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and she sits there on that hard cafeteria bench in that skirt and that sweater, feeling the curve of her spine as though it were the stem of some new kind of fl ower. She feels distant, not totally there, not totally anywhere.
Amiq’s voice rises above the rest of the noises like a birdcall, sharp and distinct. Never mind what he’s saying; the words don’t matter. Donna is high up on a cliff somewhere, looking down into a billowing green valley, moving to the sound of Amiq’s voice like a birch tree in the wind.
Waiting . . .
She has her eyes closed now. Th
e gym is festooned with soft,
dreamlike colors, and the music, which had been bright rock-and-roll a moment before, has transformed to match the colors—Donna can feel the change in the music with her whole body, like a change in the weather.
Warm s pring rain.
It’s “Unchained Melody,” and the words wash over her, touching something deep inside, something fl uttering and birdlike. Something so exquisite she hardly dares breathe for fear of dislodging it, of forcing it to fl y.
Lonely rivers fl ow to the sea, to the sea. To the open arms of the sea . . .
Dancing with Amiq, Donna feels like she’s fi nally come home. Like there’s nothing else in the whole world except Amiq’s body next to hers, Amiq’s arm around her waist.
How did it come to be like this? She doesn’t know, doesn’t care. All that matters are Amiq’s arms, holding her tight against 188
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U N C H A I N E D M E L O D Y / D o n n a the ebb and fl ow of the hungry music.
Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me, I’ll be coming home, wait for me . . .
She isn’t sure what they’ve said, if anything, to bring them to this exact point, but before she even knows what’s happening, she’s following him out into the woods, wordlessly.
She’s never been this far out into the woods before, especially not at night, but Amiq knows the game trails blind, the way one meanders into another, disappearing and reappearing in strange ways, leading them deeper and deeper into the dark heart of the woods.
His feet are like fox feet or wolf feet, following the trails as if by instinct. As if by magic. Leading her in.
“Where are we going?” she asks at last, whispering, even though they’re well beyond the range of parochial radar. Whispering as though they’re in church, as though their hushed breathing is a new kind of prayer.
“Over there,” Amiq says, nodding off into the darkness, as if darkness by itself is a destination.
When he pushes the spruce branches aside, there’s a sudden rushing hole of light so bright, it takes her breath away—a spruce-lined room, lit by moonlight. Th
ey stand at its silvery
center, transfi xed.
“Close your eyes,” he says, and Donna feels a little fl ash of fear—exciting fear. “It’s okay,” he says, and she knows right then that maybe it is okay or maybe it isn’t, but it doesn’t really matter.
She closes her eyes, letting him guide her down onto the damp ground. Th
e dark earth and rotting leaves smell of promise.
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“Keep your eyes closed and lean back,” Amiq says, and she lets him lean her back, her heart pounding, fi ghting the urge to pull away. His voice says trust me and more than anything else in the whole wide world she wants to trust Amiq.
She imagines a wild spring river, shattering the ice in the darkness that surrounds them.
“Now,” he says. “Open them.”
She opens her eyes and looks straight up into the impossibly star-fi lled sky. “Oh!”
Th
e moon is huge. Th
e moon is everything. Th
e moon
with Amiq eclipsing it, watching her with such dark intensity, she knows he’s going to kiss her and he does—so softly it makes her feel like a fl ower opening in a warm rain.
When the kiss ends, she shivers involuntarily.
“You’re cold,” Amiq says, his voice protective. “Wait.”
She watches the way he moves, stretching out his whole body, catlike, looking for something in the bank of spruce branches. Something he knows is there. Something hidden.
A half-empty bottle of vodka.
He takes a deep sip, off ering it to her, and she tries it, too, even though it scares her worse than anything. Th
e heat of it
burns her throat, making her sputter, making her warm. He laughs softly.
She imagines that she’ll always remember the way he traces his fi nger along the edge of her throat right then, tugging tenderly at the slender chain, pulling the medallion out from beneath her sweater, still warm from her breasts, holding it tight in the palm of his hand as though warming 190
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U N C H A I N E D M E L O D Y / D o n n a himself on it.
He studies it carefully, then looks directly
