Chapter 2 - The Dress That Didn't Move
The grass was cold under my back and my shirt was stuck to me. I could feel Daniel's arm around my chest, tight, and his hand was open on the ground next to that little dark box. I was breathing hard and trying not to. Everyone was looking. I didn't want them to.
My mom stepped forward. Her magenta dress didn't move the way it should have when she walked, it was too long and too heavy, and her heels sank a little into the lawn with each step. She didn't look at me first. She looked at the table where three champagne glasses were on their sides and at the guests standing by the white folding chairs.
She crouched, but not all the way. She kept her knees together so the dress stayed smooth.
"Ethan, honey," she said, and her voice was quiet and fast, like she didn't want the other tables to hear. "You're okay. You're fine."
I wasn't. My teeth were starting to chatter and my sneakers were full of water. The white with the red trim had gone gray with mud.
She turned her head to Daniel. "Take him inside," she whispered. "Through the side. Don't make a scene. We'll clean this up and keep the party going."
Daniel didn't answer right away. His breathing was right against my ear. He'd been running, and his charcoal shirt had grass stains on the elbows from where he'd knelt at the water. I felt his hand leave the ground and close around the little box. It wasn't big, maybe the size of my palm, dark reddish-brown wood with a little brass clasp. He slipped it into the pocket of his gray trousers in one quick move.
"No," he said. It wasn't loud. He said it to her, not to me. "I'm not sneaking him in the side door like he did something wrong."
My mom's smile flickered. The kind she used when guests were watching. "Daniel, please. It's your grandparents' anniversary. Everyone's staring."
"Let them stare," he said.
Richard was still standing behind us. I hadn't seen his face yet, but I saw his shoes. Brown leather loafers, too nice for grass, right next to two overturned flutes where the champagne had poured out and darkened the lawn. One of the glasses had rolled against my foot. His shoes were so close I could see water spots on them. I didn't know if it was lake water or spilled drinks. I tucked my feet in.
Daniel shifted his weight and stood in one motion, lifting me with him. I wasn't that heavy at eight, but I was soaked and my legs were shaking and he didn't hesitate. He put one arm under my knees and the other around my back and held me against his chest the way he'd done when I was little and had a fever. My wet shirt made a dark patch on his shirt. My head rested against his shoulder and I could smell lake water and sunscreen.
My mom reached out, her hand hovering near my ankle like she wanted to touch my sneaker but didn't want to get wet. "Daniel, the bathroom downstairs," she said, trying again. "I'll be right in. Just —"
"We're going to the side porch," he said, cutting her off but still quiet. "He needs a towel, not a cover story."
He turned away from the tables. I saw it over his shoulder. The woman in the cream dress had her hand over her mouth. Two men by the string lights were pretending to look at the lake. My mom stayed where she was, kneeling a little, her long sleeves bright against the green. She didn't get up right away. She looked at Richard, then at the guests, then at the glasses on the grass. She started to stand, smoothing her dress with both hands, and pasted on that party smile again.
Daniel carried me past the last row of white folding chairs toward the side of the house where the porch was. The music from the little speaker by the anniversary cake was still playing, something soft and old-fashioned, and nobody had turned it off. Each step jostled the water in my sneakers and I could hear it squish.
On the side porch the light was dimmer. There was a stack of citronella candles and a folded tablecloth on the wicker bench. Daniel set me down on the bench, but kept one hand on my back so I wouldn't tip.
"You good?" he asked me, low.
I nodded. My hair was dripping down my neck.
He glanced back at the lawn. My mom was now standing fully, talking to two guests, gesturing toward the house like everything was handled. Richard hadn't moved. He was still by the overturned glasses, hands in his pockets, looking toward us.
Daniel's hand went to his pocket where he'd put the box. He pressed it once through the fabric to make sure it was still there. Then he looked down at my sneakers, at the mud and the water pooling under the bench.
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"Stay here with me," he said. "Don't go back out there."
From the porch I could hear my mom laugh, a short, bright laugh for the party, and somewhere behind her a chair scraping as someone tried to set the table right again.
