I wanted to
storm out. I wanted to defy her. But I didn’t.
It wasn’t because I wanted to dance with her. It wasn’t the young toughs she brought with
her as enforcement, including two of the Three Hoodlums, Robert Pelley’s thuggish
pals, Stevey Tubbs and Walter Drayton.
It
was my curiosity. What was the point of
her dancing with me? It sure as heck wasn't
any attraction (that came much later). She wanted to convey something, most
likely threats, but if I was going to be prepared for what was to come, I
needed to find out what I could.
“Let’s
get this over with,” I said, and moved out to the dance floor. She followed me
and waved to her goons to stay on the sidelines. When Artie and Ginny saw her move towards me,
they looked like they were going to intervene, and I waved them off. Whatever was going to happen was just going
to be Morgan and me.
We
stared at each other, a momentary lull in the music. No, there was no love lost
between us. For years, Morgan barely recognized my existence. Now, it was clear I was foremost in her
thoughts, but not in a good way. And I just saw her as an appendage to her
psychopathic killer boyfriend, Mark Granite.
Robert
Short came back to the DJ table and announced, “Ready to rock and sway, boys
and girls? How about getting it down with Chicago and their megahit, Sunday
at Grant Park? It starts hard
to get you rollin’ and’a reelin’, and then slows down for some up-close huggin’
and’a squeezin’!”
“I
hate Chicago,” I said. “It makes it the
perfect song to dance to with you.”
“Feeling’s
mutual, nut weasel,” Morgan replied.
Wow. She must have a million derogatory
names for me.
The
music started up, and we gyrated in place, about a foot from each other. She wasn’t too bad as a dancer, but I was
truly legendary, but not in a good way.
She was smooth and coordinated, like the trained cheerleader and dancer
she was. I looked more like I was having
a seizure and that one or more of my limbs might fall off at any second.
Whatever
our style. We did not take our eyes off each other. No, there was no romance or
sentiment in our stare. It was more like two wild animals trying to intimidate each
other and look for a weak spot to begin to pounce.
Because
I was focused on her, I barely noticed others around us stop dancing and circle
us, staring. This was big stuff in Loren High’s trapped little world – the boyfriend
of accused killer Mark Granite dancing with Mark’s most notorious accuser. The
same instincts at play when they devotedly followed the soap I wrote, The Sands
of Loren, was no causing them to hover around us.
I
was beginning to wonder what the point of this was. Just to glower at each other? We didn’t need a dance to send the message
that we didn’t like each other. It seemed
like wasting time on the obvious.
Then
the music shifted gears and slowed down.
I’d had it and was going to walk away.
I didn’t want to have to come in physical contact with Morgan LaDona
Tigh.
Before
I could even move to leave the floor, she had her arms around me. We began a slow spin. I reluctantly placed my hands on her back, as
lightly as I could, and still maintain dancing.
It
didn’t matter to her. She pulled in even
closer, tightening her grip. I instinctively
closed mine around her. Her face was
only an inch away from mine. Our heights
were fairly similar. We were almost on
eye level with each other, Morgan having to look up just a fraction.
What
would I do if she tried to kiss me? I’m
afraid I would not be able to stop myself.
No, not from kissing back, but from biting her lip. That would be bad for
my social standing if I caused the most popular girl in school to bleed from
the dance floor.
Bite
her lip? Heck, she might be coming to
bite my lip!
But
neither of those is what happened.
Instead, she squeezed closer, bringing her head to the side of mine. I could feel her breath on my ear. Oh, man, that would really hurt if she tried
to bite my ear off. I tried to flinch
back, but she held me tight.
“Back
off,” she whispered to me. Back
off? How could I do that? She had me in vise grip! Then I realized she wasn’t talking about
dance moves. “Recant.”
I
turned my head so she could hear my quiet reply. “Are you nuts? I’m not backing off anything. I saw what I saw!”
“You
must be mistaken. Mark is not like
that. You don’t know him as I do!”
“Yeah/
Well, you don’t know him as I do.” We continued
to turn slowly, keeping our conversation as low and as quiet as we could. Others must have been amazed at our seeming
intimacy. “Besides, he’s already been
convicted. And I’m not the only witness.”
“You’re
the one that matters. You’re the one who
says he saw the murder. You’re the one
your father will listen to.”
So
that what it comes down to. The old
Principal’s son has special connections theory.
“Not
gonna happen, Morgan. Mark is where he
belongs.”
I
felt her hand encompass the back of my neck.
Her fingernails were starting to press into my flesh. “I can make your life very difficult, Soap
Boy. I can influence people, get you off
writing that soap opera.”
“Good! I’m tired of writing it.”
“That’s
just the start. I can make you become a
ghost, a pariah. I can make things
happen where you’ll be the one in trouble with the law, things so bad even your
Daddy can’t help you.”
I
laughed. “Threatening a social outcast
with being more of a social cast isn’t much of a threat.”
She
shifted her head and now looked into my eyes, this time not with anger but pleading.
It was the most unnerving move she made. Then she went back to whispering in my
ear. “Please. You don’t understand. Believe it or not, I’m the good cop. There are forces at work that I can’t
control. Do you understand me?”
I
understood perfectly. She was suggesting
that some of Mark’s other friends would become violent towards me. I pushed her
far enough back that I could look her in the eye. She almost looked sad, perhaps a little scared
herself. But I wasn’t buying it. What an act!
If she wasn’t such a scumbag, she might’ve made a good actress for The
Sands of Loren.
The
song ended. I pushed her away, forcefully uncoupling us. It was our last
physical contact for five years. Neither of us said a word.
Was
there a tear in her eye? I thought it
couldn’t be so; maybe it was a trick of the light. Years later, she told me it was a tear. I don’t know.
Maybe so. But at that time, I
sure as heck didn’t believe it. Even if true, it had to be part of the act.
I
pushed my way through the crowd that had gathered around us. I ran out of the dance, down into a deserted
corridor that held science and home economic classes.
I
was alone, shaking, unsure as to whether to cry or scream. I didn’t think about being isolated. I didn’t think about being followed.
That
was a mistake.
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