Delilah: The Making of Red (Nova #2.5)(5)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“Thanks for taking care of me,” I say. “But I promise, even if Martha and I don’t hang out, I’m not going to go back to my klepto days with Milly.”

“Just be careful,” he says. “I worry about you.”

“I know you do,” I tell him. “But I promise, if things get too bad, I’ll let you know.”

“Good,” he says. “Now, I gotta go. My mom’s nagging at me to help her finish unpacking.”

“Okay, call me when you get a chance,” I say. “And I’ll tell you about my hot neighbor.”

He laughs. “Okay, that definitely sounds call-back worthy.”

We say good-bye, hang up, and then I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s quiet, and I’m guessing my mom went to work already, which means I have the house to myself until three, an hour after the bar closes, because she always spends an hour with whatever guy she’s tempting to come home with her.

Boredom starts to set in. I hate being alone. It makes me feel even more invisible. If I had my way, I’d have someone around me all the time.

Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore. I get out of bed, put on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, pull my hair up and grab my classical music record from the stack of records on the floor. Moving to the record player on my bureau, I place the needle on it and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata comes on.

I start to dance, letting the music own me as I picture myself on stage and everyone is watching. Fouetté en tournant. Grand jeté. Pirouette. My movements are slow, but graceful and powerful. Each brush of my toe, each twirl, each leg lift perfectly flowing with the music. I create a story simply by using my body, one of a girl who is not necessarily sad, but searching for something—she just doesn’t know what it is yet.

The longer the song goes on, the more into it I get. The more overpowering the story becomes. I transform into someone else. Someone alive. Someone noticed. Someone not overlooked. I can picture myself on the stage dressed in tulle and feathers, starring as Odette in Swan Lake, and everyone sees me. Notices me. Is in awe.

By the time I’m finished, I’m almost in tears and I don’t know why. I don’t feel sad. In fact, I feel content.

I wish I could go back and savor the moment, realize just how amazing it was that I could feel that happy. It was the last summer I ever felt like that. Danced like that. Felt content. Eventually, I’d lose the will to do it anymore, and my pointe shoes would go in a box along with my Barbie phone and my Flashdance poster, everything that made up who I was at the start of the summer.

When I did dance again, it wouldn’t be the same—I wouldn’t be the same. Yes, I would cry, but not because I was moved. It would be because I was dancing topless on a stage in a front of a bunch of screaming strangers who wouldn’t really see me, at least the real me who once dreamed of being Odette. To them I’d just be a plastic doll.

Chapter 3

She-Devil

Later that night, as I’m sitting in front of the television, debating whether I want to watch late-night reruns and keep folding laundry or go to bed, I hear the sound of music from next door. This isn’t out of the ordinary. At least one of the houses in the neighborhood usually has a party during the weekend.

But this sounds like it’s coming from next door, which doesn’t really happen. Before Dylan’s parents moved in, an elderly couple used to live there until they got sick of the noise and headed to Florida. And I rarely hear anything from Dylan’s parents, except for maybe yelling.

Not wanting to be a stalker again, I try to resist the urge to look outside. But eventually it becomes too much, and I get up from the couch and pad over to the window. The driveway is packed with cars, along with the front of the house, and people are standing outside, laughing and smoking and drinking out of plastic cups. It’s a full-blown party, topped off with a guy dancing in the front yard, high off his ass, and a blond girl wearing a leather dress, shaking her hips to the beat of the music on top of a car.

I’m about to look away, figuring I’ll take Bryant’s advice and steer away from any potential self-destructive behavior, when Dylan appears beside the guy smoking the joint. Dylan says something that makes the guy laugh, then he offers him the joint. He takes the joint and puts it up to his lips, inhaling slowly and deeply. I’m completely mesmerized watching his lips, the way he presses them tightly together when he pulls the joint out of his mouth. When he releases the smoke from his lungs, his tongue slips out and he licks lips.

I wish I was the one licking his lips. If I were my mother, I’d get out of my sweats and go over there. Put on a leather dress like the girl on the car and laugh and touch his arm until he came home with me.

But I’m not my mother.

I’m just Delilah.

So instead I just stare out the window, a little longer than I should, and he ends up glancing up at me. Because I left the light on in the kitchen, it lights the house just enough that he can see me.

I contemplate whether to duck and hide and prove that I’m a stalker, or just wave and shrug it off. What would Poison Ivy do? I lift my hand and wave at him, mustering up the best half smile that I can, then I start to turn around, but he holds up his finger like he wants me to wait. I pause as he hands the joint to the lanky guy then hops over the fence into my yard. He keeps his eyes on me as he makes his way up the sidewalk to my front steps, only looking away when he gets close enough to the front door that he can’t see me anymore.

I back off the couch as he knocks and quickly run over to the laundry basket on the couch, rummaging through until I find a pair of my shorts and put them on. Then I tug the elastic out of my hair, shaking it out a little bit before running my fingers through it.

I move so fast that I have to catch my breath before I answer the door and forget to mentally prepare myself. When I catch sight of him, my heart slams so hard in my chest it actually hurts, and I almost fall to the floor, my knees shaking. I’m pretty sure he notices my reaction, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

“Hey,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the railing, looking all relaxed and sexy in his jeans and pinstriped shirt, the sleeves pushed up so I can see his tattoos and lean arms. “What are you doing?”

“Watching TV and folding laundry,” I say, not realizing how lame it sounds until it actually leaves my mouth.

His lips quirk. “Sounds like a night full of possibilities.”