Might Have Been Ch. 02

Murphy stared at Sarah for a moment, then Dave on the floor. Dave seemed to sense the attention and wiggled his ass -- inviting the whip. Murphy finally gazed heavenward, seeking a rescue that would not come. He uttered a plaintive whisper, "Sarah, is it that important to you to get me fired?"

Sarah didn't flinch, but peered at him suspiciously. "As a fellow disciplinarian, you have used a whip before, haven't you?"

Murphy closed his eyes, and his voice rose to his practiced bellow. "That's enough! Both of you must leave the dance immediately!" He escorted them toward the door, his spine stiffened. I noted Murphy's unusual gait as he placed his hand on the small of Sarah's back. Not just his spine...

Sarah removed the handcuffs from her hip and made a play of snapping them around her captor's wrist. "Ha! You call that punishment? You need instruction!"

Murphy confiscated the cuffs, seized Sarah's elbow, and rushed her to the door of the gym. Poor Dave was dragged by his leash. He did his best to keep up -- nostrils flaring as he tried to breath around the ball gag -- maintaining his full-body simper.

The crowd of students booed Murphy, until Sarah took a bow as she backed out the door. The students roared their approval, and Sarah left the dance to the sound of applause.

After exiling Sarah and Dave to the parking lot, Murphy turned, and made a beeline for the men's room -- something that had blessedly escaped my attention when I had witnessed this same scene ten years ago. Eww.

I watched through the windows as Dave and Sarah hustled to their car to get the materials for phase two of their performance art. Dwayne the Impaler was standing next to me, and I noticed him turn, look behind me, and utter an impressed, "Damn..."

A similar change in attitude rippled away from him. A dozen people turned to gaze over my shoulder. I felt someone behind me.

Turning to see who it was, I found myself facing the Ghost of Missed-Chances Past.

Courtney had been holding a pose, waiting for me to notice her. She was sheathed in her "phantom bride" costume, with her arms stretching behind her, spreading her veil like a cape, and thrusting forward her barely-clad chest. The top of her cotton wedding dress had sleeves down to her wrists, but was skin-tight and transitioned, almost imperceptibly, into a pair of white, lace gloves. Her dress had a plunging neckline more appropriate to a Vegas wedding, where the bride had begun the day as a showgirl. The dress cut a deep "V", while clinging possessively to breasts supported merely by youth and spite. Jet-black hair and a veil framed her face. Her only exposed skin was at her face and neck, and at the sartorial breach at her breasts. All were painted death-white, except two black pools around her eyes. The dress extended down to her white high heels and was slitted on one side, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of a sculpted leg, clad in white nylon.

Our moment had arrived, and she was following the script I remembered from a decade past. I had briefly worried some butterfly-effect from earlier would have altered tonight, but luck was with me. My eyes returned to her face, pausing a moment on the way.

Courtney gave a thin smile in response to the path my eyes had taken, and slowly leaned close to me. Her hand rose to give the same lacy caress I so vividly remembered. She turned my head, closed her eyes, and with aching hesitancy, grazed my cheek with her lips. She sighed into my ear as if unable to contain the tension within her, and a chill traversed my spine.

I declined to speak her name, keeping a mask of curiosity on my face.

Courtney's eyes searched mine for any hint of recognition. She had spent time and effort preparing this, venturing so far as to touch and kiss me. She would be nervous and excited, fearful I would catch her, but tempted by what she could create from my ignorance. She had never acted in theater, but was playing the part of the mysterious seductress, and I needed to behave as if I were her willing, but befuddled, victim.

"Do I know you?" I asked.

Courtney's feet declined the question for her, side-winding to the center of the dance floor, where Alicia Keys's Fallin' had begun to play. She beckoned for me to join her, as her hips swayed to the beat and words of the music.

I keep on fallin'
In and out of love
With you

I masked my face with a bewildered expression and joined her on the dance floor. Her hand was still beckoning me as I took it in mine, placing the other on the small of her back. She never stopped her hypnotic movements, and she continued to search my eyes for the faintest spark of recognition. The interrogation in her gaze reminded me of movies where two Cold War spies, one male and one female, appraise each other on the dance floor, exchanging double entendres and disinformation.

Grateful for the dance lessons I had taken with Tasha, I matched Courtney's movements, staying inches off center, allowing me to stand close and still maneuver. I guided her around the periphery of the dance floor, first advancing, then spinning and retreating as I pulled her toward me. I thrilled to touch her, something she had never let me do in my own impoverished reality.

Lovin' you darlin'
Makes me so confused

Courtney seemed surprised I knew how to dance, and I saw an unaffected smile break through, complete with a glimpse of her laughing tongue. Yes! I was paradoxically reaching the real Courtney by allowing her to pretend to be someone else.

She spun away from me, and I reached across her torso and pulled her close -- allowing me to whisper in her ear while holding her from behind.

"Who are you?"

She said nothing, but gyrated her hips, tracing a figure-eight pattern as she swayed side to side, brushing her curves against the stirring beneath my waistline. I matched her tempo, but made smaller circles to intensify the contact. She made no overt sign, but her letting it happen was signal enough.

"Tell me," I insisted.

She shook her head in time to the music, shifting her hips in counterpoint. I adjusted my steps to match.

"You're going to make me guess, aren't you?"

She danced in my arms, silently savoring my curiosity. Like a good spy, she revealed nothing deliberately, but I knew her too well, and could sense she was electrified by my feigned ignorance of her identity.

I saw advantage in further misdirection. "You can't fool me. I know who you are..." (I could feel her body tense beneath my hands) "...Amber." Amber was the same height as Courtney and had a similar athletic build, so the identification was plausible. Amber's bust was the stuff of high school legend, but because Courtney had never before displayed her cleavage like this, I surmised she would take the comparison as a compliment.

A tremor of silent laughter shimmered through Courtney's body. She extended her hand and pointed toward the band booth, where students sold pop to pay for marching band uniforms. Amber stood next to Sidney -- they were talking and drinking their evening ration of Diet Cokes, flanked by the tailback and safety from our football team -- the only members of the team who hadn't yet realized they had no chance with either girl, shy of playing Division II college ball.

Both Amber and Sidney were watching us dance. Sidney was peering intently at Courtney, as if trying to see past the makeup. Amber watched me with curiosity, and when we made eye contact, she smiled and flashed me a thumbs up sign.

Courtney pulled my gaze back to hers. I caught a flash of annoyance, and she raised her finger in warning. She wanted my attention entirely on her tonight, and I saw promise in her possessiveness.

"So you aren't Amber," I conceded.

Courtney moved her arms overhead and leaned back into me, presented a tantalizing view of her painted breasts in their cotton prison. She embraced her inner Mata Hari with fervor, and added sultry shrugs to her movements -- pressing harder into my pelvis, with an unmistakable grind. My face was close to hers, and I breathed her in, intoxicated by her proximity and scent -- a mix of sweat, body paint, and Chanel No. 5.

She leaned against me and closed her eyes, lost in the sensations of my arms and body. This was her fantasy, using anonymity to dispel our competition, and just feel my strength around her. Caught in my embrace and the realization of years of sexual tension, Courtney slowly turned her face, and I felt her soft lips brush my neck. She placed her own hands on top of mine, guiding them down the curve of a hip, across the tense expanse of her stomach, and returning to her navel -- repeating a circular pattern while our hips moved as one. She said nothing, but her closed eyes spoke for her. This wasn't a mere tease, but a deep wish made real.

I remembered how badly I misread Amy, but knew I wasn't making that mistake with Courtney. I remembered all her criticisms of every girl I had dated -- Lisa was too spineless, Debbie too dumb, and Ashley too frivolous. I recalled all the dropped pencils when she sat in front of me, where she would glance back and smile as she leaned over, catching me watching her -- all the times she sat next to me at lunch, under the pretense of continuing an argument from class -- all the moments I saw her in the stands at my swim meets, cheering me on. I may have imagined Amy as an innocent, but no, I was not hallucinating Courtney's desire for me. I just needed it to be stronger than her love of winning.

Our long dance of sex and strife spun us in circles. I remembered part of a quote I had seen on Sarah's locker door -- O body swayed to music, O brightening glance / how can we know the dancer from the dance? I was lost in the dance, and just wanted to sway and spin until we were both so dizzy we forgot all the trivialities over which we fought.

That was when goddamned Alicia Keys decided to stop singing.

As the song ended, the external world recreated itself. We were the only ones dancing. Half the students who had been watching us averted their eyes. I read the thoughts on the faces of those still watching -- Lance getting a public standing-lap-dance from a mystery woman didn't fit their perception of the way the world worked. I saw resentment staring out from behind Scott the Hoople's Osama beard. Snazzy Pete just shook his mulleted head in amused disbelief. Heather was irritated, Amber appeared thoughtful, and Vice Principal Murphy had a frown, like he was considering banishing us to join Sarah and Dave in the parking lot.

Courtney lightly kissed me on the cheek, then floated off in the direction of the ladies room.

I watched her disappear, trying to control my emotional vertigo. The band's pop stand beckoned, and I walked over for a Coke, with ice -- lots of ice.

"Hi Lance! What does a monk wear under his robe?" The greeting had the tone of a bad actor's audition.

"He's clad in his iron vows of chastity," I replied, recognizing the voice of the speaker.

Brittney was in line behind me, grinning artificially at me in her French maid costume. Brittney was Courtney's best friend and running partner on the cross-country team. She was outwardly cute, but wherever Brit walked, a cloud of cluelessness followed -- or so I once described it to Dave. He had disagreed, arguing instead it was a "miasma of mediocrity". We had debated the point once over lunch until Sarah slapped us.

"Courtney is sick tonight and couldn't make it," Brit blurted.

"Um, that's too bad." This is your scout, Courtney? You have no subtlety.

"Hey, who was that girl out there with you?"

I couldn't turn down the opportunity to feed disinformation to Courtney. "She won't tell me her name. I think it might be that girl from Waseca who used to date Aaron Meadows."

Brittney frowned. "Why would she be here? They broke up at homecoming a few weeks ago."

"Yeah, but that girl had a glorious rack as well, and I would recognize a local."

Brit couldn't hide her smile, so she quickly drank from her cup as she walked away. "Well, have fun!"

"Thanks, and tell Courtney I hope she feels much better soon."

Brittney thought that was hysterical, then realized she was laughing too hard, so she shut up too abruptly, and she finally just panicked and ran away. I presumed she headed to the bathroom to confirm to Courtney that I was completely baffled and thought she had a "glorious rack". The next move would have to be Courtney's.

Dave and I had argued many times over which was the real Courtney. Dave insisted she was just "That Bitch Courtney", only interested in using people and winning. I had stopped arguing with him after her rejection of me, but had never been convinced. Her attraction for me had been too persistent, for too long.

I remembered how she had wanted to accompany us to the Green Day concert, and how excited she had been the night we went. She had paid for her own ticket, leaving the status of the night romantically ambiguous. We had thrashed around together in the mosh pit, until someone stepped on her ankle, and I helped her back to our seats, where we sat the rest of the concert pretending to get baked off the second-hand marijuana smoke from the aging stoners sitting in front of us.

I remembered her backhanded compliments of my wardrobe, where she would criticize the casual shirt I was wearing that day, but always contrasted it by praising some item I had worn last week.

I remembered her helping me practice for theater auditions, in exchange for me letting her cheat off my math tests. She would prod me when she didn't know an answer, and I would hold my paper up, as if contemplating the beauty of my own work, allowing her to see my answers.

Dave and I had driven each other to excel, and Courtney had pushed me almost as much. If Dave could be my best friend, despite our competition, why not Courtney? Dave's answer to that was always, "because she's a bitch."

My fantasy tonight was that we would do something vaguely sexual and anonymous, and afterward she would confess her identity and her obvious feelings for me. We would then have a wonderful high school romance, and I would make better decisions and avoid being an underachieving fuck-up who hated his life with a girlfriend he didn't dare leave. The causality between the start and finish was a little fuzzy, but I was damned sure succeeding with Courtney was the first step. Even if I didn't reach the expected finish line, I liked the look of the starting gate.

I killed time by observing my once-and-current classmates as if they had just stepped out of my memories. I watched Amber make excuses while Sidney pulled her away from the frustrated tailback, who had finally realized Amber was out of his league.

Heather was standing fifteen feet away, in what appeared to be a fake conversation. She had positioned herself so I had a good view of her, and her friend was laughing too hard at something Heather had supposedly said. That was the giveaway -- Heather could never make anyone laugh. I realized now she had been flirting with me months before we had started dating, and I hadn't noticed.

I watched Jessica bravely prevent the collapse of the gym's west wall by leaning against it. I would date her this coming summer, but she would prove too high-maintenance for me. She eventually would get her doctorate in political science and teach somewhere in California. I decided I hated her.

Sumbeech Carl had Scott the Hoople backed into a wall, jabbing him in the chest with a finger, apparently unhappy with the Osama costume.

Red Madison and Blonde Madison had decided to pretend the French Maid thing was planned, and were tandem-dancing to a throbbingly-repetitive electronica tune, now being spun by the DJ. The concept of two french maids with the same name appealed to identical-twin fantasies, and the Madisons were quickly surrounded by guys. Red Madison seemed to most enjoy the attentions of Snazzy Pete's dapper redneck.

Through the windows, I could see Dave and Sarah conducting phase two of their performance art in the parking lot. I smiled sadly. I hadn't realized how much I missed them.

At that moment, a gloved hand confiscated my cup of Coke, just as I was drinking. The glove's owner set it on the table, then turned and walked away.

My eyes followed, but my stupefied legs stayed rooted to the floor. Courtney had been gone for almost ten minutes, far longer than a mere face-freshening pit stop would entail. I saw Brittney watching Courtney from across the dance floor, appearing concerned. I sensed Brit didn't approve of Courtney's plan. Brit must be afraid I would recognize Courtney and spurn her out of spite.

When Courtney reached the double doors leading toward the school halls, she turned, glanced at me with a slight smile, and exited. I recognized a cue when I saw one and followed to see where this universe would take me.

I left the gym in time to catch a glimpse of a white skirt rounding a corner in front of the school office. I walked the halls of the school, and a hint of Courtney would await me around each turn -- a wisp of fabric near the football team's scant trophy case -- a flash of a heel across from Mr. Watley's butterfly collection -- a scent of Chanel near the stairwell -- each beckoning me further down the darkened corridors.

Near the art room, I began to suspect she had ditched me, but then I noticed a door was ajar in the storage room across the hall, with a faint light shining from inside. A bobby pin was in the lock. It had to be there for effect -- Courtney knew nothing of lock picking, but knew everything about where her mom -- the school nurse -- kept her keys. The bobby pin was just another piece of misdirection allowing Courtney to hide from herself. I opened the door and entered.

The room was stashed with half-completed art projects, paint containers, and shelves with every color of crepe paper. I even discovered the hiding place of Sarah's infamous painting of the Pope as The Pied Piper, coaxing a line of little boys into a dark, menacing cathedral. The art show had been canceled last year when Sarah refused to withdraw it. Sarah's mom had promised to destroy it if she brought it home, so here it sat, protected only by a lock, and the loyalty of Sarah's art teacher.

A small area of the room had been cleaned of artistic detritus, occupied only by a misplaced cafeteria chair and a cheap desk lamp, which was affixed to a nearby shelf with a clamp. The lamp illuminated the chair as if it were the target of a theatrical spotlight -- or an interrogation.

The room smelled of paint, plaster, and Courtney's Chanel No. 5. I heard a movement behind me and turned to see the door swing shut, revealing my elusive phantom in front of it. She sidestepped to block the door in an exaggerated fashion, with her arm stretching across the frame, and her hips shielding the lock. She knew full well I didn't want to leave, but was communicating her own mute wishes.

She had mercilessly teased me on the dance floor and had led me here so we could be alone. A seduction game was afoot, but nothing with Courtney was ever simple. I struggled to determine the rules.

Courtney closed her eyes and returned to her sinuous dance, slowly twirling and shifting her shoulders to match the undulations of her hips. She appeared lost in the rhythm of a secret song -- a phantom bride dancing to phantom music. Her eyes tracked me on the turn, and they seemed to plead with me, asking for... appreciation? Validation? Anonymity had exposed a streak of exhibitionism she hadn't known she had. She was displaying herself for a man she had always wanted, but to whom she did not dare give the power of potential rejection. Despite the safety of her disguise, I saw trepidation in her eyes -- she feared I would either see through her masquerade, or reject her anyway.