Take Chances

by Jessica Sorensen

  But he does. It’s just a slight brush of our lips, but it’s enough for fireworks to shoot off inside my body. Enough for me to crumble into his arms. I lose myself in that kiss, and when he pulls away he takes a piece of me with him, one I’ll never get back.

  With his attention focused solely on me, he licks his lips with his tongue like he’s savoring the aftertaste of me, then he takes my hand.

  “You promised you’d dance for me.” Then he leads me to the living room as the song switches to a slow one, but with a deafening bass that vibrates the windows. Everyone starts dancing, and it makes it hard for him to get us to the center of the living room, but eventually we make it.

  Then he watches me, expecting me to dance just for him. And I want to give it to him, be the swan and mesmerize him, especially with how he’s looking at me. But there are so many people around and not enough room and I’m a little nervous.

  “You want me to dance for you here?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.

  He nods. “I do.”

  I glance around at the crowd. “I’m not sure if I can do that here.”

  Something flickers in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before, and it makes me hug myself tighter. “You’re not going to dance for me?” he asks.

  “I want to,” I say quickly. “But there’s not enough room.” I inch toward him. “A rain check, though.”

  For a brief instant I think he’s going to reject me, but then he smiles again. “You owe me a dance still.” Then he grabs hold of my waist and pulls me to him. I hook my arms around his neck, feeling myself smile. Then we move to the beat, our eyes fixed on each other, our bodies aligned perfectly. Even though there are a lot of people grinding to the music and moving around us, no one seems to touch us. It’s like we’re protected by this bubble, and I feel powerful, no longer invisible but standing in the spotlight. He makes me feel that way just by looking at me, like I’m not just Delilah, but someone else. Someone who deserves to be standing center stage.

  That’s how we remain until the next song, moving to the rhythm, our bubble around us, eyes glued to each other, the crowd vanishing the closer we get.

  Dylan leans in and his breath touches my cheek as he asks, “So on a scale of one to ten, how lame is this party?”

  I slant back to look him in the eyes, but keep my hands on his shoulders, making sure I don’t put too much room between us. “It’s not lame at all. In fact, it’s pretty fun.”

  He wavers, like he doesn’t agree. “It’s not the best one I’ve put together. In fact, in Alpine, I was known for my parties.”

  “You lived in Alpine before this?” I ask and he nods. “What did you do there besides throw parties?”

  He studies me closely. “I’m not sure I can trust you with that answer yet.”

  “Why? Is it like a secret or something?” I ask.

  He wavers again. “Or something.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. “Well, what do you do now, or is that a secret, too?”

  He looks annoyed by my persistent questioning, but it swiftly vanishes as he says, “I’ll tell you what. The next time we hang out together, on a real date, I’ll tell you some of my secrets, Delilah Peirce.”

  At the time, I felt so happy about what he said, as if he cared enough about me to tell me his secrets, as if I had some sort of power over him. But if I had looked closer, hadn’t been so blinded by the need to be seen, I would have seen that he had the control.

  But I didn’t see it like that and just kept dancing with him in a daze, engrossed by everything he did or said, like his looks and words were made of gold—maybe even worth more, because he made me feel like I was worth more.

  Then Nikki showed up wearing her black leather dress that reminded me a lot of the black-feathered costume Odile wore in Swan Lake.

  “Mind if I cut in?” she asks, tightening her arms at her side to create more cleavage.

  Dylan snubs her. “No thanks, Nikki. I’m already dancing with Delilah.”

  I smile sweetly at her and I nearly feel the burn of her death glare as she starts to back away. “Well, maybe later, then. After little Miss Sweet-and-Innocent goes to bed,” she says without looking at me, putting me in my place like a true she-devil.

  Still, he ignores her and keeps his hands on my hips, swaying us to the music, and she finally walks away. We continue to dance and talk about lighter things, like our favorite food, color, band, car. We do this for hours, and every time he smiles or laughs at something I say, I feel my stomach somersault and feel myself never wanting the night to end.

  But it does, and by the time I have to go home, I feel like I’m floating. Dylan walks me to my door. He brushes his lips across mine. And then he stays there until I’m safely inside and lock the door.

  It’s a perfect night. Everything is so perfect and I dance my way back to my room, feeling as though I just got a leading part. But then I look out the window just before I go to bed and see Dylan standing in the driveway talking to the she-devil herself, laughing as she touches his arm and leans in to whisper something in his ear. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just talking and friendly touching, but as I lay in bed, hurting and on the verge of crying, I realize that tonight meant everything to me.

  And that was a dangerous way to think, because I was already letting myself drown in Dylan and there was so much farther to sink. So many more tears. Heartache. Disappointment.

  Pain.

  Chapter 4

  Maneater

  It takes me some time to let the whole Nikki thing go. It’s not like I say anything to Dylan about it, but every time we talk, I can’t help but wonder if he hooked up with her that night, if he looked at her like he looked at me. Made her feel special like he makes me feel every day.

  We haven’t gone on an official date yet, so I still don’t know his secrets. I do start spending a lot of time out in the front yard, though. Dance class has ended for the summer, so there’s not a lot of stuff to do. But I keep busy, reading out in the front yard, tanning out in the front yard, even going as far as mowing the lawn, just so I can watch Dylan work on his car, occasionally checking out his ass and anything else I can get my eyes on.

  The amazing thing is, he always comes up and talks to me. Every day for two weeks straight. A lot of our conversations are centered around the car he’s working on. Even though I have no interest in cars, I nod and pretend that I’m superinterested in everything he says, so he’ll keep on talking to me and hopefully like me. He also asks me a lot of questions, like my likes and dislikes, where I’m from, what I do for fun. He doesn’t try to kiss me again, though, and I find myself missing the touch of his lips and the feelings the kiss stirred inside me.

  “There’s no way that could be true,” I say after a very long conversation about music and concerts as we stand beside the fence. “You really saw Unwritten Law play?”

  He nods as he wipes his greasy hands on a rag. “Yeah, three years ago.” He tosses the rag on the ground. “They’re even better live.”

  I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’d been mowing the lawn when he finally came out of the house, and so I’m sweaty and gross, but I didn’t want to walk away, afraid I’d miss the chance to talk to him if I did. “I think most bands are,” I say. “At least more powerful. Well, except for heavy metal bands, but I can’t stand that music anyway.”

  He nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s probably my least favorite, too.”

  “It’s such a shame that you still can’t watch old rock bands play like Lynyrd Skynyrd,” I say. “Now that would be something to see.”

  “You seriously listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd?” he asks, making his way back to the fence after collecting a bottle of water from the cooler beside the car.

  I nod, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I listen to a lot of classic rock actually, but that might be because my mom’s been branding it into my head since I was five.”

  He angles his head to the
side as his gaze quickly skims to the front door of my house just behind me. “Your mom seems like an interesting woman,” he says.

  I try not to react, even though I want to shout at him that she’s a true maneater. “Yeah, I guess.”

  He leans against the fence, the muscles of his lean arms rippling as he crosses them on top of the metal post. “What does she do for a living?” he asks.

  “She works at a bar,” I reply agitated. “Why?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know… I just see her coming and going with a lot of men.”

  “That’s because she sleeps with a new one every day.” It sort of just slips out, but I don’t want to take it back. In fact, I’m hoping it repulses him.

  He arches a brow at me, looking more interested than he did before, which means I epically failed. “Really?” He considers something for a moment and keeps glancing at my house like my mom’s going to walk out in her underwear, which probably wouldn’t be the first time.

  I press my lips together, hating how interested he is in her. “Well, I’m sure if you hit on her, she’d probably sleep with you too,” I say spitefully.

  He glances at me with a questioning look on his face. “You think so?”

  Anger simmers under my skin. “Maybe. She likes her guys young.”

  His gaze bores into me. “And you’d be okay with that?”

  “If you slept with my mother?” I ask. “You can do whatever you want.” I hate my mother right now. Hate that she’s so pretty. Hate that she likes to sleep with guys more than she likes her daughter, because I know right now if Dylan hit on her, she’d snatch him up, use him, then spit him back out.

  Which is exactly what I want to do, except for the spitting-out part. I’d want to keep him.

  He stares at me for a few moments longer, and then his intense gaze softens as he almost looks pleased. “You want to go somewhere with me?”

  My jaw nearly drops. What the hell? How do we go from asking questions about my mother to asking me out on a date finally? Still, I say, “Where?”

  He stands up straight, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Me and a couple of friends are going to go down to the fair in Jackson to ride the rides and hang out. I’m sure it’s going to be pretty lame, but we could make it fun.” He winks at me and grins, dimples appearing, and my heart skips a beat.

  “Sure, that sounds fun,” I say in a calm voice, despite my giddiness.

  “Does it?” He bites back his amusement as he starts to walk back to his house. “Alright then, Red, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  My brows knit. “Red?”

  He suppresses a grin as he steps back toward me and extends his arm. I stop breathing, terrified and excited as he hooks his finger around a strand of my hair. “Yeah, your hair.” He ravels it around his finger, tightly, pulling on it just enough that it sort of makes my scalp sting. “Red is actually my favorite color… I plan on painting my car red and everything.” He tugs on my hair a little bit harder, watching my reaction with fascination. “In fact, I think I’m going to call you that from now on.”

  I’m not sure I agree with his nickname for me, because I can’t help but think of the Marvel comic book character Red Sonja, who was a redhead and an amazingly beautiful temptress who rocked a bikini, and none of that begins to describe me—well, except for my red hair.

  He releases my hair and tucks his hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he says, and then turns away and goes back to his tools scattered on the driveway in front of his car.

  I watch him bend over, rubbing my head where he pulled on my hair, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. It has to be a date.

  I’m going on my first date.

  I’m practically bouncing as I enter the living room. My mom must notice my overly happy attitude, too, because she immediately gets this weird look when she glances up from painting her toenails on the sofa. “Maneater” by Hall & Oates is playing from the stereo, and there’s some sort of soap opera on the television, but the volume is turned down.

  “What do you look so happy about?” she asks as she brushes the nail polish across her toenail.

  I flop down on the sofa that’s across from the one she’s sitting on, grab a pillow, and place it on my lap. “A guy asked me out.”

  She glances up at me. “You mean the one that’s been the cause of you over-mowing my front lawn.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I feign dumb, not because I’m afraid she’ll tease me or tell me he’s too old for me. But because I’m afraid she’ll steal him.

  “Sure you don’t.” She shakes her head, smiling as she twists the nail polish lid back on. “So he finally asked you out?”

  “Yes,” I tell her, hugging the pillow against my chest.

  She muses over this. “He’s quite the catch. I’m proud of you, Delilah.” I feel this ping of pride as she says it, and the sun feels a little brighter, like I’m not standing in her shadow. Then she turns on the sofa, props her feet up on the coffee table in front of her, and pats the spot on the sofa next to her. “Come sit by me so we can talk.”

  I sigh, get up, and cross the room, sitting down beside her. “Please tell me you’re not going to give me a sex talk, because I already know how that works.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me with curiosity. “How well do you know?”

  For some reason, I feel ashamed as I admit the truth. “Not that well.” My cheeks heat. “I mean, I’m still a virgin.”

  She looks me over, like she’s trying to weigh if that fact has anything to do with my looks or not. I’m not sure what she decides, but when she looks away, she reaches for her purse on the table. She unzips it, reaches in, and takes something out. “Take this with you.” She hands me what’s in her hand.

  I stare down at the condom. “Mom, I don’t think—”

  “You may not think anything’s going to happen,” she interrupts me. “But you’re a beautiful girl, Delilah, and if you decide to use that beauty, I want to make sure you have control over the situation.” She stands up and walks awkwardly toward the hallway because her toenails are still drying. “Don’t ever leave it up to the guy to make decisions for you,” she calls over her shoulder, exiting the room.

  As much as I was jealous of my mother, she had an excellent point. One I wish I would have listened to on a deeper level, taken it as a subtle warning not just to protect myself from sex, but to protect myself from getting hurt, lost, losing myself.

  It’s funny, but it was one of the last real conversations we had that really meant anything. As the years went by we drifted, and when I left, she never came looking for me. I wonder if she’ll ever find out that I died. Or when or if my body is discovered, I’ll just end up as another insignificant and unidentified Jane Doe.

  Chapter 5

  The Red Dress

  Dylan wasn’t lying when he said he’d come pick me up. He actually walked over to my house, even though I was planning on wandering out to the front yard so we could just meet.

  My mom’s the one who answered the door, and I can hear her chatting away with him in the living room, laughing. The sound is heavy metal to my ears, and I hope she’s wearing clothes, but I doubt it.

  I’m trying to hurry and get ready. I was so nervous I couldn’t figure out what to wear. At first I was going to go with something more along the lines of my normal wardrobe, like skinny jeans, sandals, and maybe a fancy tank top. But then I couldn’t help but think of that busty blond girl named Nikki and the slutty leather dress she was wearing and how she captured everyone’s attention when she was dancing on the car. So I decided on something a little less Delilah and a little more sexy and fitting for the nickname “Red.”

  “Heart of Glass” by Blondie is playing from my record player as I work to get my hair up into some kind of fancy ’do and dance around every once and awhile. But it’s hot, and the stifling air is making my hair limp. I wanted to make
it look really sexy since Dylan was playing with it, but I’m giving up hope the more it falls out of the clips. Finally I just pull all the strands out and run my fingers through them, so they’re a little wavy. Then I stain my lips with some red lipstick I stole out of my mother’s makeup stash. After adding a string of pearls to look more grown up, I go over to the full-length mirror and examine my reflection.

  I’m wearing a red dress that hugs my body and a lacy push-up bra that’s been sitting in my dresser since my mom gave it to me when I was fourteen—I even had to pull the tags off. But it’s padded and has an underwire and makes my breasts swell out of the top of the neckline.

  “I have cleavage,” I say, turning to the side and sticking out my chest proudly as I run my hands all over my curves. My hair running down to my shoulders and the white pearls sort of clash with the sexy black heels, but it’s only minor, and for once I actually like how I look.

  Because I’m not bland.

  Invisible.

  I radiate like fire.

  For the first time ever, I feel confident.

  I feel like Red.

  But then my mom walks into my room, wearing nothing but a silk shorts and matching tank top with no bra, and suddenly the illusion of the goddess in the mirror shatters.

  “You look nice,” she says, after opening the door.

  “Thanks,” I say, reaching for my perfume on the dresser. “Is Dylan out there waiting?”

  She nods and then leaves the door open as she walks away. I take a deep breath, feeling my nerves shiver inside me, but keep my chin up as I grab my purse and head out to the living room.

  When I enter, Dylan has his back turned to me as he looks at some of the photos on the wall of what used to be my family. I’m not sure how to get his attention, so I clear my throat.

  He turns, and I clutch onto my purse as he scans over my outfit, my hair, my body. “You look amazing,” he says with lust in his eyes that makes me glad I chose the red dress.