Taken by Storm by Angela Morrison Page B
Authors: Angela Morrison
Tags: General, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Religious, Christian, Death & Dying, Friendship, Sports & Recreation, Dating & Sex, Water Sports
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home to Gram’s, steaming. Then i start freaking. i’ve blown it. She’ll dump me for sure.
But that night when Isadore blows and my mother screams and my dad pounds on the door trying to get in and i wake up breathing like a new diver in panic mode, Leesie’s there, waiting online, spouting something about Job, ready to tell me it’s going to be okay.
Someday.
chapter 25
DANCING
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #35, PERFECTION
Each crazy ice crystal melting
in his chocolate brown hair.
snowboarder jacket
and black wool dress pants
I convinced him to buy.
gray shirt compromise
that sets off his eyes—I
wanted white, he went for black—
tawny yellow valentino
eBay’d tie—more
money than I’ve ever spent.
(maybe I won’t eat at BYU.)
the Winchester knot
I practiced all week
and tie on his surprised
neck. the taste
of his lips when I
smother
his protests.
my rose-colored hip-hugging
swishy skirt, the clingy
v-neck top showing off my
clavicle.
Him and me in the privacy
of gram’s Chrysler
not riding up with my
parent chaperones
and Phil the Pill.
a fluttering white snowfall
purifies the night.
Should I drive?
I can do it. Time
I learned to in the
snow.
Perfect.
We make it for the opening
prayer—I can tell he’s scared.
You pray at dances?
refreshment tables ooze
brownies on doilies.
a chocolate fountain gurgles.
the girls are all beautiful,
wearing colorful dresses—no
cleavage, shoulders, barely a knee;
fresh, pure faces.
the boys, even the skinny
ones who still look twelve,
shooting hoops at the far
end of the gym in their white
sunday shirts and ties, wear
unique power I want to clothe
michael in.
the gym’s overhead fluorescents drop.
a hundred strands of icicle lights
set on twinkle transform
the b-ball court. the first cut:
salsa. His face gets tight.
It’s easy. I’ll teach you.
I pull him into the mass
of kids showing off all those
Wednesday night lessons.
He breaks my grip.
stalks the brownies.
I trail in his wake before
the tide of female eyes following
his perfection devour him
like the gooey rich brownie
he’s choking on.
the next cut is slow, about loving
a disaster, theme song
for my life. I get him on the floor,
absolutely dying to sway close to him.
I assume waltz position.
Mormon dance rules.
I clasp his right hand.
His thumb caresses the marks he made.
I place his left hand on my back.
It slips to my waist and tickles the sliver
of skin that isn’t supposed to be showing.
He settles my hand on his shoulder, kisses
my thumb, and pulls me into full body contact.
I tingle at how perfect that feels but ease back.
Rule number two:
We have to keep the width
of the Book of Mormon
between us.
He laughs low, a hint of mock.
But I don’t let it mar moving
as one to the beat of the haunting
melody. He bends and whispers,
You’re perfect tonight.
Our faces melt together.
I ache to whisper back
how much I love him,
and want to love him
forever, and just what
that would take.
I bite it back and dance
on a prayer the lord will
convince him
he wants perfect,
too.
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8
The tunes suck. The clothes are stiff. The tie she bought is choking me. And her parents are here. They even dance. Her dad twirls her mom, catches her, whispers, and they both laugh. Freak.
“Chaperones? Are they staying all night?”
“Mormon dance rule number three.”
“That’s a drag.”
The slow song fades, and a fast one starts. A few guys stay out on the floor with the girls. Leesie doesn’t let go of my hand. She steps back and gets pretty slinky. She’s not pole dancing, but she can work her assets. She spins up my arm, and i catch her around her waist. She keeps up her rhythmic writhing.
“Do i have to dance the
But that night when Isadore blows and my mother screams and my dad pounds on the door trying to get in and i wake up breathing like a new diver in panic mode, Leesie’s there, waiting online, spouting something about Job, ready to tell me it’s going to be okay.
Someday.
chapter 25
DANCING
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #35, PERFECTION
Each crazy ice crystal melting
in his chocolate brown hair.
snowboarder jacket
and black wool dress pants
I convinced him to buy.
gray shirt compromise
that sets off his eyes—I
wanted white, he went for black—
tawny yellow valentino
eBay’d tie—more
money than I’ve ever spent.
(maybe I won’t eat at BYU.)
the Winchester knot
I practiced all week
and tie on his surprised
neck. the taste
of his lips when I
smother
his protests.
my rose-colored hip-hugging
swishy skirt, the clingy
v-neck top showing off my
clavicle.
Him and me in the privacy
of gram’s Chrysler
not riding up with my
parent chaperones
and Phil the Pill.
a fluttering white snowfall
purifies the night.
Should I drive?
I can do it. Time
I learned to in the
snow.
Perfect.
We make it for the opening
prayer—I can tell he’s scared.
You pray at dances?
refreshment tables ooze
brownies on doilies.
a chocolate fountain gurgles.
the girls are all beautiful,
wearing colorful dresses—no
cleavage, shoulders, barely a knee;
fresh, pure faces.
the boys, even the skinny
ones who still look twelve,
shooting hoops at the far
end of the gym in their white
sunday shirts and ties, wear
unique power I want to clothe
michael in.
the gym’s overhead fluorescents drop.
a hundred strands of icicle lights
set on twinkle transform
the b-ball court. the first cut:
salsa. His face gets tight.
It’s easy. I’ll teach you.
I pull him into the mass
of kids showing off all those
Wednesday night lessons.
He breaks my grip.
stalks the brownies.
I trail in his wake before
the tide of female eyes following
his perfection devour him
like the gooey rich brownie
he’s choking on.
the next cut is slow, about loving
a disaster, theme song
for my life. I get him on the floor,
absolutely dying to sway close to him.
I assume waltz position.
Mormon dance rules.
I clasp his right hand.
His thumb caresses the marks he made.
I place his left hand on my back.
It slips to my waist and tickles the sliver
of skin that isn’t supposed to be showing.
He settles my hand on his shoulder, kisses
my thumb, and pulls me into full body contact.
I tingle at how perfect that feels but ease back.
Rule number two:
We have to keep the width
of the Book of Mormon
between us.
He laughs low, a hint of mock.
But I don’t let it mar moving
as one to the beat of the haunting
melody. He bends and whispers,
You’re perfect tonight.
Our faces melt together.
I ache to whisper back
how much I love him,
and want to love him
forever, and just what
that would take.
I bite it back and dance
on a prayer the lord will
convince him
he wants perfect,
too.
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8
The tunes suck. The clothes are stiff. The tie she bought is choking me. And her parents are here. They even dance. Her dad twirls her mom, catches her, whispers, and they both laugh. Freak.
“Chaperones? Are they staying all night?”
“Mormon dance rule number three.”
“That’s a drag.”
The slow song fades, and a fast one starts. A few guys stay out on the floor with the girls. Leesie doesn’t let go of my hand. She steps back and gets pretty slinky. She’s not pole dancing, but she can work her assets. She spins up my arm, and i catch her around her waist. She keeps up her rhythmic writhing.
“Do i have to dance the
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