Even so, Cecile wanted to yank her hand away from his and hide it behind her back. He was barely holding on to it, but letting it lie loosely in the palm of his hand, which was insultingly dry. His other hand felt like a clamp on Cecile’s back: huge and unmoving. His closed, aloof face said he wasn’t the least bit interested in talking. Cecile could have been a mannequin, for all he seemed to care. Ever since meeting her eyes for a second when the chaperone had bossily pushed them together, he’d been looking over her shoulder as if searching for something more interesting to watch. He’d stayed like that for the entire dance, without even once having to look at his feet. Cecile had put her hand on his shoulder, the way she was supposed to, and followed his feet, counting in her head. One, two, side-together, side, back-step. They were playing “Mack the Knife,” a foxtrot. So much for the advice Natalie had given to her about talking to boys when they were getting ready earlier in the evening.
