Chapter 27
Eleventh grade
Ben watched Mylie standing on her front porch, dressed and ready for the dance. She’d asked someone—an upperclassman whose
name he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t like Mylie hadn’t gone on dates before. She had, and Ben hated it every time. Still,
something about tonight felt different. Maybe it was because she was wearing a dress, something she rarely, if ever, did.
Maybe it was because she looked nervous, waiting out there like that, fumbling with her purse and her phone and then her hair.
He’d thought she would ask him. He realized later that, of course, she wouldn’t. He’d been so adamant he wasn’t ever going to a dance. In fact, when she’d asked him if he’d changed his mind a few weeks ago, Ben laughed at her. He hadn’t forgotten the hurt in her eyes that flashed for just a moment before she stomped off to ask someone else.
But asking if he was going and asking if he’d go with her were two different things, weren’t they?
He didn’t know.
“What are you doing standing at the window?” Emily Lawrence put her hand on her son’s shoulder and peered outside. “Oh, I
see.”
Ben didn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you tell her how you feel?” his mother asked.
“We’re just friends, Mom,” Ben replied, glad she couldn’t see his face. “That’s all.”
“You know,” his mother began. “I wasn’t her biggest fan when we moved here. I thought she and that woman who insists on being called Granny were a little...”
“Trashy?” Ben asked, turning and quirking a smile.
“No,” his mother replied. “No, I would never use that word. You know that. But I thought maybe they wouldn’t be such a good
influence on you.”
“I know,” Ben said.
His mother wouldn’t have used that word, but she certainly implied it—with her looks, her actions. It wasn’t exactly that
his mother thought she was better than everyone else, it was just that she expected decorum . She expected people to act a certain way, and Ben had always complied with that expectation. He’d nearly always done what
was asked, what was expected. He’d always assumed his close friendship with Mylie, based on those expectations from his mother,
was an issue. But, for Mylie, he was willing to risk disappointing Emily.
“But I was wrong,” Emily Lawrence replied. “Mylie is a lovely girl. And she’s so good to you. I couldn’t ask for a better
friend for you than her, and if you liked her as more than that, well, I don’t think I could ask for a better girlfriend for
you, either.”
His mother wandered off into the kitchen, leaving Ben to himself. Ben sighed and turned back around. What’s His Name was late.
The dance started half an hour ago. He watched Mylie sit down on the front steps, careful not to mess up her dress. She was
texting someone—probably Jodi to complain that her date was late.
Ben hoped she wasn’t being stood up. The thought made him furious. Mylie didn’t deserve that. He didn’t want her to be humiliated.
He didn’t want her to have to go alone, even though he knew that she had plenty of friends who would likely find that upperclassman
at school the next week and make him regret what he’d done. That still didn’t fix what was happening right now.
Ben backed away from the window and ran upstairs to his room. He could do this for her. He could go to the dance with her, even if the thought of dancing in public made him want to throw up.
He prowled through his closet to find something presentable—a pair of black slacks and a dress shirt he reserved for special
occasions. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore it, but luckily, it still fit, including the loafers he found thrown
haphazardly into an old shoebox. There wasn’t much he could do about his hair. It pretty much always stuck out somewhere,
but he gave himself a good spritz of his grandfather’s cologne before rushing downstairs to head out the front door. Maybe
it was meant to be, what happened tonight. Maybe he was being given the chance to show her he cared, more than he was willing
to admit to himself, to her, to his mother.
Maybe.
Ben made it down the first step of the porch before he heard the crunch of tires on gravel, and a rusted Ford F-150 sputtered
to a stop in front of Mylie’s house, What’s His Name leaning out the window and honking his horn.
Ben watched as Mylie threw back her head and laughed, any anger or disappointment melting away. She hiked up her dress and
jumped into the truck. Neither of them noticed Ben standing there as they peeled off into the muggy May evening, leaving Ben
alone on his porch in shoes that suddenly felt entirely too small.