21; dance

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DANCE FOR ME

"Beat it, James." Dallas flicked his barely smoked weed into the ashtray. "This ain't your side of the tracks."

It was hard to believe I ever loved him, or if I even did love him, as I stared him down again. He was slender and looked like he was battling a tough cold, with dark bags and hair as if it were seldom combed, hanging in lumps. He was attractive in an unconventional, chilling kind of way; the kind of guy you shouldn't like.

"To hell, it ain't. I'm a greaser, it's in my damn blood." I narrowed my eyes. He didn't spare me a glance, only stared down Dallas like he was a predator and Dallas was his prey.

"A greaser and a square?" Dallas jerked his brows and shot me an amused look. "Ain't that swell."

"A square? Why, because I'm not a scum liar, I don't slash tires? You know, I don't appreciate the name calling." He said, feigning offense, and placed a hand over his heart. He ambled around the store, seeming a little too at ease, and swept his fingers over everything in his path, including the books. "It hurts. Really."

Dallas gave him a bored look and peered out the window.

"Where's the old man?"

My brows shot up. My lack of expression quickly turned quickly into a glare. "How do you know him?"

"I've seen him around. I snag things from here time to time. I figure he knows but's too damn old and ill-looking to do anything about it."

"Get out."

His lips stretched into a spine-chilling grin. "Did I hit a nerve?" He probably took notice of my lip quivering with anger, and the crease that would leave a wrinkle on my forehead. "Oh, boy, I think I hit a nerve."

"I swear to you, James, i'll-"

"You know what?" He interrupted, then pulled a book from the shelf. It was something by Sylvia Plath, somewhat tattered although it held its shape. James opened it, barely glanced at the words, and tore the pages without a second look.

I didn't know what to do, so I stood there frozen, staring solemnly at the shredded pages that drifted to the floor.

"I love my car," he said simply, reaching for another book. "And you... well, you love books, don't you? You were always pretty boring."

He tore out the pages of another novel, discarding them on the floor as if they were merely something to walk on. "We could have left it how it was. But then you started dating this low-life, piece of trash." He reached behind him and slipped another book from the shelf. "And suddenly my brand new car is all beaten and broken."

Before he tore the cover, I caught a glimpse of Shakespeare, the red rose behind black, near wilting, and I felt my heart clench at the sound of tearing paper.

"Damn shame."

Before he could say another word, Dallas was on his neck with a blade pressed to it quicker than lightning could hit. His boys were on him in a second, tugging him back as he swung the knife wildly in the air like a maniac, but it was ultimately the thought that counted.

"You better beat it, or I swear to god," Dallas struggled between clenched teeth. "I'll beat that grin off your face."

"You and who else?"

Dallas looked over his shoulder. I gave him a small smile, as much as I could conjure at the moment, and even managed a wink before he turned back around.

"A half-wit and a girl. That's a laugh. C'mon guys."

They were nearly out the door before my hand was clasped over my mouth, muting a laugh. He luckily didn't hear me and sauntered out into the cold night with his cocky stride and a group of well-dressed boys behind him. He might have been a Greaser, albeit Soc in all other sense, but he was a square as Dallas said. Lifeless, mean, and dull.

The pages were almost grated, ruining the clean door with the remnants all over the marble floors, including a single rose, above the title of the Shakespeare book. It wasn't very long ago I finished it.

"It's a shame," I said, somewhat solemn, but also at peace. "Books aren't meant to be destroyed."

Dallas hummed with a newly lit cigarette between his lips, likely to abate his anxiety, bunched up the paper. "The only thing around here that's a damn shame is that piece of-"

"Let's forget about it," I interjected. "He got his revenge. He has no reason to bother me anymore."

Dallas looked at me intensely, his dark eyes piercing and ominous; I could see the danger people whispered about, but it didn't frighten me, not like it did others. "It ain't nothing to forget about, Holly."

"What are you gonna do? Slash his tires some more? Maybe next time he'll disfigure your face instead of those books." I crossed my arms over my chest. He twisted his jaw, crumpling the pages into a ball, and tossed it into the bin under the counter.

"You underestimate me."

"Maybe." I stepped closer. "You know what just happened. They had the upper hand – more people."

"Whatever man." He took a drag of his weed. "Let's beat it. I'm bored."

Rolling my eyes, I walked around the counter and sat on the stool. He was right, it was boring, and I did want to leave, but I was going to stay true to my word whether I liked it or not. This store was Hanson's prized possession, and I'd be damned if I closed it even a minute early, going against his wishes.

"How about you read something?"

"How about you keep your smart mouth to yourself, huh?" He retorted. "What about this thing?" he pointed to a record player not enclosed in it's space like the others.

"You could see if it works. The records are used so there's no harm in taking 'em out. Play some stones, will ya? I've been liking them a lot lately."

"Don't see any stones here," he said, rooting through the beaten records. "Elvis?"

I moaned under my breath. "I guess. I liked him a hell of a lot better before my brother started blastin' him in the morning."

He pulled out a vinyl. I didn't get a glimpse of what it was before it was on the player, the needle was down, and the static was buzzing through the room.

Oh, my love, my darling...

My head shot up to catch a smug grin on Dallas's face. He held his hands out as if to beckon me over. I stayed in my seat.

"Someone pays attention. I can't say I'm not shocked."

He winced and placed a hand on his chest. "That hurt, baby."

"Baby, huh?" I smirked.

"Somethin' wrong?" He asked. The grin on his face showed he knew nothing was wrong. I wanted to slap it off, but I fought the urge and ambled over to him instead.

"Do you still not dance with girls that refuse to date you?" I asked, referring to the first night we'd spent together when I played this song. He looked me up and down in a way I'd never seen before, something I could describe only as passion. I guessed it was the song. Music always evoked things in myself I couldn't explain.

"Depends, sweetheart." He moved closer and wrapped an arm around my back, pulling our bodies together. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking you're nothin' but trouble, Winston."

He was moving now, swaying to the gentle melody of the music. It shocked me. I thought he would never be caught alive dancing, especially to an emotional song, with a girl on his arm. He wasn't a man of sentiment, but he made it his own. He was a gentleman, for that moment, a real man, and I couldn't see what I'd ever liked in James anymore.

"You like trouble, don't you Holls?" He mumbled next to my ear and it sent shivers down my spine.

"Sometimes," I whispered, and he took my hand as if it were the most delicate thing in the world, and spun me around.

The song ended before I wanted it to, but the silence didn't last long enough. The static that rang out as we clung together was a mere second before another tune rang out through the room.

"I love this song," I whispered.

"Dance for me," he said. "I wanna see you dance." He pushed my chest so I stumbled back and crossed his arms, waiting for me to make a move. It was another song from 1965 – a collection of music from that year. My Girl – The Temptations.

So I danced for him, as insane as I looked. I shuffled around the floor and belted the lyrics, and never dwindled my movements because I was having the time of my life, and I basked in the wonderful, serene look he had on his face. It was a happy song, and at that moment I was feeling particularly happy.

"Come on Winston," I shouted over the music he'd turned up, probably to drown out my deafening vocals. "I know you can do more than stand there."

"I'm enjoyin' myself." He put a weed between his lips. He looked tuff. I figured dancing to such an upbeat song would put more of a dent in his image than he would have liked, so I left him alone and danced. Then, like the other, the song faded and another came on. I didn't know it as well, so I sat down on my little stool and took a breath.

"That was a real show, Holls."

"I'm glad you liked it."

I bowed my head and caught my breath, then wiped a bead of sweat from my temple. I could really be myself around him. It was something amazing. There wasn't someone I was ever comfortable enough to do that with – even my own brother.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a photograph that was already curling at the corners, myself sitting on the counter only an hour before. Then I looked back to Hanson's wife, her short curled hair and bright red lipstick.

"I really do look like her, don't I?" If I didn't, we were both happy, at least.

"You do."

"I have a question for you, Dallas."

The smoke drifted from his lips and billowed through the air. "Do you believe in heaven?"

He didn't think it over before he muttered his answer. "No."

"Huh," I said. "I do. Some sort of afterlife, I suppose." I reached over the counter and placed the older photograph beside mine. I liked to believe she was somewhere waiting for her husband. Their love was something rare. Something everybody wished to have. The way his eyes lit up when he thought of her, spoke of her. I could only imagine the passion when she was alive.

"What'd ya say we get somethin' to eat and beat it out of here. The store's closin' in a few minutes."

I looked at the clock. 9:55. It closed earlier weekdays, rather than weekends where it was open all night. I wondered how Hanson stayed sane. I was sure he had a few friends helping him out, but I'd never seen them around.

"Alright, let's go."

I picked myself up from the stool and grabbed the keys from the register. I took one last glance at the record player, the photograph, and swung the door open. I locked it once Dallas trailed behind me.

"There's somethin' about the nighttime, ain't there?" He said, as I finished fumbling with the keys. I knitted my brows and turned around.

"The stars are the only beautiful thing about it."

We walked toward the Dingo, a twenty-four-hour diner, and I hoped we didn't get jumped, although I felt secure enough with Dallas by my side. Most of the time people were too afraid to approach him, even Socs.

The rest of the night we shared simple conversation. We didn't speak of James, not even Dallas's dancing, or my dancing because those things were better kept to memory. We both knew how we felt about it. We both knew it happened.

He asked me that night what I thought. He meant something other than what I answered. I didn't have to label Dallas as mine because I couldn't see myself with anybody else anymore. I knew he didn't need anybody else, either, I could tell by the look on his face as we danced.

I didn't know how it was going to end. Platonic or romantic; it never mattered much to me, because either way, he would always mean something. He was a lesson of sorts.

I decided to enjoy it as long as it would last, and that was that.

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