“How did he do it?”
“You’ve known him longer than I have. How did he do it?”
“Nobody knows the Francher kid,” she said. Then softly, “He looked at me once, really looked at me. He’s funny-but not to laugh,” she hastened. “When he looks at me it-” her hand tightened on her braid until her head tilted and she glanced up slantingly at me, “it makes music in me.
“You know,” she said quickly into the echo of her unorthodox words, “you’re kinda like him. He makes me think things and believe things I wouldn’t ever by myself. You make me say things I wouldn’t ever by myself no, that’s not quite fight. You let me say things I wouldn’t dare to say to anyone else.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, Twyla.”
I had forgotten the trembling glamor of a teen-age dance. I had forgotten the cautious stilted gait of high heels on loafer-type feet. I had forgotten how the look of maturity could be put on with a tie and sport jacket and how-how peoplelike teen-agers could look when divorced for a while from Levi’s and flannel shirts. Janniset could hardly contain himself for his own splendor and turned not a hair of his incredibly polished head when I smiled my “Good evening, Mr. Janniset.” But in his pleased satisfaction at my formality he forgot himself as he turned away and hoisted up his sharply creased trousers as though they were his old Levi’s.
Rigo was stunning in his Latin handsomeness, and he and Angie so drowned in each other’s dark eyes that I could see why our Mexican youngsters usually marry so young. And Angie! Well, she didn’t look like any eighth grader-her strapless gown, her dangly earrings, her laughing flirtatious eyes-but taken out of the context and custom and tradition she was breath-takingly lovely. Of course it was on her “unsuitable for her age” dress and jewelry and make-up that the long line of mothers and aunts and grandmothers fixed disapproving eyes, but I’d be willing to bet that there were plenty who wished their own children could look as lovely.
In this small community the girls always dressed up to the hilt at the least provocation, and the Hallowe’en dance was usually the first event of the fall that could serve as an excuse. Crinolined skirts belled like blossoms across the floor above the glitter of high heels, but it was only a matter of a few minutes before the shoes were kicked off, to toe in together forlornly under a chair or dangle from some motherly forefinger while unprotected toes braved the brogans of the boys.
Twyla was bright-checked and laughing, dance after dance, until the first intermission. She and Janniset brought me punch where I sat among the other spectators; then Janniset skidded off across the floor, balancing his paper cup precariously as he went to take another look at Marty, who at school was only a girl but here, all dressed up, was dawn of woman-wonder for him. Twyla gulped her punch hastily and then licked the corners of her mouth.
“He isn’t here,” she said huskily.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “l wanted him to have fun with the rest of you. Maybe he’ll come yet.”
“Maybe.” She twisted her cup slowly, then hastily shoved it under the chair as it threatened to drip on her dress.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” I said. “I love the way your petticoat shows red against the blue when you whirl.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed the billowing of her skirt.
“I feel funny with sleeves. None of the others have them. That’s why he didn’t come, I bet. Not having any dress-up clothes like the others, I mean. Nothing but Levi’s.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. If I had known-“
“No. Mrs. McVey is supposed to buy his clothes. She gets money for them. All she does is sit around and talk about how much she sacrifices to take care of the Francher kid and she doesn’t take care of him at all. It’s her fault-“
“Let’s not be too critical of others. There may be circumstances we know nothing of-and besides-” I nodded my head, “he’s here now.”
I could almost see the leap of her heart under the close-fitting blue as she turned to look.
The Francher kid was lounging against the door, his face closed and impassive. I noted with a flame of anger at Mrs. McVey that he was dressed in his Levi’s, faded almost white from many washings, and a flannel shirt, the plaid of which Was nearly indistinguishable except along the seams. It wasn’t fair to keep him from being like the other kids even in this minor way-or maybe especially in this way, because clothes can’t be hidden the way a mind or soul can.
I tried to catch his eye and beckon him in, but he looked only at the bandstand where the band members were preparing to resume playing. It was tragic that the Francher kid had only this handful of inexpertly played instruments to feed his hunger on. He winced back into the darkness at their first blare, and I felt Twyla’s tenseness as she turned to me.
“He won’t come in,” she half shouted against the take-a-melody-tear-it-to-pieces-stick-it-back-together- bleeding type of music that was going on.
I shook my head regretfully. “I guess not,” I mouthed and then was drawn into a half-audible, completely incomprehensible conversation with Mrs. Frisney. It wasn’t until the next dance started and she was towed away by Grampa Griggs that I could turn back to Twyla. She was gone. I glanced around the room. Nowhere the swirl of blue echoing the heavy brown-gold swing of her ponytail.
There was no reason for me to feel apprehensive. There were any number of places she might have gone and quite legitimately, but I suddenly felt an overwhelming need for fresh air and swung myself past the romping dancers and out into the gasping chill of the night. I huddled closer inside my jacket, wishing it were on right instead of merely flung around my shoulders. But the air tasted clean and fresh. I don’t know what we’d been breathing in the dance hall, but it wasn’t air. By the time I’d got the whatever-it-was out of my lungs and filled them with the freshness of the night I found myself halfway down the path over the edge of the railroad cut. There hadn’t been a train over the single track since nineteen-aught-something, and just beyond it was a thicket of willows and cottonwoods and a few scraggly pinon trees. As I moved into the shadow of the trees I glanced up at the sky ablaze with a skrillion stars that dissolved into light near the lopsided moon and perforated the darker horizon with brilliance. I was startled out of my absorption by the sound of movement and music. I took an uncertain step into the dark. A few yards away I saw the flick of skirts and started to call out to Twyla. But instead I rounded the brush in front of me and saw what she was intent upon.
The Francher kid was dancing-dancing all alone in the quiet night. No, not alone, because a column of yellow leaves had swirled up from the ground around him and danced with him to a melody so exactly like their movement
