The Dance by Christopher Pike Page B

had just grunted. He hadn’t asked her why she had gone.
    Her aunt tried to smile, her stiff cheeks practically cracking. “You’ve been very good to me, Polly. You’re good to everyone. I remember how you used to watch over Alice.” Aunty’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling, going slightly out of focus. “Her first day at kindergarten, she didn’t want anyone but you to walk to school with her. I remember driving the car slowly behind you. You were holding hands, wearing bright-colored dresses. Yours was yellow, and Alice had on—” She paused, trying to picture it. No matter how the conversation started, Aunty always went off on something that had happened years ago. “It was green. I bought them both in Beverly Hills, at a shop on Wilshire. Of course, you wouldn’t remember.”
    “I remember,” Polly said. “Why wouldn’t I remember?”
    Aunty coughed, raspy and dry. “You were hardly seven years old.”
    “So? I remember when I was two years old. And, anyway, Alice’s dress wasn’t green. It was red.” She was suddenly angry, restless. If she didn’t get out of the room now, she felt, she would never be able to get out. She would be trapped there forever and ever, feeding Aunty, helping Aunty to the bathroom, wiping the spit from Aunty’s pillowcase.
    “You must miss her terribly. It must be so hard for you.”
    Polly leaned over and kissed the old lady, smelling her stale sticky breath. “I have you. I don’t need anyone else.” She brushed a hair from the woman’s forehead, and it stuck to her fingers like a strand of steel wool. “Now get some sleep.”
    Polly had just sat down on the living-room couch when she heard the sound of the motorcycle roaring up the street. She hurried to the front door.
    Clark had parked his bike beneath the tree at the end of the driveway. He waved as he walked up the long front lawn, his leather gloves in his hand, his red hair hanging over the shoulders of his black jacket. Polly glanced back inside the house, up the stairs. Russ sometimes snored. Loud.
    She smiled. “Hi, Clark. What a pleasant surprise.”
    He nodded, stepping past her, putting his gloves in his back pocket. But the instant she closed the door, he whirled around, grabbing her, pressing his mouth hard against hers. She could taste his breath, feel it, clean and cold as the night air. She leaned into him, a warm thrill going through the length of her body. Then his finger dug into her lower back, caressing her roughly. She pushed him away, and his face darkened. For a moment, she thought he would explode.
    “What’s the problem, Polly?”
    She let go of him, stepped toward the living room. “You surprised me. I didn’t know you were stopping by.”
    “I told you yesterday I’d come back.”
    “Oh, yeah.” She gestured for him to have a seat on the sofa. “Can I get you something?”
    He remained standing in the area between the kitchen and living room, near the stairs. “I want you.”
    She laughed nervously. “What do you want with me?”
    He came toward her. “Let’s go up to your bed-room.”
    “No, I can’t.”
    He took hold of her arms. He was thin as a rail, but strong. “Why not? A few months ago you used to take off your clothes to tease me. You were dying for it.” He squeezed tighter, moistening his lips with his tongue. “Tonight, Polly, I think you’ll die if you don’t get it.”
    “But that was modeling.” She tried to shake loose and couldn’t. “You’re hurting me!”
    He grinned, releasing her. “I’m very sorry.” He turned and walked into the living room. There were red marks on her wrists, and she massaged them gently, following him. She hated it when he was like this, but couldn’t really say she wanted him to leave. Aunty had been right; since Russ had gone to bed, she had been feeling terribly lonely. Clark went and stood by the sliding-glass door, staring out the back.
    “What are you looking at?” she asked, coming up beside him.
    “The