“So you want me to wear them? Or you don’t?”
“Oh, do, it’s your thing, with the leather jacket and the—yes, here we go, a skinny black tie, and your nice shirt, and the trousers you wore on the fourth day of school but that haven’t reappeared since then. Dark wash. There. Socks, and your oxfords.” Mrs. Dunham scurried out of the way as Holmes buried me in a pile of my own clothing.
I looked down. “You’re trying to make me into a hipster.”
“I don’t have to try.” Holmes tapped her wrist where the watch would go. “Time, Watson.”
“You really can’t be here while he’s changing,” Mrs. Dunham said.
Holmes put a hand over her eyes. “I am counting down from one hundred.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, sorting through the clothes she’d given me.
“Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight.”
We were out the door with three counts to go.
From across the quad, I could see the union all lit up for the dance. Each time the doors opened, I heard a bit of a song I couldn’t quite place. On a bench sat a boy and girl holding hands; he was whispering in her ear. Nearby, a cluster of shivering girls admired each other’s dresses.
“Are you going to tell me why we’re here?” I asked Holmes, holding the door open for her.
She paused on the threshold. “Not yet,” she said, and went in.
Sherringford was a small enough school that we could all fit into the union’s alumni ballroom. (Apparently, the school went bigger and fancier for prom. Tom was sure that this year’s would be on a yacht.) The theme had something to do with Vegas; the first thing I saw as we entered was a string of blackjack tables, manned by real casino dealers in green-and-white livery. Holmes sidled over, only to make an affronted noise when she saw they were playing with Monopoly money. I was more interested in the chocolate fountain that burbled in the corner, crowded by people holding out skewered marshmallows. Otherwise, there were all the usual trappings: a punch table, strobe lights, a DJ. Bored-looking teachers were “chaperoning,” which meant they mostly chatted together in pairs. Out on the dance floor, girls swayed in dresses the colors of Christmas ornaments. We’d won the football game earlier, so the mood was victorious. As I took it all in, Cassidy and Ashton from my French class brushed past us. Cassidy looked lovely, and Ashton looked exactly like one of the Thundercats. I’d never seen such a radioactive-looking tan.
What I noticed most of all was how many students had been pulled home. There couldn’t have been more than a hundred of us on the dance floor. Still, everyone seemed like they were having fun—no one thinking of the murder, or their safety, or anything except for the ABBA song that had just begun.
It felt, disconcertingly, as though I stood with one foot in a novel and one foot in a shopping mall. I might’ve belonged here, but Holmes very much didn’t. I turned to ask exactly what her plan was, when I caught her mouthing the words to “Dancing Queen.”
“Oh my God,” I said as she startled. “Oh my God. You just wanted to come here to—”
“There are excellent opportunities for observation and deduction here,” she said hurriedly. “Look at the specimen pool! Everyone with their guard down, probably a good few drinking—the girl next to you has a flask of peach schnapps in that little bag of hers—and perhaps that dealer is here, somewhere, and—”
“—to dance.” I was trying very hard not to laugh. “Would you like to?”
“Yes,” she said, and fairly dragged me out onto the floor.
Holmes, for all her strange and myriad skills, proved to be a terrible dancer. But what she lacked in skill she made up for in absolute abandon. Under the kaleidoscope lights, her hair went blue, then red, then blue again, the music so loud that my head throbbed in time, and she flung her arms straight up as the chorus came, throwing her head back to mouth the words. She knew the words to the next one, too, and the song after that, and she sang them all with her eyes shut, shuffling her feet like a grandfather. For a glorious twelve minutes, I orbited her, and when she grabbed my hand and said, “Twirl me,” I spun her around as she laughed.
A slow song came on, some treacly number by an English boy band my little sister liked. All around us, people slipped into each other’s arms. Across the room, I saw Tom, resplendent in his ridiculous suit, dip Lena while she giggled.
Holmes and I stood there, in the middle of the floor, trying not to look at each other.
I struggled to hide my panic. From the corner of my eye, I could see that Holmes’s cheeks were still pinked from dancing.
“Um,” I said.
There was a tap on my shoulder. The wispy blond girl that had asked me to the dance stood there, her dress a dramatic red. “Hi,” she said shyly. “I thought you weren’t allowed to come.”
I watched Holmes rapidly catalog my reaction. After a moment, the girl turned to look at her, too.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I’m in your way.” A little line appeared between her eyebrows, and I thought, for a moment, that she was going to cry. I was sure Holmes noted that too. Her brain was like a bear trap: nothing escaped alive.
This had to be a nightmare. I’d look down, and I’d be naked, and the dance floor would become my math classroom, and then I’d wake up.
I didn’t.
“We’re not— I’m not— I need something to drink,” I managed, and darted away like the coward I was.