Dance, Gladys, Dance by Cassie Stocks

Author:Cassie Stocks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, FIC044000, FIC019000
ISBN: 9781927063140
Publisher: NeWest Press
Published: 2012-04-30T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Foggy Mountain Breakdown

The evening air smelled warm and green like the beginning of true summer. Norman held Miss Kesstle’s arm as we walked from the taxi towards the Centre. Cars were parked all up and down the street. The outside of the building glowed with spotlights carefully placed to illuminate the best of the kids’ murals, leaving the most misshapen superheroes in shadows. The ladies from the looms had arrived, some in a flutter of coloured saris like butterfly wings, others in sombre solid black. They smiled, nodded, and preceded us through the door.

A five-piece bluegrass band walloped and twanged in the largest lecture room. Students and their families, neighbours, other artists, and visitors filled the main rooms and the hallways. Several reporters with cameras over their shoulders stood at the refreshment table nibbling on the free cheese. Miss Kesstle clung to Norman’s arm and looked bewildered. By the time I’d gotten us glasses of warm white wine, the others arrived. Mr. H. and Whitman had picked Ginny up in the old green Valiant, which I’m sure impressed her greatly.

Ginny wore a red silk halter dress and strappy gold heels, Whitman a black suit jacket with a mandarin collar and jeans. Mr. H. greeted us.

“Great band,” said Norman. He adjusted his tie and tried not to stare at Ginny’s cleavage.

“It was a compromise between rap and big band,” said Mr. H. He looked around the room. “Excuse me,” he said, “Fever Buyer over that way.” He headed towards a man looking at an abstract painting on the wall.

“Fever Buyer?” asked Miss Kesstle.

Whitman said, “One of Dad’s word follies. Wealthy people who buy art to hang in their summer cabins or donate to hospitals. Cabin fever. Got a fever, go to a hospital.”

Miss Kesstle nodded. “It’s so sad.”

“Nice shoes,” said Ginny. “Going golfing?” Before I could show her they had no cleats, she took Whitman’s arm and they wandered off.

The next time I saw Ginny and Whitman, they were leaning against a wall together, watching everyone, the too-cool couple at the high school dance. Ginny was still smiling, so I assumed they hadn’t seen the exhibits yet, though Whitman’s presence might keep her from getting too hissified over Girl’s box and rude address labels. When I looked again, they were gone, either to the exhibits, or outside for some necking.

I knew in ten minutes. I was trying to decide which of the desserts at the refreshment table Miss Kesstle would like — creamy brown squares with tiny rainbow marshmallows, puffed wheat squares, butter tarts, or matrimonial squares with dates and layers of oatmeal that crumbled all over your front — when Ginny came and stood beside me. “Did you see what she did with the labels?” she asked.

“Who?” I scanned the room, as if she could be referring to anyone in the crowd.

“That vampirette freak. Pass me one of those Nanaimo bars.” “Well, she did cover your name up.”

Ginny huffed.

I gathered a plateful of squares. Ginny lingered by the cutlery section with her hand resting on the pile of forks and spoons.

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