[14 Valentines] Waltz
On Thursday, when Ryan shuts his locker doorâ€”with one last glance into his Bedazzled mirror to check that his lip gloss screams â€œkissably soft!â€ and not â€œhooker!â€â€”Chad is waiting behind it like some creepy stalker, staring at him intensely, with crazy jock eyes. And after jumping back to plaster himself against the wall of lockers, Ryan manages to get his heart rate under control enough to say:
Chad says, urgent, â€œI need to talk to you.â€
Ryan frowns. â€œWhatâ€™s wrong?â€ he asks, and resists the urge to flick one of those ridicutarded corkscrew girlcurls out of Chadâ€™s face. It looks sagging and lifeless, like Chadâ€™s suddenly discovered conditioner but started using the wrong kind. â€œEven your hair looks distressed.â€
â€œI need a favor,â€ Chad says, flushing deeply.
Scowling, Ryan says, â€œI donâ€™t care what Rory told youâ€”I donâ€™t do that with everybody.â€
Looking confused, Chad says, â€œWhoâ€™s Rory?â€
â€œNobody!â€ Ryan yelps, and vows to have Sharpay arrange a bitch-choking this afternoon; he canâ€™t have this wretched reputation dragging him down any longer. Itâ€™s starting to make him paranoid. â€œWhat did you need help with?â€ he asks, since itâ€™s obvious Chad doesnâ€™t want a handjob behind the old Romeo and Juliet sets.
And glancing around the hallway, Chad leans in to whisper something in Ryanâ€™s ear.
â€œWow,â€ Ryan says, a week later, feeling as demoralized as Chadâ€™s hair. â€œYou really donâ€™t dance.â€
â€œShut up,â€ Chad mutters, gasping. â€œCramp, cramp, cramp.â€
â€œWeâ€™re not even doing ballet,â€ Ryan says in disgust, glaring down at where Chad is writhing (unattractively) on the floor of the Ryanâ€™s in-house dance studio. Itâ€™s top quality, blond-wood, hand-jointed, with gleaming mirrors all up and down the walls so at any time, Ryan can discreetly check that his hat is cocked just-so, and that his too-casual t-shirt falls at the perfect jut of his hip. Itâ€™s complicated being Ryan Evans, but the effort is worth it. â€œYou canâ€™t be cramping.â€
â€œIâ€™m cramping,â€ Chad moans, clutching at his hamstring.
â€œWeâ€™re waltzing,â€ Ryan sighs. â€œGod, Iâ€™ll be backâ€”I need a protein shake for this.â€
Actually, he ends up needing two protein shakes, one of which is a sickly-green color from the three tablespoons of powdered spirulina he adds when he watches Chad limp into the kitchen, sweaty and whining. He wishes, abstractly, that Sharpayâ€™s personal trainer wasnâ€™t there that day so he could engage her in an afternoon of pore-cleansing bikram yoga, but he figures that sheâ€”as anybody shouldâ€”deserves to be able to do her pilates in peace, undisturbed by the outside world.
â€œIs there any reason your usual hopping up and down wonâ€™t work for the prom?â€ Ryan asks, rubbing an ice cube of Ty Nant over his cheek. This is all extremely trying.
Glaring, Chad says, â€œI want to impress my date, okay?â€ and reaches for the fridge handleâ€”presumably for waterâ€”only to crunch three fingers in the process.
Ryan sighs and adds another scoop of spirulina to the blender.
At the end of the first abortive afternoon of lessons, Ryan feels stressed to his very limits, and so heâ€™s lying flat on a yoga mat, reaching his fingertips down into the center of the Earth to re-negotiate the boundaries of his existence with the spiritual forces when Chad thumps into the studioâ€”disturbing the murmur of Tibetan monks over the surround-sound system.
â€œSo what do you thinkâ€”you think you can fix me in like, three weeks?â€ Chad asks.
â€œYouâ€™re ruining my concentration,â€ Ryan complains, and adds, â€œPlus, prom is in â€˜like,â€™ four weeks.â€
â€œI gotta have some time to put some signature moves in,â€ Chad explains, as if this is obvious or as if he actually has signature moves other than falling down and injuring his dance partner. Ryan sighs, long-suffering, and listens as Chad lies down next to him, flat on the cool wooden floorsâ€”he doesnâ€™t even complain about Chadâ€™s sweat degrading the high-gloss wax.
â€œSo what are you doing, anyway?â€ Chad asks the ceiling.
â€œIâ€™m centering myself,â€ Ryan explains. He stretches out his fingers and toes and all his muscles, expands inside his skin, and feels like heâ€™s lengthening, reshapingâ€”all the oxygen rushing through him like a stage high. â€œBecoming one with the Earth. Reaching down inside of it.â€
Chadâ€™s silent for a while before he says, â€œBut youâ€™re not moving.â€
â€œYou donâ€™t have to move to move,â€ Ryan says, not-so-patiently. â€œNow either get out or shut up.â€
â€œIâ€™m shutting up,â€ Chad promises. And he does, so that the next time Ryan opens his eyes, ten minutes of perfect, untouched mediation later, it sounds like the single, sweet, high note of a singing bowl to look at Chad, eyes closed, fingers flat against the floorâ€”moving and not moving at allâ€”reaching toward the middle of the Earth.
The next three dance classes are no better, and Ryanâ€™s starting to run out of excuses to feed Sharpay, now that sheâ€™s no longer preoccupied with mastering the roll-upâ€”she does an amazing one; Ryan would tell her so if it didnâ€™t make him hate her a littleâ€”because for some reason he doesnâ€™t really feel like advertising that heâ€™s teaching Chad Danforth to dance.
Chad hasnâ€™t said anything like, â€œDonâ€™t tell anybody,â€ or â€œDonâ€™t tell anybody, you little queer, or Iâ€™ll punch your lights out,â€ either, which is both heartening and a little weirdâ€”East High is still, at heart, East High. They all suffer fugue states during certain musical productions (of which he and Sharpay have vowed never again to speak) and last summer, but with the exception of Troy and Gabriellaâ€”who, gagâ€”defy the paradigm, jocks keep to the jocks and drama kids to the drama kids and etcetera and so on. The system works and it has for a reason; Chad likes rocking the boat but not when theyâ€™re sailing so gloriously along.
â€œOkay, seriously, Ry,â€ Sharpay says to him over dinner one night, picking at her macrobiotic meal, â€œwhatâ€™s going on? Youâ€™ve been holed up in that studio all the time and youâ€™re keeping secrets from me.â€ She narrows her eyes at him in sisterly worry, the idle pink feathers in her latest Juicy Couture boa shivering in concern . â€œHas something happened with that Rory person again? I already arranged to have him appropriately choked.â€
â€œAnd you did fabulously, heâ€™ll never show his face at another East High event again,â€ Ryan comforts her. Sharpay arranges shut-downs like no one else in the world. â€œIâ€™m fineâ€”Iâ€™m just working on a project.â€
Sharpay raises her newly-threaded brows at him, and Ryan makes a note to call his waxer.
â€œWell,â€ she says, the tines of her fork rolling a broccoli floret across her plate, â€œas long as this doesnâ€™t end in utter and total social tragedy.â€
Sharpay is head of the senior prom committee, so naturally it promises to be fabulous. Ryan hadâ€”for once and exercising his newfound independenceâ€”abstained from participation.
Itâ€™s in part because itâ€™s Sharpayâ€™s moment to shine and in part because Ryan would rather occupy himself putting together choreography for the community theater that had heard about his work through somebody from somebody else or whateverâ€”the important thing is he gets to wear loose pants and act bitchy to a good baseline.
Itâ€™s senior year and everybody is thinking about their futuresâ€”even Troy and Gabriella have deigned to take a moment away from staring sappily and with wholesome affection from one another to dissect which colleges have offered what scholarships, and talk about how they will describe their (abysmally vanilla) relationship on their Facebook profiles. Sharpay is bound for Tisch and Kelsi (aka, piano rat) is going to Oberlin, because of course she needs a place to luxuriate in being a social outcast and a musical genius all at once.
Chad Danforth, Ryan is given to understand, has been recruited by some school with a basketball team.
â€œItâ€™s kind of a big deal,â€ Chad explains during their fourth lesson. He looks red and his man-hands are all sweatyâ€”Ryan makes a note to have somebody open the skylight windows on fair days. Heâ€™s doing this out of charity, he shouldnâ€™t have to endure sweat.
â€œI donâ€™t know how you think you can play basketball if you canâ€™t even do a simple two-step,â€ Ryan grumbles, and stomps on Chadâ€™s foot after Chad steps on his. â€œIf you damage me permanently, Danforth, Iâ€™m going to make you eat your jockstrap.â€
Sheepish, Chad says, â€œIâ€™m not doing it on purpose.â€
â€œYeah,â€ Ryan agrees, â€œthatâ€™s the scary part.â€
Theyâ€™re barefoot now in the studio, since Ryan had gone through the first part of the lesson terrified that he was going to end up with a broken toe just weeks before his final Julliard auditions. Heâ€™s got a soul or and they sort of bonded over baseball or whatever, so he wants to help Chad score with whichever bubbleheaded dance nazi he scored off the cheer squadâ€”but heâ€™s not risking his future as a fabulous Broadway dancer in Chadâ€™s pursuit of an STD.
Chadâ€™s feet are calloused and nearly as sweaty as his hands, so Ryan knows that thisâ€”standing around, swaying awkwardly to old, sultry clarinet, echoing through the roomâ€”should not be as nice as it feels. But Chadâ€™s hands are ginormous wrapped around Ryanâ€™s and he always smells like Tide detergent and cheap deodorant, the wax off of the gym floor and the industrial cleaner they use in the locker room. Chad smells like one of his basketball games and he thumps around Ryanâ€™s dance studio like heâ€™s at one of them, too.
â€œHey!â€ Chad says suddenly, sounding excited. â€œI think Iâ€™m getting it! Iâ€™m getting it, right?â€
â€œShut up, youâ€™ll ruin it,â€ Ryan snaps, but Chadâ€™s right, heâ€™s getting it. And they box their way across the floor to the beat, barefoot in blue jeans and Ryan thinks that if this doesnâ€™t get Chad pussy, heâ€™s going to go choke a bitch with his own two hands.
This yearâ€™s prom theme is â€œThe Garden of Eden,â€ so heâ€™s helping Sharpay individually hand-glue fake leaves onto the decorations when he suffers some kind of total psycho brain fart and he blurts out, â€œIâ€™ve been teaching Chad Danforth to dance and I think Iâ€™m liking it a little too much. Maybe. Probably. Anyway, he has enormous hands.â€
Sharpay only blinks her eyes twice before she asks, â€œAmerican or International style?â€
Ryan scoffs, and Sharpay waves her hands, saying, â€œRight, rightâ€”stupid. American smooth.â€
â€œThe waltz,â€ Ryan admits. He makes a face. â€œHeâ€™s terrible. Like, really appalling.â€
â€œOhmigod,â€ Sharpay says, reaching over to put a hand over Ryanâ€™sâ€”theyâ€™re covered in glitter and tacky glue and he hasnâ€™t seen the sun in nearly 72 hours. Her voice is shaking when she asks, â€œAndâ€”youâ€”youâ€™re still teaching him? You havenâ€™t you know, backhanded him?â€
Sheâ€™s his sister, his twin, so of course she knows exactly what this probably means. Itâ€™s also probably why he hasnâ€™t said anything to her until now, until the afternoon after he sees Chad leaning against the lockers, grinning wry and crooked as he talks to that unfortunateâ€”okay, not that unfortunateâ€”girl who runs the academic decathlon. May she die a virgin, Ryan remembers thinking, and then followed that up with, oh my God, thatâ€™s horribleâ€”nobody should die a virgin except for Troy and Gabriella! so heâ€™d known that this was bad, bad, totally wretch.
Swallowing hard, Ryan imagines that this is the moment he has to face the truth of the whole business.
â€œNo,â€ he finally says, wrenching it out of his chest. â€œI didnâ€™t even threaten to.â€
Sharpay slaps a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed with shock. â€œOh, Ry.â€
He covers his face, feeling himself gluing star-shaped sparkles to his face. â€œI know.â€
In solidarity, Sharpay wakes him up the next morning to hot him up. It takes longer than it normally would since Ryan feels all defeated and stupid and anything but fetchingâ€”but Sharpay busts out the Tigi Bedhead and rubs the hairwax hot in her hands before she attacks him, saying, â€œBuck up, Ry, we canâ€™t be defeated by stupid ballwhores all the time, all right?â€
â€œGod,â€ Ryan had moaned, covering his face, â€œdonâ€™t say â€˜ballwhores.â€™â€
And then sheâ€™d shown him the brand new Paul Allen shirt sheâ€™d gotten him and â€˜miraculously foundâ€™ his best and most favorite pair of skinny jeans and his most fabtacular pair of checked Boho Beachcombers and shoved him into her car, stuffing a round of Carmex into his hands as they went and so Ryan knew that even if everything else went to hell, Sharpay loved himâ€”in a kind of great white shark sibling sort of way.
â€œI should have known, really,â€ Sharpay tells him when they walk into home room, â€œI mean, Roryâ€”why else? They have the same stupid hair.â€
â€œShut up,â€ Ryan says, sliding into his seat, and adds, â€œAnd his hair isnâ€™t stupid.â€
â€œWhoâ€™s hair is stupid?â€ Chad asks, coming up behind them, and Ryan manfully keeps himself from doing anything particularly crazy and embarrassing by burying his face into the latest US Weekly.
â€œWho invited you to the conversation, tall person?â€ Sharpay snaps, and fluttering her hands, she says, â€œDisappear from my field of vision.â€
Chad decides to sit down on Ryanâ€™s deskâ€”giving Ryan an eyeful of the smooth elastic of black boxer-brief material. Ryan makes a soft, helpless noise, and tells himself, so what, he has a giant, impossible gay crush on Chad Danforthâ€”at least he isnâ€™t wearing cokepants and doing bikram detox in the Utah desert or trying to whiten his babyâ€™s teeth or anything.
â€œSomebodyâ€™s hostile,â€ Chad mutters, and then, conspiratorial, leans in to say to Ryan, â€œHey, can we talk later? I gotta ask you something.â€
Ryan slumps down further into his seat. God knows what this episode is doing to his spine. He mumbles, â€œIâ€™m busy.â€
â€œItâ€™ll only take a few minutes,â€ Chad says.
â€œA few minutes is a few minutes too long,â€ Sharpay says, coming to the rescue, voice acidic. This is like the one time in fifth grade when Jordan Newberg had realized he and Ryan were going out and called him a â€˜doofus,â€™ and how Sharpay had punched him in the face and then drawn an L for loser on Jordanâ€™s forehead. â€œYou realize that prom is in just three days, right?â€
â€œHey,â€ Chad snaps, glaring, â€œyou get that Iâ€™m trying to talk to your brother, right?â€
He sees Sharpay stand up on her fabtacular silver wedges and get right into Chadâ€™s face before she says, â€œAnd do you get that I asked you to remove yourself from my presence, ball giant?â€
â€œAnd Iâ€”â€ Chad starts, but Ryan interrupts by slapping the magazine flat onto his desk and rocking up to his feet, because really, the last thing he wants to see is Sharpay break a nail on Chadâ€™s perfectly chiseled features.
â€œAnd Iâ€™m leaving,â€ he tells them both, and stomps off to hide in the boysâ€™ bathroomâ€”which he realizes is kind of a miscalculation when not four seconds after he bangs into a stall to do some breathing exercises he hears Chad bang into the bathroom after him, shouting, â€œRyan, we need to talk.â€
â€œOh, sweet mother of Botox,â€ Ryan moans, leaning his forehead against the closed stall door. â€œWhat? I already taught you to waltzâ€”there is no way I can show you the quickstep in three days, okay?â€
â€œItâ€™s not about dancing,â€ Chad protests through the door, and after a beat admits, â€œOkay, itâ€™s sort of about dancingâ€”justâ€”can I come in there? I feel stupid talking to you through this door.â€
Ryan thinks the only thing worse than having to talk to Chad right now would be having to talk to Chad in a confined space. So Ryan says, â€œNo! Leave me alone.â€
Thereâ€™s a long silence, and Ryanâ€™s almost convinced himself that Chadâ€™s left when instead, he hears abominable thumping and Chadâ€™s voice say, â€œMove or I land on you,â€ from overheadâ€”giving Ryan just enough time to squawk and shove himself into a supremely uncomfortable position, half-perched on top of the toilet seat before he hopped over the top of the stall wall and landed in a half-crouch.
Beaming, Chad says, â€œHey, Evans.â€
â€œFreak,â€ Ryan hisses.
â€œDude, I just want to talk,â€ Chad says, and he has the audacity to look hurt.
â€œWell, I think itâ€™s pretty clear I donâ€™t want to talk to you,â€ Ryan mutters and tries to push past Chad and to the stall door. â€œSo if you donâ€™t mind, Iâ€™d really appreciate it if youâ€™d just let me go.â€
Chad, who has clearly suffered a multitude of head injuries, didnâ€™t seem to understand, and just grabs Ryan by the shoulders and shoves him up against the stall.
â€œHey,â€ he snaps, â€œRyan, come on man, I just want to talk to youâ€”we got along fine before, how did you suddenly become allergic to me?â€
Ryan opens his mouth for a witty riposte and comes up completely blank. He blames his proximity to Chad, the fact that theyâ€™re crushed together in a space small enough that he can feel the sleek muscles of Chadâ€™s thigh through Ryanâ€™s designer jeans. Thatâ€™s enough to make anybodyâ€™s thoughts fly a little bit out of their heads.
â€œFine,â€ Ryan says, resigned. â€œWhat do you want, Danforth?â€
â€œI wanted to say thanksâ€”the moves you showed me really helped me seal the deal,â€ Chad says, beaming, and Ryan has horrible, brain-boilingly awful mental images of Chadâ€™s afro shivering in lust as he pins some fat-thighed thin-brained girl to the gym mats. â€œYouâ€™re a pal, Ryan.â€
â€œOh, spare me,â€ he mutters. â€œIâ€™m glad youâ€™re happy. Did you really need to chase me into the bathroom to say that?â€
â€œI didnâ€™t say that was it,â€ Chad points out, and he goes from excited to worried in a snap. â€œI was also hoping you could teach me one more dance. Nothing fancy, butâ€”â€
Ryan thinks about getting stuck in his home studio with Chad again, smelling Tide on his clothes and feeling Chadâ€™s big, oafish hands on his, getting his toes stomped on by Chadâ€™s big, oafish feet, and is so overcome withâ€”horrifically shameful and totally inappropriate lustâ€”that he blurts out, â€œAbsolutely not.â€
â€œWhat?â€ Chad yells. â€œCome on, man!â€
â€œNo,â€ Ryan says, annoyed. â€œMy toes have already suffered enough attempting to teach you the waltz, so Iâ€™ll just pass on going down that path of agony again.â€
Chad makes a face. â€œI wasnâ€™t that bad.â€
â€œYou really were,â€ Ryan says with complete honesty, but he canâ€™t help but smile.
Pouting, Chad says, â€œPlease?â€
Ryan considers capitulating, and then he thinks about the lasting emotional damage it would inflict, and how the last thing he needs in life is to deepen his helpless crush on a terminal straight, and steels himself to say, â€œDanforth, no.â€
Chad leans in, grinning. â€œAw, come on, Ryâ€”itâ€™ll be quick, I promise.â€
â€œNo!â€ Ryan tries again, because suddenly the lasting emotional damage seems like small price to pay in return for the cheap groping he could get in teaching Chad say, the Samba.
â€œAw, Ry, you love me,â€ Chad says confidently, â€œjust do this one thing for me andâ€”â€
â€œWell, I donâ€™t love you yet,â€ Ryan says again, but he knows he sounds a little like a feeb, and Chad seems too quiet about it until Ryan rewinds and fast-forwards and hears what he said again: â€œI donâ€™t love you yet,â€ and gasps, â€œOhmigod.â€
â€œYet?â€ Chad asks, eyes widening.
â€œI meant â€˜never,â€™â€ Ryan explains, â€œI meant, â€˜I hate you forever and will never love you.â€™â€
â€œYet?â€ Chad repeats, voice faint and looking speculative.
â€œOkay, so,â€ Ryan decides, and cupping his hands around his mouth, he yells, â€œSharpay!â€
Chad continues to look baffled. â€œYou like me? Like, one dude to another, or like a man loves a woman?â€ Ryanâ€™s look of searing hate must make an impact, because he corrects himself with, â€œOr uh, in this case, a man loves um, another, umâ€”really?â€
â€œShar-PAY!â€ Ryan wails.
Chad runs his hands through his hair, looking torn. â€œWow. I didnâ€™t know,â€ he says.
â€œOh, my God,â€ Ryan mourns, â€œThis is hell. This is shopping at T.J. Maxx hell.â€
â€œHey, come on, Ry,â€ Chad teases, grinning nervously, â€œIâ€™m not that bad a catch, am I?â€
Ryanâ€™s jaw drops, and for a second, he wants to say something about how, no, of course not, how Chad is handsome and funny (not on purpose) and oddly attractive in that way most sweaty, short-sighted teenaged athletes are, and that Ryan would totally teach him the foxtrot, the quickstep. Ryan, to his horror, would shop at T.J. Maxx for Chad.
But thank God, before he can do anything irrational like tell Chad he wants to be his special homoerotic high school gay-speriment or grab Chadâ€™s muscular ass, the door to the stallâ€™s ripped open by Sharpayâ€™s superhuman strength and she shouts:
â€œChad Danforth, unhand my brother or face the consequences!â€
Ryan feigns sick for the next three days, spending most of his time detoxing himself with a combination of grapefruit and bottled Fiji and comforting himself with reruns of Americaâ€™s Next Top Model, because nothing makes you feel less wretched than watching Tyraâ€™s bad wigs slash bad extensions slash bad grammar. Sheâ€™s amazing. Ryan canâ€™t wait until heâ€™s a supermodel and has absolute access to television cameras and unlimited lines of cocaine, too. Heâ€™s in the middle of looking up the qualifications for cycle 12 (still vaginaâ€™s only need apply, how uncouth) and eating tofutti when he hears Sharpayâ€™s fiercest baboon scream echo through the west wing of the house, shrieking, â€œDanforth! You will remove yourself from my house post-haste!â€
Ryanâ€™s halfway out his bedroom window by the time Chad bursts into his room.
â€œWhat are you doing?â€ Chad yelps, rushing over to grab him by the foot. â€œLook, thereâ€™s no need to kill yourself over this!â€
Ryan always knew Chad was retarded, but he hadnâ€™t known the extent of the brain damage. Itâ€™s tragic that somebody so young and lithe would be so tragically incapable of human function. â€œOh, please,â€ Ryan mutters, shoving Chad away and resigning himself to one of those agonizing talks about their feelings. â€œThereâ€™s a zipline outside the window that goes straight to the pool houseâ€”I just didnâ€™t want to talk to you.â€
Scowling, Chad says, â€œOh, thatâ€™s mature.â€
â€œSo was cornering me in the bathroom,â€ Ryan shoots back.
â€œTouche,â€Chad agrees, and then an awkward, uncomfortable silence falls, which Ryan endures for about five minutes before he clears his throat to say:
â€œOkay, well, that was awesome. Now, you can see yourself out, or I can have Sharpay show you the door with her sharpest pair of Jimmy Choos.â€
Chad rubs his shins. â€œShe already introduced me to them,â€ he mutters. â€œBut look, Ryan, we should talk.â€
Ryan decides he can either be a smartass or get his feelings hurt, so he obviously opts for smartass. â€œDanforth, I am still not teaching you any other dances. I told you, my feet canâ€™t bear it. I need those for my Julliard auditions.â€
â€œUnderstandable,â€ Chad says, mouth twitching into a smile, â€œbut I just wanted to see if youâ€™d save a dance for meâ€”at the prom.â€
Everything in the room goes very still.
â€œUm, pardon?â€ Ryan asks.
Chadâ€™s blushing so hard his hair is red. â€œA dance. At the prom. I mean, Iâ€™m kind of locked into a date, and itâ€™d be rude to blow her offâ€”but I wanted to show you my moves, you know, the ones I developed on my own?â€
â€œMay Michael Kors preserve us all,â€ Ryan says, but he doesnâ€™t really mean it, and he canâ€™t help but to ask, â€œUm, does this mean you?â€
Shrugging, Chad says, â€œTo be honest, Iâ€™m not sure, but I mean, you managed to teach me to dance.â€ He looks down at his gigantic feet, and Ryan tries not to think about that, or Chadâ€™s gigantic hands. â€œThatâ€™s got to mean something.â€
â€œI see,â€ Ryan says, because he does, in a weird way.
â€œSo do we have a deal?â€ Chad asks, eyes bright when he looks back up.
â€œMaybe,â€ Ryan sniffs, trying very hard not to smile, but itâ€™s hard. This is like Bagley Mishka day at Fashion Week, like Barneyâ€™s holiday party when all the personal shoppers get drunk, like the rave at Promises of Malibuâ€”awesome.
Chad starts to back out of his room, and his smile is big enough for both of them.
â€œYeah,â€ Chad says, â€œyouâ€™re gonna dance with me. I know it already.â€