And Calypso seems almost instantly jealous. “Your father hired a pianist?”
“It would seem so,” I murmur, scanning the room, taking stock of any familiar faces, and seeing if my father is readily discernible. I’ve come fashionably late under the excuse of needing to pick up Calypso, certainly not because the later I come the faster this is over.
A tiny breath flees Calypso’s chest. “You didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know.”
Positively forlorn, she pins me with the most delicate little expression I’ve ever seen slant her brows. She gives no explanation, but I can guess.
I fell in love with her right there, or at the very least that’s where I fully realized it. Maybe she knows. Maybe in her eyes that isourspot, the place where our deepest secrets came undone. The fact someone else is touching our piano simply isn’t acceptable.
The waltz begins when the first person who recognizes me approaches, laying the compliments on thick at the sight of Calypso. She receives them all with grace, sticking so near to me we may as well be joined at the waist. I can’t blame her. The man’s a creep, and I’m half certain a lawsuit arose a few years back concerning him and harassment charges.
“Such a lovely girlfriend you’ve found, Alexander,” mentions somebody more tolerable after too many minutes of dodgingnosy old men.
Calypso’s tittering laughter lifts my spirits, pulling my attention away from trying to remember who this old woman even is. Wrapping her arm around my waist, Calypso rests her head softly against my shoulder, so lightly I don’t even think it rustles the flowers fashioned out of her hair. “I’m not his girlfriend,” she says, too pleasantly.
“Oh?” The woman’s gray brows rise.
“Tonight, I’m his princess.”
The goodhearted laughter that swirls around us at that warms me a little too fully. The transition into who Calypso is—a classmate—and how this is all so foreign to her feels as natural as breathing. How she manages to select those worthy of a real conversation and win them to her side, I don’t know. I won’t question it. Even if this whole thing might be my set, I know she’s playing lead.
After an hour, Calypso squeezes my arm, catching my eye, and I see the perfect act crumble, so slightly. “Alexander.” She doesn’t have the energy to tease my full name in the way she always does, the way that makes itright. “I need a break.”
I search the swarm, then lead us carefully to a corner just past the piano. Tucked nearest the music, Calypso’s eyes close, and she leans her head against my shoulder. I linger for a long moment, soaking in the weight of her. If this really were some extravagant ball with lords and ladies and princes and princesses, I’d sweep her into a dance like the one Kenneth and Harriet share during “Left Behind.” Then, slyly, I’d guide her outside or onto some balcony. With the murmur of the world resting just out of reach, I’d confess that I love her.
It would be picture perfect.
“Do you need something to drink?” I ask, bringing her hand up to my lips.
The flutter of a smile graces her face with the action, and hereyes come to find me. “Yes. Something strong—alcoholic.”
“I don’t think they’ll let us have even a not-strong alcohol here.”
Her lip pouts. “I’m old enough. Is it because you’re baby?”
I know for a fact this woman has never touched alcohol while I, reluctantly, have.
“I can put chocolate milk in a flute glass. I’ll do it shamelessly, too.”
Her eyes brighten in a sleepy sort of way that makes my heart twinge with the need to get her out of here, maybe up to my room, maybe somewhere so much farther away. “Yes, please.”
I kiss her forehead. “Okay. Hang tight.”
Without a singular worry that I’m making a mistake, I weave my way out of the room and head toward the kitchen to accomplish my princess’s bidding.
Calypso
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Exhaustion fills my limbs, pouring through my head in an incessant, nagging way that makes me want to turn into a puddle of nothingness. The pressure in this place is almost as bad and all-consuming as the pressure my mother can bring about. I keep reminding myself that I don’t want to embarrass Lex. That I have to make sure I’m not going to hurt Lex. That Lex will be okay. Because I’m here for Lex.
Watching Lex trail his way out of the room to put chocolate milk in one of the painfully elegant little glasses that some waiters are wandering around with trays of, I feel all at once completely enamored and idiotic.
How exactly am I going to embarrass someone who has offered to bring me chocolate milk in a champagne glass? How will I hurt someone who doesn’t care that his supposed girlfriend will be the only infant in this glittering hall sipping chocolate milk out of crystal?
“You seem to have found the only tolerable corner in this room.”
