Read Online The Silent Strength of Stones by Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Matt Stawicki - Free Book Online
Authors: Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Matt Stawicki
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Willow’s hand, I edged around dancing couples and went over to him.
He, too, had done some growing during the winter. He was now tall enough to play basketball without embarrassment, and on him it looked good. “Hi, Nick,” he said. His voice had dropped and stabilized into a warm bass.
“Hi, Jeremy. This is Willow. Willow, Jeremy.”
His smile stretched wider as he took her hand. He wasn’t in any hurry to let go.
“Willow,” I said, after a minute during which her smile tightened, “this is Kristen, Paul—hi, Paul!—and who?”
Willow slipped her hand out of Jeremy’s. It looked like an effort.
“Ian,” said Kristen, waving at the big blond tennis-whites guy (actually in dark slacks and an alligator-emblem shirt at the moment), “and Megan,” gesturing toward the brunette, who looked relaxed and wore jeans and a green shirt. Kristen’s smile looked real. We shook hands all around. “Nice to meet you, Willow. Good to see you, Nick,” Kristen said.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling very conscious of how messy my clothes were and how pristine she looked, all in white. “Good to see you, too.” Then suddenly it was awkward. I had no more words for them, and they didn’t speak either.
“Let’s dance,” Willow said.
I straightened and looked toward the musicians. Holly Waggoner stepped up to the microphone, fiddle tucked into the crook between her chin and shoulder. I grinned. She had taken some second and third places in the state fiddling contests.
“’Scuse us,” I said, and led Willow away from the others. I slid my arm around her waist and took her right hand in mine. Holly played “Chinese Breakdown” with verve and style.
Willow, it developed, did not know how to dance at all. I could feel from the way she swayed in my embrace that she understood rhythm, but she didn’t seem to know what to do with her feet, and she put her left hand first over my arm, then gripped my arm, as if afraid I would let go of her. “Rest your hand on my shoulder,” I whispered. She did. Her fingers were kind of tight. She kept glancing around, looking at what other people were doing and trying to imitate them. Since the tune was a fast one, I wondered if we wouldn’t be better off sitting this one out, or at least heading outside to practice where we could still hear music but not be seen.
Willow muttered something in her velvet voice, and suddenly we were dancing just fine, her steps matching mine with a prescience that was eerie. I felt peculiar, as if I had four legs, four arms, two hearts, and an imperative: music was the brain that governed my actions. So I didn’t really need to think; but I felt sweat on my forehead, upper lip, back, and the back of my neck, and as we danced heat generated in my chest until I was sucking in breaths to try to blow the fire out.
When the tune ended I rubbed my forehead on the arm of my T-shirt, even though Willow’s and my fingers were still intertwined. “Don’t do that,” I said, my voice ragged.
“What?” She stared at me, wide-eyed. All around us couples were breaking up, walking to the side, matching with others, wandering off for punch, and we still stood in dance pose, attached to each other, encircling each other. I felt fear flare through her, a cold creeping fire where the one in me had been hot.
“Don’t,” I said. Now that we were standing still, the fire in me was settling to embers. “Don’t ... let go. Let go.”
She stared up into my face, unblinking, the fear in her flashing to panic.
“Willow.” Our hearts were beating fast, matching rhythms, mine speeding as hers raced. “Stop it,” I said, putting an edge into my voice. Her head jerked, and then the connection broke and I could breathe again. I drew in heavy drafts of air as I felt my muscles relaxing. Willow closed her eyes tight and turned her head away as if waiting for a slap.
I tightened my arm around her, dropped our hands, and led her out of the hall, across the road,
He, too, had done some growing during the winter. He was now tall enough to play basketball without embarrassment, and on him it looked good. “Hi, Nick,” he said. His voice had dropped and stabilized into a warm bass.
“Hi, Jeremy. This is Willow. Willow, Jeremy.”
His smile stretched wider as he took her hand. He wasn’t in any hurry to let go.
“Willow,” I said, after a minute during which her smile tightened, “this is Kristen, Paul—hi, Paul!—and who?”
Willow slipped her hand out of Jeremy’s. It looked like an effort.
“Ian,” said Kristen, waving at the big blond tennis-whites guy (actually in dark slacks and an alligator-emblem shirt at the moment), “and Megan,” gesturing toward the brunette, who looked relaxed and wore jeans and a green shirt. Kristen’s smile looked real. We shook hands all around. “Nice to meet you, Willow. Good to see you, Nick,” Kristen said.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling very conscious of how messy my clothes were and how pristine she looked, all in white. “Good to see you, too.” Then suddenly it was awkward. I had no more words for them, and they didn’t speak either.
“Let’s dance,” Willow said.
I straightened and looked toward the musicians. Holly Waggoner stepped up to the microphone, fiddle tucked into the crook between her chin and shoulder. I grinned. She had taken some second and third places in the state fiddling contests.
“’Scuse us,” I said, and led Willow away from the others. I slid my arm around her waist and took her right hand in mine. Holly played “Chinese Breakdown” with verve and style.
Willow, it developed, did not know how to dance at all. I could feel from the way she swayed in my embrace that she understood rhythm, but she didn’t seem to know what to do with her feet, and she put her left hand first over my arm, then gripped my arm, as if afraid I would let go of her. “Rest your hand on my shoulder,” I whispered. She did. Her fingers were kind of tight. She kept glancing around, looking at what other people were doing and trying to imitate them. Since the tune was a fast one, I wondered if we wouldn’t be better off sitting this one out, or at least heading outside to practice where we could still hear music but not be seen.
Willow muttered something in her velvet voice, and suddenly we were dancing just fine, her steps matching mine with a prescience that was eerie. I felt peculiar, as if I had four legs, four arms, two hearts, and an imperative: music was the brain that governed my actions. So I didn’t really need to think; but I felt sweat on my forehead, upper lip, back, and the back of my neck, and as we danced heat generated in my chest until I was sucking in breaths to try to blow the fire out.
When the tune ended I rubbed my forehead on the arm of my T-shirt, even though Willow’s and my fingers were still intertwined. “Don’t do that,” I said, my voice ragged.
“What?” She stared at me, wide-eyed. All around us couples were breaking up, walking to the side, matching with others, wandering off for punch, and we still stood in dance pose, attached to each other, encircling each other. I felt fear flare through her, a cold creeping fire where the one in me had been hot.
“Don’t,” I said. Now that we were standing still, the fire in me was settling to embers. “Don’t ... let go. Let go.”
She stared up into my face, unblinking, the fear in her flashing to panic.
“Willow.” Our hearts were beating fast, matching rhythms, mine speeding as hers raced. “Stop it,” I said, putting an edge into my voice. Her head jerked, and then the connection broke and I could breathe again. I drew in heavy drafts of air as I felt my muscles relaxing. Willow closed her eyes tight and turned her head away as if waiting for a slap.
I tightened my arm around her, dropped our hands, and led her out of the hall, across the road,
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