The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls by Anton DiSclafani

of me, and I remembered where I was. She was jealous of Sissy. And who wouldn’t be?
    “Thea?” he asked, and offered his arm. He led me onto the dance floor, and my resolve not to dance vanished. He was very direct in how he held me and guided my body; I felt lucky that he had chosen me, but also surprised—he had broken the unspoken chair rule—was I the kind of girl that boys liked?
    “I’m David.”
    “And you already know who I am.”
    He smiled. His shoulders were so broad they strained his jacket. His thick black hair was pomaded back from his broad forehead in the modern style, and his teeth were very big and white and straight. He was almost too handsome.
    “How old are you?” I asked. It took him a second to answer, and blood rushed to my face—I had made a mistake, already. But then he spoke.
    “Seventeen.”
    “And an athlete?”
    “Football. Track. I’m stronger than I am fast. Feel,” he said jokingly, and I touched the muscle that he offered.
    The music turned slow, and David gathered me closer. He smelled faintly of cologne. In another world, this would have made me so happy, that David had chosen me out of all the other girls. I could feel the admiring, jealous glances of my campmates. And why had he chosen me? Because I’d looked like I hadn’t wanted to be chosen. The customs with boys were all wrong. And besides, I didn’t want David. I was done with that. I didn’t want to be gathered, ever again.
    A tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw Mrs. Holmes, then the couples beyond her, who had stopped dancing and watched us.
    “Too close, Thea.” But surely we were no closer than any of the other girls? Or maybe we had been closer than I thought, and I hadn’t noticed? That I hadn’t known how close was too close horrified me.
    “I’m sorry,” I said softly. I didn’t know what to do, what the etiquette was in these situations. Should I leave, or was I meant to stay and bear everyone’s disapproval? The music still played, but very few people were dancing. David turned his face to the floor and suddenly I thought of my father, how he had not defended me. He had wanted me to stay, I know he had. But he had let Mother win that battle. Yet the world had not ended, even though it had seemed like it might.
    Mrs. Holmes watched me. Not very much had changed since the days of white satin shoes that were not allowed to meet the earth. She did not tell me to go, or stay, so I nodded to David and left on my own, made my way through all the warm, glittering bodies. When I reached the edge of the floor, I saw that not everyone was watching. Couples had resumed dancing. Henny chatted with a group of girls. Perhaps about me, but perhaps not. I can save this, I thought. I have to; there was nowhere else to go, at least not right now.
    My character was not what it should have been. Nobody had told me that, but I knew. And perhaps I had danced inappropriately; perhaps I was no longer the best judge of what was and was not appropriate.
What is wrong with you?
Mother had asked. And what was? I felt my forehead, flushed and hot. And then I turned to face whoever was watching me—I could feel eyes upon me like a touch.
    Mr. Holmes. He offered a small smile, and I knew that he was trying to be kind, as he had been earlier to Mary Abbott. And at first I felt a sick feeling rise in my throat, because I did not want to be pitied; but then this feeling was replaced by a hopeful feeling: Mr. Holmes did not think I was bad. He watched me for a second more before politely averting his eyes. He did not see me the way all the other adults now saw me: my parents, Mrs. Holmes. But he was not a boy, either, like David. He was not drawn to me simply because I was pretty enough, available: a girl at a dance. He liked me, I realized. And I liked him.
    I was still more child than adult. I was not a monster but a confused, wronged girl. It would be years, though, before I would understand. In those two weeks at