Saturday Night by Caroline B. Cooney

and shock, Gary’s face became expressionless.
    He did not, as she had hoped, lean down to kiss her.
    He looked away.
    I did something wrong, Beth Rose thought. What could I have done wrong? I was just being honest. I thought you were supposed to be honest.
    The dance ended.
    They stood without speaking on the dance floor and couples all around them hugged and went back to their seats, or headed over for refreshments.
    Gary gave her a perfunctory smile, and she knew in an instant he was going to leave her.
    Panic walked over her like an insect, and she shivered. Gary looked faintly puzzled, but nothing more.
    But the music started up again, this time fast and rowdy and wild, and everyone left on the dance floor began shouting along with the song, and stomping their feet. Gary danced. He was really dancing alone, not even touching or looking at her, but she danced, too. The dance was wrong for the dress. It was a dance for blue jeans and a torn sweat shirt. Here she was in a froth of pale pink and antique ivory. But she danced anyhow, lifting the skirt so she wouldn’t catch her feet on the hems of lace. It was weird to dance with her hands holding onto the dress. Beth liked to use her hands and arms a lot when she danced to rock, and now they weren’t available. What could she look like?
    Whatever she looked like, Gary seemed to be pleased. He circled her, came back to her, grinned at her, and danced like a madman.
    I know what I did wrong, Beth Rose thought. I made him responsible for giving me a good time.
    I’ve got to remember he didn’t bring me here. He just materialized at the door when I did. I cannot place demands on him, or expect anything from him. I’ve got to leave every door open just the way it was, so he can leave any time without feeling guilty. He’s going to leave anyhow; I have to let him leave easily.
    The joy faded from the wild dance.
    What an assignment! Have fun—but know it will end any moment.
    Truly, thought Beth Rose Chapman, I am Cinderella. But there is no glass slipper. He won’t come to my house tomorrow, begging to marry me. I have this minute, and that is all.
    Their name was Gorman. They were her parents’ age, and they were very calm, very reassuring, and their telephone worked. After they reached the ambulance and the utility company, they called Mr. Edmundson to bring Emily a change of clothing. She sat, wrapped in an old afghan, on a kitchen chair, feeling that she could sleep for a week.
    “Do you think I could take a shower?” she said. Her voice sounded floaty to her, removed from herself, somehow.
    “In a little bit, dear,” said Mrs. Gorman gently. “I think we’re going to send you to the emergency room first, though.”
    “Me?” said Emily. “The lightning missed me and so did the tree.”
    “The gravel didn’t,” said Mr. Gorman.
    Emily could remember no gravel.
    “Honey, your shoes fell apart,” said Mrs. Gorman, “and stockings aren’t much protection against a gravel road.”
    “Amazing you could run on it at all,” said her husband.
    Emily looked at her feet, and quickly looked away. She did not care for the sight of blood.
    I was so afraid of the lightning and the dark and the thunder and Matt’s disapproval that I didn’t think of being afraid of other things, too. Except my clothes. I didn’t want to ruin them.
    The Gormans hovered over her, telling her how wonderful she was to have suffered so much to rescue a stranger in distress.
    Emily said nothing. She was ashamed to admit she suffered only so Matt would not think less of her, and ran not so much to save a life as to get out of the storm.
    The afghan she was wrapped in was very old. Any itchiness from the yarn was long gone; there was nothing left of it but softness and weight and comfort. She felt herself falling asleep. The whole school is dancing, she thought, and I’m sleeping it off in somebody’s living room while we wait for an ambulance.
    She was aware of sirens, and flashing