . . nowhere.

  Jenny Albot and Toma Ramirez showed up, though, talking about the big game earlier today and how cute Mel’s brothers looked on the field, and how hard the world history quiz had been and how amazing everyone looked in their dresses, except for Toma, who was wearing a pantsuit with a plunging V-neck and had therefore surpassed “amazing” and been promoted to “shocking.”

  Jenny told Lilly that Fred Perovoccio—junior class perv—was staring at her again and Lilly told Dar that yes, Mel’s old dress was flattering on her and then Toma chimed in to say that Dar was too skinny and Dar rolled her eyes and Mel whisper-shouted something to Jenny that caused her to snarf her punch, which was unsurprising because Mel was always causing people to snarf liquids.

  Jenny sidled up to Mel, on the other side of Lilly. “So, where’s hottie Donovan?”

  Lilly snorted. “I bet he won’t even show up.”

  Mel glared at her before turning to Jenny. “I don’t know; I haven’t seen him yet.”

  “Well,” Toma chimed in. “You did have to pick the hardest-to-get guy in our grade.”

  Jenny nodded. “He may not be worth it, Mel.”

  “Thank you!” Lilly shouted. “Finally, someone else sees the light. I’ve been trying to tell Mel he’s a jerk forever.”

  “He’s not a jerk, Lilly. He’s just, like . . . tortured. Which is, as you know, my type.”

  A great song came on and they all forgot about Patrick and instead started screaming and jumping in place with their arms in the air, the bass thumping along the floor and up through their legs, and Jenny’s punch splashed on Toma’s pantsuit but she shouted that it was okay because it was black, and they were spouting the lyrics now, and Mel was shaking her butt at Lilly and soon everyone was wiggling their butts, and now it was a crowd, and the boys were gathering, and everyone was laughing, and that last shot of Fireball had gone to her head, making Lilly feel just the right amount of warm and fuzzy and soft at the edges, and it was a dance finally, the actual act of it and not just the buildup or the letdown but the heart of the thing itself.

  Rohan Reddy was behind her, then, wrapping his hands around her waist—not grinding or anything, more like steering her hips as though she were a shopping cart. Even though their kiss last year had been underwhelming, Lilly hadn’t ruled him out completely. He was on student council, which meant he must be decently intelligent and well liked. He had really dark hair, light brown skin, and a sharp chin.

  He was short, though. Possibly too short.

  And he was not Boyd.

  He came around to dance beside her, squeezing in between her and Dar.

  “Why do you dance like that?” he shouted into her ear after a few minutes.

  “Like what?” she asked, still dancing.

  Rohan scrunched his eyebrows together. “A parallelogram.”

  “What?”

  He moved closer. “A parallelogram!”

  Embarrassed, Lilly pulled her arms in at her sides. Her heart hammered, from dancing, from being talked to by a boy, from wondering whether this was a flirtation or an insult. She remembered their kiss. Sloppy. But heated. Hesitant.

  “How does a parallelogram dance?” she shouted.

  Rohan paused for a moment, like he was thinking. Which was sort of funny, in the context of all these people dancing around him. “Like you,” he answered.

  For a second she thought he’d said he liked her.

  She shrugged. Parallelogram hadn’t been what she was going for, even though it was nice to be studied that closely. She looked over at Mel. Dustin Schantz was, sure enough, swaying next to her, doing some sort of goofy arm movement—not geometric at all, more like an octopus. Dusty wasn’t cute by standard definitions, but he was hilarious, she had to admit.

  She caught Mel’s eyes, and they both burst out laughing again. Dar took each of their hands and pulled them away from Rohan and Dusty and now they were leaping up and down again, shimmying in a vaguely synchronized way, but for as much fun as Lilly was having, she felt empty inside.

  She looked for Boyd’s red hunting hat in the crowd—she could swear she had seen a flash of it earlier, but once again she couldn’t find any sign of him.

  “I gotta pee!” she shouted.

  “Want us to come with?” Dar asked. The next song was slower. People were starting to mill about. The circle was breaking up.

  “No, it’s okay,” Lilly said. “Be right back.”

  Tessa was still at the risers when Lilly made her way there—a larger group had gathered around the top three rows, including Adelia Naslow, who kept fiddling with her bra.

  “What’s the deal?” Lilly asked Tessa, who was lounging with her legs stretched along the wooden riser.

  “Adelia’s doling out Pal.” She sat up, responding to Lilly’s blank expression. “Palcohol. The powdered stuff. It’s in little baggies in her bra.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “Of course not, it’s disgusting.”

  “So where’s . . .” Boyd? “Kit? Didn’t she come with you guys?”

  Tessa shrugged. “She said she left her Spanish text in the language lab.”

  Lilly rolled her eyes. “She has to get it now?”

  “You know Kit,” Tessa responded as Greg Heiser flicked her bun and handed her a plastic cup. “Quit it!” She swatted him away but took a sip from the cup, wincing. Turning back to Lilly, she said, “Yup, it’s gross. Wanna try?” She paused. “Just don’t tell Mom.”

  Lilly huffed. “Really, Tess?”

  “What?” She made an innocent face—eyebrows raised like “What did I say?”

  Lilly sighed. “Forget it.” As if she was going to tattle on them. There had been that one time, but it was sixth grade. And it was only because Tessa got so stoned with kids from her track team that she came home and broke one of their mom’s favorite wineglasses trying to get it out of the dishwasher. Their mom said it was fine and Lilly blurted out, “She was smoking the weeds!” Because, yes, she thought that was how you say it. She was eleven. Come on. Tessa hadn’t even gotten grounded for that long.

  In any case, she wasn’t interested now in spending more time with Tessa and Team Freaks. “Did Boyd go after her?” Lilly asked, trying to sound subtle, not re
ally curious.

  Tessa shrugged. “How should I know? He said he needed air.”

  “Well I’m gonna go look for her.” (Him.)

  Tessa leaned forward. “Have you noticed it, too?”

  “Noticed what?”

  “Oh, never mind.”

  “No, what?”

  Tessa shrugged again. “She’s just been acting kind of . . . weird. Boyd’s been acting funny too. Maybe there’s something going around.”

  “Maybe.” This conversation was wriggling through her mind, making her a little nauseous. It was a dance. She was here to flirt and be noticed and maybe something more. She thought again of the condom; she was so conscious of its presence in her bag that it might as well have singed a hole through the fabric.

  But now, curiosity had wrapped its grip around her guts and she had to know where Boyd had gone. And where Kit had gone.

  And, she thought with a small taste of dread, whether the answer to both questions was the same.

  The halls were quiet as she passed rows of abandoned lockers, their silver locks glinting like knuckles in the dim glimmer of emergency lights along the ceiling. Around the bend from B hall into C, the faint thud of the dance music faded. She jiggled the handle to the language lab door. It was locked. Peering in, she could see that the room was dark and empty.

  Lilly turned, starting to feel both frustrated and intrigued. She had always been drawn to mysteries—who really did eat the last of the strawberry ice cream? Where did the remote control go, and how did it possibly get there? Why were so-and-so and so-and-so whispering in the bathroom?

  Now her oldest sister and Boyd had both disappeared. . . . Even if the answer was simply that they were raiding the upstairs vending machines, she had to know. However, just as she passed the art classroom and rounded back onto B hall, a suspicious clicking sound interrupted the quiet, and she turned just in time to see, only about twenty feet away, Patrick Donovan, carefully closing a locker door.

  She could swear, even from here, that it was locker 172.

  Dar’s locker.

  She froze just as he looked up, locking eyes with her in the darkened hallway. Even in the dim light, his eyes looked sharp and bright. He took a step toward her. The movement sent a jolt of energy through her legs, and suddenly she was turning and running the other way, down toward the stairwell that led to the library, the principal’s office, and the exit onto the courtyard. She burst through the double doors into the night, now chilly, carrying a warning, a harshness, and the smell of something fragile, like dried leaves. She had to find her friends—and tell Dar.

  “Hey.”

  She turned. Patrick had followed her out onto the courtyard. He was not as big as Boyd, or as broad shouldered, but he was still pretty tall. The night made him seem less boyish than before, more dangerous. His brow was furrowed.

  “What do you want?” she said, keeping her voice steady.

  He stared at her. “Nothing.”

  “Then you should probably not be sneaking into my friend’s locker, which is exactly what you were just doing, isn’t it?” A breeze lifted the edges of her dress and she shivered.

  “No,” Patrick answered.

  “You’re saying you were not just opening locker 172 when I came down the hall?”

  “I’m saying I wasn’t sneaking.” He stuffed both hands into his pockets.

  “I don’t get it,” Lilly said, heat rising to her face.

  Patrick shifted his weight. “You don’t need to.”

  She stared at him. The moon hit his cheekbones, making his face seem more angular, whiting out his freckles even from only three feet away. He was looking back at her intently, holding her gaze, as though daring her to question his motives further. He seemed so confident in his actions, she began to wonder if maybe she was hallucinating, or if it had become totally normal to break into people’s lockers during the school dance.

  “Listen.” She let out a breath. “I really don’t get what your deal is, but just leave me and my friends alone. Okay?”

  Maddeningly, he didn’t say anything.

  She wanted to slap him or shake him or something. For saying she doesn’t “need to know” what he was doing in the hall, when Dar was her friend and he hardly knew anyone at this school. For refusing to give her a straight answer, about anything, ever. For making her feel like the crazy one, when he was the one who had been skulking around in an abandoned hallway doing who knows what.

  He stepped toward her again.

  This time she didn’t bolt.

  “You look cold,” he said, taking off his jacket and handing it to her.

  She stared at it for a second, her arms wrapped around herself to keep warm. Finally she reached out and took it. “Um. Thank you.” She put it on. It smelled like cedar, and the lining was warm where it had been against his skin.

  They stood there for another minute, just looking at each other.

  “I’m going back to the dance,” she said at last. She started to back up—just a small step.

  He walked forward and reached out for her. His hands were big and wrapped all the way around the slender part of her wrist. “Don’t.”

  She tried to swallow. “Don’t what?” She could see their breath faintly clouding the air, mingling together in between them. She swallowed again. “I have to go,” she said. It was practically a whisper.

  And just like that, her wrist was cold, where he was no longer touching her. He watched as she turned, and she felt his gaze on her the whole way back to the parking lot, where she was forced to wait in line again to reenter the gym. Part of her hoped, or at least considered, that he might follow her.

  She was so distracted by the whole event, she barely registered that Janey Mackenzie was throwing up by the dumpsters. She hardly heard when a new song came on, blasting through the open doors—one of her and Melissa and Dar’s favorites. She almost couldn’t recall what it was she’d been trying to figure out before—Kit and Boyd, where they’d gone. She was still curious, but the curiosity had dimmed, like a flame wavering, easily blown out. In its smoke hovered Patrick Donovan’s face, mysteriously still, handsome and unreadable, stark against the cold October night.

  Chapter Nine

  Before

  DAMMIT. PATRICK WALKED IN A large circle through the courtyard, unable to bring himself to leave the school property. It was a Saturday night and he had nothing to do. Even though dances were a ridiculous, barbaric tradition meant to create a school-sanctioned context in which jerk football players could feel up their girlfriends in public and where girls could put on the kind of shiny, sparkly dresses you normally only saw on TV, and . . . well, he had to admit that he’d never been to a school dance, so he was probably basing all of these assumptions on those very TV shows.

  But still.

  Dammit. He’d let it happen again. He’d been so good, keeping a low profile, staying focused on his goal: save up, work hard, get out of town, start fresh. He had to have a clear plan. He needed funds, he needed wheels, he needed safe passage. Which meant staying focused, saving, scraping by. Not getting distracted by girls with absurdly green eyes and striking hair and unexpected streaks of righteousness.

  Should he stay? Should he walk in and, like, ask her to dance? Was that even what people did?

  He pivoted instead and looked up at the flagpole that stood at the center of the courtyard, the flag secured at its base for the evening. Its strings flapped ambivalently in the wind.

  She wasn’t supposed to see him. No one was. He should have explained himself. Now she’d want answers.

  She could find out from her friend.

  No, she should find out from him.

  He resolved to tell her after all. He headed toward the parking lot, where large circles of yellow light pooled around the mostly empty spots, and music from the gymnasium echoed across the blacktop.

  But when he saw the clump of classmates hovering outside the entrance, he chickened out.

  He couldn’t
go home like this, though. He was too wound up. He kept thinking about her lips. Her teeth. Other parts of her too—okay, her boobs. Her exposed legs. But also her eyes. Her voice. Definitely her red-blond hair.

  Dammit.

  He paced, winding back across the courtyard and around the tall, gothic library, ominous in the night. Beyond that lay the football field, idyllic, a series of stars strung up overhead, twinkling. Actually twinkling.

  There weren’t stars in Chicago—not like these.

  He kept walking.

  He wound down along the clay running tracks, thinking he’d do a loop to cool off. It was brisk out, but his head felt hot.

  He had walked about a third of the way around the track when he heard voices—soft but urgent. An argument.

  The sound burbled up from beneath the bleachers, and his first instinct was to get out of there before whoever it was realized he was watching. It was probably some couple making out.

  He was overwhelmed, suddenly, by the possibilities, by the sheer quantity of alternate realities layered over his own: couples kissing and fighting and breaking up and getting back together. How everyone was the center of their own world. How we were all the star of some story, and we’d never really know how anyone else’s story ended, only our own. Which meant no one would ever really understand us either. A line came to him from a book he’d read for class last year: I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life. He’d cut it out and stuck it to his wall. Within and without.

  The thought made him feel like he was disappearing.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” The girl’s voice carried over the wind to where Patrick was standing.

  The boy mumbled something in response.

  There was a continued back and forth, muffled by the shush of leaves in the breeze.

  “Maybe you aren’t who I thought,” the male voice said.

  A form emerged from the shadows. Tall, broad. Patrick recognized him, even in the darkness. That guy—something Taylor. Boyd. Boyd Taylor. A year older than him. Nice enough seeming guy. Very in with the Malloy sisters.