[18]

Punks Don’t Dance

"Here, you can borrow this." Wade handed his sombrero to Skipper as they stepped onto the resort patio.

   "I still can't believe you actually bought one," she snorted, but put it on anyway. The wide brim provided ample shade that would hopefully somewhat protect her from the setting sun, and would also cast a fine shadow over her very sunburnt, very tear stained face.

   "Why you can't believe it is beyond me," he shrugged. "I told you I wanted to get one."

   "I thought maybe you were kidding." Countering his shrug with one of her own, she rounded the building to see many of the resort patrons gathered around a massive fire pit. Everyone was smiling and laughing and it didn't seem to matter that nobody knew each other. Food and drinks were set out as well, and a girl had brought her guitar.

   Skipper's emotions were in a bind. She had barely stopped crying when Wade had sprung this on her. It was so...spontaneous. She wasn't sure how to feel about it. She wasn't used to feeling shy. Nervous, yes. But shy? No. She was the girl who could be cool as a cucumber giving presentations to massive swaths of people. She was made for the public, and she knew that Wade was the complete opposite. He preferred keeping to himself, and despite his very loud music, he was really a rather quiet guy. So it came as a surprise to her that he'd even want to join a bonfire comprised of a bunch of strangers. 

  Or maybe it was just all that emotion messing with her head. After all, it wasn't like she knew Wade all that well. Maybe he was more outgoing than she assumed.

   Someone complimented the sombrero, and a smile flashed across Wade's stoic face. Skipper found herself taking a seat beside the guitarist girl, and before she knew what was happening, everyone was talking and laughing like they'd known each other for ages. It felt kind of weird, connecting with people in person rather than online. Weird, but...nice. Tangible.

   She wanted to cry again, recalling that she didn't have long to enjoy things like this. Wishing she'd had closer connections in the past.

   Then she felt a jolt of panic, realizing that her hair was probably glowing and that would illuminate her face under the sombrero. She calmed herself by considering the fact that if anyone noticed she'd been crying, they weren't showing it. 

   They just wanted to have a good time.

   And heck, so did she. She could cry for herself later. For now, she needed to live in the spontaneity of the moment. She needed to appreciate the little things like this, and she needed to appreciate the fact that Wade had crawled out of his shell for her sake.

Beside her, the girl with the guitar laughed at something Wade said and acted sheepish. Skipper desperately tried to pull out of tunnel vision to focus on the people around her; it was all too easy to fall into a stupor and ignore everyone. This had been useful in high school, but it probably wasn't useful now.

The sombrero that had been casting shadows over her face was suddenly knocked aside, rolling across the brick patio. Skipper glanced up, seeking the source. Wade stood to her left, looking smug. The guitarist to her right gaped in awe.

"Your hair is so cool!" The girl gushed, staring with rapt eyes.

Skipper chewed her bottom lip before offering a weak smile. "Thanks."

"I hate it." Wade butted in, only to receive a shove from Skipper.

"No one asked you!" She jumped to her feet and hurried to pick up the sombrero. He took it from her the moment she returned, placing it over his head much to her chagrin. 

   "Y'know...I shoulda brought my maracas," he muttered. 

   "Yeah, and you shoulda grown that mustache," Skipper mocked in the same octave, rolling her eyes. 

   The guitarist stared at them as they continued to bicker, until finally she broke in with her voice, which was sweet yet possessed a slight edge to it. "What sort of campfire music does everyone wanna hear?"

   A few of the others around the fire chimed in with classic sappy tunes, which the girl politely declined. "No mushy stuff," she insisted. "As far as I know, none of us here are on honeymoon."

   One guy cackled at this. "Play some Melanie Martinez."

   "That's also a no," the girl shook her head. "I don't even know who that is."

   "What! How can you not-"

   "How about you guys?" Turning to Skipper and Wade, the girl smiled expectantly, her lips wavering slightly as they held back a full-blown grin. Thumbing toward Skipper, Wade answered.

   "She only listens to classical, I dunno if you know any symphonies..."

   Guitar girl tipped her head from one side to the next as if considering. "Wellll maybe I can play Flight of the Bumblebee. But it's been awhile. How about you, dude? What's your jam? What rocks your socks?" She now bobbed her head groovily. Oddly, Skipper found she admired the girl's upbeat personality.

   "Punk rock all the way, with some indie and alternative thrown in," Wade replied with a trace of confidence.

   The girl's eyes brightened, and she held up her left hand for Wade to slap. "High five, my man. That's the stuff."   

   Grinning, they high-fived and began to discuss music. Skipper stood on her tiptoes and stole Wade's sombrero back before resuming her place beside the guitarist.

   "How many of you guys know the song Na Na Na by My Chemical Romance?" Guitar girl queried, a smirk replacing the grin as firelight danced in her eyes. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise when more than half the hands around the fire pit went into the air. Even Skipper tentatively raised a hand.

   "That's that really annoying one Wade plays, right? It's like: 'na na na na na na na' or something?" She asked, shyly singing the bit she remembered. Wade looked smug, like he was proud she even recalled a single lyric.

   Guitar girl clapped in pure delight. "Oh my gosh yes! Your voice is so pretty by the way. Okay. Mickey, you have a guitar too, yes?"

   The guy called Mickey nodded an affirmative, raised his instrument, and referred to the guitar girl as Samoa. 

   They tuned up and started to play the energetic song; at first, it didn't seem any singing would occur. But then Samoa's sweet and edgy voice soared through the night. Skipper's feet were tapping; everyone was joining in at the chorus and she found herself inadvertently singing along in a loud, clear voice. Wade was jamming along in his own way, tapping out a beat on the bench with a sense of rhythm she never knew he had. 

   Those that weren't making the actual music were soon on their toes, dancing and singing along. Skipper's face was glowing with happiness, glowing in the firelight, the dye in her hair glowing like a halo. She looked like some celestial fairy of happiness and warmth. 

   "Dance with me!" she screamed at Wade over the music. His eyes widened and he shook his head.

   "Punks don't dance," he muttered, but somehow she forced him to his feet. "I suck at this," he hissed. Whether she was ignoring him or she couldn't hear him over all the noise, he couldn't tell, but he did his best for her. He let her show him how to dance, even if he felt really stupid doing so. It was worth it to see that smile on her face. The smile that was alive, not covering up a hidden pain.