Rolling Dice

by Beth Reekles

  He moves the strawberry at the last moment, touching the tip of my nose with it. I feel the chocolate sauce on my nose, and then see that he’s eating the strawberry himself. I wipe the chocolate off with a finger and lick it, just giving him a stunned look.

  “What?” he says defensively. “It needed something extra sweet.”

  I laugh. It’s not my usual laugh: I snort and throw my head back and let out this loud, long laugh that I have no control over. Eventually I calm to helpless giggles, before stopping and just grinning foolishly at him.

  “I like your laugh,” he tells me.

  “I like you,” I reply, and he chuckles. Then he pushes the food away and pats the space beside him; as I crawl closer he grabs my waist and pulls me over.

  Bryce draws me into a long, slow kiss. His lips are gentle and soft against mine. I shimmy a little closer to him, and at some point he pulls me onto his lap, and from there we just let gravity take over until we’re lying on the grass. I’m half on top of him, and our legs are tangled together.

  I pull back from the kiss, but leave our noses touching. He brushes my bangs back and replaces his arm around me.

  The whole time I’m looking into his warm, piercing brown eyes and thinking how perfect this day is, how wonderful it’s been, how—

  “I love you,” he says.

  My world stops turning for a moment. At least, that’s what it feels like. It feels like my heart’s not even beating, and my breath is frozen in my lungs, and the birds have stopped singing, and that thin white cloud over there isn’t floating away anymore.

  Then somebody presses play again, and I’m staring at him. Our breath mingles and my heart is surprisingly calm in my chest.

  And I tell him, “I love you too,” because I don’t know what else to say.

  I think I love him. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about it. I’ve lain awake at night sometimes, thinking about Bryce and smiling about something, and then I wonder if maybe that’s what love feels like. But I’ve never been sure. It’s not like one day I just decided that I love him.

  Maybe I don’t.

  Maybe I don’t, and I’ve done the wrong thing and messed everything up.

  But he makes me smile and he makes me happy. And he loves me.

  And so I say it back to him, and there’s a mixture of relief and glee that consumes his calm expression, and he kisses me.

  And as we kiss, I let all my thoughts drift apart, scattering themselves until they aren’t even there any longer, and I let myself feel: feel the grass prickling against my bare shins and the warmth of Bryce’s neck under my palm; feel the sunlight bathe the nape of my neck and my arms; feel his lips, so soft against mine. And I don’t even give any conscious thought to the simple act of kissing him, as I usually do; instead, I just enjoy it.

  There are those rare moments in life that you want to capture in a bottle, to hug close on a rainy day and cherish when nostalgia hits you.

  And this, I think, would be one of those moments.

  Chapter 29

  Late that afternoon we’re packing up our stuff. “We can go back to my place, if you want,” Bryce offers. “I mean, my parents are both going to be at work …”

  “Sure,” I say.

  There’s a slight pause and then he clears his throat. “Madison, I meant—well, we’ll have the house all to ourselves, and …” He raises his eyebrows a little, and then I get the implications of what he’s trying to say and my own eyebrows shoot up.

  “Oh. Right. I see.”

  There’s another pause. I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say to that. I’m tongue-tied. Then Bryce’s arms come around my waist from behind and he starts kissing my neck. I can hear his breath heavy in my ear. His hand starts to trail up from my waist, sliding beneath my top, and up …

  I push his hand back down to my waist.

  And I hear him sigh. “Madison, I thought …”

  I step away a little, just enough that I can turn around to face him. My cheeks are still warm, but I look him in the eye and shake my head. “I can’t,” I tell him. “I’m not—I’m not ready for anything like that just yet, okay? Didn’t you get that at the party?”

  I think I catch a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, but maybe I’m just imagining things. “I thought that was just because of the situation. Because I’d been drinking. And there were loads of people there.”

  “It wasn’t just that,” I try to explain. “I just … don’t want to.”

  He puts his arms back around me and pulls me in close, kissing my forehead. “Okay. Okay,” he says softly, “I can wait. Okay.”

  I sigh in relief. “Thank you.”

  “I love you.”

  And I say, “Love you too.”

  After we’d both said it once, “I love you” seems to have become the way we end conversations. Whenever it goes quiet, he says it.

  And I’m still trying to put my thoughts where they belong so that I can decide if I really do honestly love him. I think I do. I’m not sure what it feels like to really be in love. You read about it in books and see people portraying it in movies—and you see people who must be in love in real life too. But it’s strange trying to figure it out for myself.

  When I get in, I call Tiffany and tell her all about it. Well, almost all. I leave out the bit about not being sure if I love him or not.

  I call Summer and tell her too. I think about telling her absolutely everything, but I’m worried she’ll tell Tiffany. And then I call Jenna, and it’s to her that I tell the entire truth.

  “Well …” She trails off and I can picture her lips pressing into a tight line like they always do when she’s thinking. She doesn’t know what to say either. I’m glad I’m not the only one. “I can’t really describe it to you. I don’t know … I guess you just know. Maybe you aren’t, if you’re doubting yourself.”

  “It’s not so much that I’m doubting myself,” I try to explain. “I can’t figure out anything at all.”

  “Fair point,” she concedes. “Do you like him, though?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

  “Sleep on it,” she suggests. “Maybe by morning your thoughts will have sorted themselves out.”

  “Okay.”

  “All right.”

  “How’re things with Henry?” I ask.

  And then Jenna is gushing in her bubbly, on-a-high manner how wonderful things are with Henry and how much she likes him and how fantastic he is. I’m happy for her, I honestly am.

  “Have you guys said the L-word yet?” I ask, interrupting her.

  “Yes.”

  She sounds so sure of herself, and so truly happy as she says that. I nod, even though she can’t see me.

  And for the first time in my entire life, I find myself being envious of my older sister. And it’s not because she’s the pretty, popular one who knows what she wants to do with her life and has friends and everything. It’s because she knows that she’s in love and she doesn’t have to think about it.

  “Oh my gosh!” Tiffany smacks her palm against her forehead. “I was so busy thinking about Bryce’s party I totally forgot about this!”

  Summer laughs. “We should probably start shopping soon.”

  “No kidding. If we want to get our dresses tailored in plenty of time … Like, Alison was telling me a couple weeks back about her cousin’s wedding, and they left it till, like, the month before the wedding to get the bridesmaids’ dresses fitted again, and there were four of them, so it was complete havoc. One of them didn’t get hers hemmed right. And if you think about all the other schools around that are going to be having a dance too …”

  They’re talking about the Winter Dance. I’ve been walking past posters for the past couple of weeks but haven’t paid them much attention. For some reason, it hasn’t occurred to me that I’ll actually be going to this dance.

  I’m not entirely sure I want to, given that I’m not much of a party person, but I know I will be. B
ecause all the girls will want me to go, and I’ll be Bryce’s date, of course.

  “Ah, crap,” Tiffany says then. “I’m going to have to get a date for this dance.”

  “It’s not like that’ll be hard,” I say without thinking. “There are guys falling all over themselves to get your attention.”

  She laughs. “You’re exaggerating, Madison.”

  “I’m not,” I say, because I’m not. “You’ll have your pick of guys, easy.”

  “Well …” She says it with a dubious note, but we all know I’m telling the truth, even Tiffany. She’s only being modest about it. “Ugh. Last time I went to a dance was last year with Steve. Guess I’ll just have to find some poor soul to put up with me for the night, huh?” She laughs.

  The bell rings then. “Come on, Tiff, I guess we’d better head to Geography. Pop quiz today. I’ve never been more excited in my whole life,” Summer deadpans, and we all laugh. She turns to me. “What do you have?”

  “Gym,” I respond, and they mumble sympathetically. I shrug, knowing I’ll just hide out under the bleachers with Andy again. It’s still touch football; not something I’m interested in. I’m glad the teacher I have for Gym isn’t the same as the coach I have for track—I’d feel guilty for missing Gym then.

  I linger in the hallway by the notice board, kids rushing past me on their way to class. I look at the poster for the Winter Dance.

  It’s pretty, and it’s quite good, actually. Nice and simple, in varying shades of blues and whites and silvers, with a picture of a ballroom through an archway of balloons as the background. The date of the dance, I read, is the eleventh of December. That’s over a month away; we have plenty of time to look for dresses.

  I wonder what it’ll be like. I’ve seen all the photos from Jenna’s dances back in Pineford. The girls all line up in their brightly colored dresses and there are the guys in their tuxedos, with ties or maybe shirts that match their date’s dress. Sometimes they all chip in and hire a limo. At the dance, they all take pictures and dance and eat and look like they’re having a really great time, but I wonder if I will.

  It’s times like this when I think maybe I’d rather not be popular. I like my friends, of course I do, and I’m so grateful to them for taking me in in the first place, but I’m not like them. It’s times like this when I don’t feel like I fit in.

  I shake myself mentally. You’re being stupid, Madison. You’ll have a great time at the dance. Worrying isn’t doing anyone any good! All you have to worry about for now is getting a dress. And that’s no big deal, really. So stop thinking so much and get to Gym class.

  I look at the poster once more before heading to the girls’ locker rooms to change for a session of sitting under the bleachers with my iPod.

  Thursday, I’ve heard so much hype about the upcoming dance that even I start to feel that mixture of eager anticipation and worry that I should be looking for a dress.

  In homeroom, Tiffany and Melissa are talking about dress shopping. We’re all going tomorrow, to the mall.

  “I’m thinking long dresses,” Tiffany declares. “We had short dresses for summer and last winter. Besides, they’re going to be so overdone this season.”

  “Totally,” Melissa agrees. “What color were you thinking? I might go pink. Like, a pastel pink. Nothing too bright.”

  “Hmm, yeah,” Tiffany mumbles in agreement, or maybe consent, given the way Melissa is looking at her almost like she’s after approval on that decision. “I was thinking maybe silver. You know, in keeping with the theme and whatnot. Summer’s getting for eggplant purple. She was going to have lilac, but how awful would that have looked with her hair?”

  “Oh, shit, yeah. Close call.”

  “I know, right?”

  They both look at me then, and it’s not until Melissa says, “What about you and Bryce?” that I realize they’re waiting for me to tell them what color dress I want.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Blue, maybe? I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “Bryce looks good in blue,” Melissa says.

  Like that’s supposed to help me.

  I shrug again. “Yeah, he does. I don’t know. I thought I’d just pick whichever dress I like best.”

  “But you have to have some kind of idea what dress you want,” Tiffany says, shocked. “Sweetheart neckline? Fishtail skirt? Train? Straps?”

  I’m not even a hundred percent sure I know what a fishtail skirt is. I shrug again, because that’s answer enough.

  Tiffany gapes at me a moment before snapping her mouth shut, and Melissa just stares at me, all bug-eyed. I want to squirm in my seat; now I seem really weird because I’m not as excited about the dance as they are.

  Don’t get me wrong now, I am excited. I really am. Heck, it’s my first dance! And I’m going to show up with the star soccer player, the cutest guy in school, as my date! Me, Madison Clarke. I’m actually going to the dance!

  But yeah, I’m really worried about it too. I know I probably won’t have as much fun as everyone else—I’m kind of nervous too because I haven’t been to one before. The trouble is, I’m not excited for the same reasons as they are; and I don’t want to let on why I am excited.

  But they mistake my lack of interest in my dress for a lack of enthusiasm for the entire concept of the dance.

  Of course, I don’t want to explain it all to them. I can’t. Not without telling them everything. And that’s never going to happen.

  “I mean,” I hear Tiffany say, “you’re acting like you’ve never even gone to a dance before.”

  For a split second I think the bell is going to blare out and save me, sending everyone back to class. I hold my breath and count: one, two, three, four … It doesn’t happen. Of course it doesn’t.

  “I totally forgot! I was supposed to go see Coach first thing this morning about a track meet!” I smack my forehead with the palm of my hand and shoot to my feet, scraping my chair loudly and making heads turn my way—not that this is entirely unusual these days. “I’ll catch you guys later, okay?”

  And I run out of there as fast as I can without looking like even more of a fool.

  I wasn’t completely lying. I am supposed to go see Coach about a track meet. But she said I could drop by between classes, which was my plan up till now. I look up, and realize I’m not even heading toward her office. But I don’t turn around, I just carry on. Music is pumping through my ears. I didn’t even notice I’d put my earphones in; it was a reflex action, I suppose. I’m close to hyperventilating too—my chest is heaving with shallow, frantic breaths; my heart is palpitating; my hands are trembling, and my legs feel so shaky I think they’re going to give out.

  Luckily I don’t collapse until I get to the library.

  Don’t ask why I went there; truth is, I don’t know. But it’s quiet, and since everyone’s in homeroom, or making their way to first period, maybe I won’t be disturbed. I’m away from prying eyes. I weave my way between a few shelves, with no idea what section I’m in, and finally stop. I just … slump to the ground. And stay there.

  I don’t know if I can even stand up again. So I just pull my knees up underneath my chin and lean my forehead against them, squeezing my eyes shut so tight that I see bright splotches against the dark void. It’s almost like I’m trying to block out everything else.

  Which, I suppose, I kind of am.

  My breathing is starting to even out again, when suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder, which causes me to jump violently and smack my head against a shelf behind me. A book falls on me from one of the upper shelves.

  “Sorry,” Dwight says, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He picks up the book before I can, replacing it. I rub the back of my head and stretch out my legs a little.

  Then he sits beside me on the floor. His shoulder touches mine.

  I look at him, trying desperately to keep my face blank. It’s not hard.

  His expression, on the other hand, is full of worry: the dee
p crease lining his forehead, the troubled shadow in his eyes, even the little wrinkle in his nose.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks me.

  I nod slowly, but he says, “Bullshit.”

  I laugh. It doesn’t sound quite as hollow as I expected, which is a good thing. “I’m fine.”

  “Biggest lie in the universe.”

  I smile wryly, but don’t say anything to him. What could I say? Tell him I’m tired of running from it all? Tell him I’m sick of trying to be someone I’m not really? Tell him I’m desperately clinging to every strand of my new life here, but I’m so close to messing it up and losing everything?

  I don’t know what to tell him.

  I don’t know what to tell myself.

  So, after a while, he says, “Dysania.”

  “Sorry?” I cock my head sideways at him.

  “Dysania,” he repeats. “The state of finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning. I read somewhere once that it was a ‘rare condition.’ It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that that person clearly had no idea what it’s like being a teenager on a school day.”

  He says it to make me laugh. And I want to laugh, because it’s funny. But I can’t manage it—I don’t know why. I try a smile, only the muscles in my face are reluctant, and it feels like more of a grimace.

  “Alexythimia,” he tells me next. “Difficulty describing feelings to someone.”

  I manage a slight nod.

  “Eccedentesiast.”

  What did you eat for breakfast this morning, a dictionary? What’s with all the big words, Ike?

  “Someone who fakes a smile,” he defines it for me. “And you, my friend, are being one right now.” He puts his index finger under my chin and leaves it there a moment, and the gesture pulls my gaze to meet his. His eyes are so sad, so sorrowful, so curious, that I have to drop my gaze. I look at my nails, which I’ve been trying to grow. In this light, you can just about make out the shine of the clear, extra-strength polish stuff I put on them.

  I know he wants answers. And I want to tell him. I want to confide in him because I know that even though he might not understand, he won’t think I’m stupid. But I can’t tell him. I just can’t do it. I’ve left all of that behind, back in Pineford. Shut it away in a box in the back of my mind.