The Last Dance Read online

  THE LAST DANCE

  Copyright 2013 © Karen Hamilton

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design by Kiki Hamilton.

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN:1479391786

  ISBN-13: 978-1479391783

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63001-167-3

  Library of Congress Control Number:2012919664

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  Fair Wind Books

  This is a dpgroup exclusive.

  Though this story and all of the characters are fictional, there are small portions inspired by my real life, thanks to the following:

  Carly, Colin, Mitchell, Lilly, Keenan and Jordan – who can all dance to Michael Jackson’s Thriller just as well as Mira. Love you guys.

  Donna Russell, the real owner of Jefferson Christopher Beetle, who is not stick-shift challenged – here’s to many fond memories of growing up together.

  The real Dr. Murdoch, who helped us through some terrible times with her extraordinary medical knowledge and heartfelt support.

  And to Fena Lee … my charming and witty friend in Singapore, who taught both me, and Mira, a new way to swear.

  Also by Kiki Hamilton

  THE FAERIE RING

  (Book One of The Faerie Ring Series)

  THE TORN WING

  (Book Two of The Faerie Ring Series)

  Contents

  Chapter One: Ivy

  Chapter Two: Kellen

  Chapter Three: Ivy

  Chapter Four: Kellen

  Chapter Five: Ivy

  Chapter Six: Kellen

  Chapter Seven: Ivy

  Chapter Eight: Kellen

  Chapter Nine: Ivy

  Chapter Ten: Kellen

  Chapter Eleven: Ivy

  Chapter Twelve: Kellen

  Chapter Thirteen: Ivy

  Chapter Fourteen: Kellen

  Chapter Fifteen: Ivy

  Chapter Sixteen: Kellen

  Chapter Seventeen: Ivy

  Chapter Eighteen: Kellen

  Chapter Nineteen: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty: Kellen

  Chapter Twenty-One: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Kellen

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Kellen

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Kellen

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Kellen

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty: Kellen

  Chapter Thirty-One: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Kellen

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Kellen

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Kellen

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Kellen

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ivy

  Chapter Forty: Kellen

  Chapter Forty-One: Ivy

  Chapter Forty-Two: Kellen

  Chapter Forty-Three: Ivy

  Chapter Forty-Four: Kellen

  Chapter Forty-Five: Ivy

  Chapter Forty-Six: Kellen

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Ivy

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Kellen

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Ivy

  Chapter Fifty: Kellen

  Chapter Fifty-One: Ivy

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Kellen

  Chapter Fifty-Three: Ivy

  Chapter Fifty-Four: Kellen

  Chapter Fifty-Five: Ivy

  Chapter Fifty-Six: Kellen

  Chapter Fifty-Seven: Ivy

  Chapter Fifty-Eight: Ivy

  Chapter Fifty-Nine: Kellen

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Ivy

  “Ivy, did you see him?” Mira nudged me as she bounced in place—which she always did when she was excited—and stared at the retreating back of our star quarterback, Kellen ‘I’m God’s Gift to Griffin High’ Peterson.

  I yanked my trig book out of my locker and juggled its heavy weight in one arm while I shrugged my backpack over my other shoulder. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be completely deformed with one shoulder six inches lower than the other by the time I graduated.

  “No. Who was it?” I asked in an innocent tone. Mira had been hooked on Kellen since the end of last year when some freshman had spilled his hot lunch tray—spaghetti—all over her. Kellen, who had been standing in line behind her, had very nicely helped her clean it up. Instant obsession—just add tomato sauce. I slammed my locker shut with a jarring clang. Trig was out in a portable and I had to hurry to get there on time.

  “It was Q,” Mira whispered. “He’s wearing his jersey because of the game tonight.” She sighed. “Number Twelve.”

  “Quincy Jones is here?” I asked.

  Mira scowled at me. Her straight blond hair, complete with a streak of Griffin Eagle’s blue, was cut in long shaggy layers that fell over her eyes making her look like an anime character, one of her many obsessions. The ponytails on each side of her head wiggled like little animals trapped in the undergrowth as she fake-smiled at me.

  “Very funny. You know Q is Kellen’s code name.” She narrowed her eyes, making the heavy eyeliner she used look like two black slashes across her face. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Oh, and by the way, you’re like the only person under the age of fifty who even knows who Quincy Jones is.”

  “Oh, that Q,” I deadpanned, “the quadriplegic.”

  “Stop that,” she hissed. “That is so politically incorrect. What is wrong with you? Q is for—” she paused, searching for the right adjective— “for the quintessential quarterback,” she said with a dramatic fling of her arm. She was wearing blue fingerless gloves and smacked some guy who was behind us right in the face. “Oops, sorry.”

  I rolled my eyes. “In case you didn’t notice, Q the Fabulous is still going out with Laurel Simmons.”

  “Temporary insanity,” Mira said airily. “Mark my words, he won’t always want to date a cheerleader.”

  I glanced pointedly at her combat boots, blue and white striped over-the-knee socks and skimmed up to her blue skirt and white blouse with the blue cami peeking from underneath. I raised my eyebrows. “You think he’s going to go for militant English school girl soon?”

  “That’s sexy militant English school girl, thank you very much.” She propped her hand on her hip. “And yeah. Why not? He just doesn’t know me yet.”

  Lily Jenkins rushed by as we walked the other way down the hallway. Freckles covered her nose making her look younger than her seventeen years. The fact that she was one of the last seniors to still wear braces didn’t help. Her red curls bounced wildly around her head. “See you guys tonight!” she cried. “I’m so excited!”

  “Be there at five,” Mira called after her.

  “C’mon.” I linked my arm through hers. “Hurry up—I’ve got to get all the way out to portable three. I thought you said you had a class with Q.”

  “I do.” She sighed. “French. I’m just not sure if he knows I’m in the same room or not.”

  “Make that the same planet.” I laughed, dodging around a couple holding hands in the hallway.

  Mira made a point of perusing my teal-colored North Face jacket. I was wearing a pair of skinny jeans tucked into grey suede boots that laced up the back. My outfit was the same basic uniform of probably
one hundred other girls in school, which was fine by me. Mira’s lip curled in disgust. “At least I’m different.”

  I shook my head. “You’re wasting your time, Mira.”

  She pointed her nose in the air. “Ivy, stop being so practical. Someone’s got to believe in the power of true love. Isn’t there anyone out there who makes your heart zing when you see them?”

  I shook my head. Mira was the romantic, not me. Who had time to look for true love with the academic load I was carrying? My parents had a dream for me: to be a doctor. I didn’t dare disappoint them—even though I had a different dream to study music. But I did wonder sometimes if I would ever fall in love. My older brother was a senior in college, also working to be a doctor, and he still hadn’t had a serious girlfriend. We were a practical family. Did people like us find true love?

  I adjusted the strap of my backpack to a more comfortable position. “Sometimes practicality is under-rated. Which is better—lusting after an impossible dream or settling for reality?”

  “Never settle.” Mira waved her arms and spoke in a lofty voice. “Dreams are the stuff that our lives are made on…”

  I curled my nose. Drama was Mira’s favorite subject and she was always quoting passages from well-known plays—usually incorrectly. “Dude, was that supposed to be Shakespeare? Because that was totally messed up.”

  “Hush.” Mira snapped her fingers at me. “That was loosely paraphrased from The Tempest and you know what I mean.”

  “Really loosely,” I laughed. “Why don’t you stalk somebody like Tank Bergstrom who at least knows you’re alive?”

  Mira snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, Tank is in love with his electric guitar. I don’t want to break them up.” She flipped her hair as she turned the corner, the blond ponytails flying.

  I smiled as I turned the other direction. “See you after school.”

  AFTER THE FINAL bell rang Mira and I met at the locker to grab our homework before heading to the back parking lot.

  “Yes!” Mira cried, thrusting her hands into the air as we escaped into the late September sunlight. The sky was a brilliant blue with one long white vapor trail cutting across it—fading proof of someone’s escape from the mundane life in Small Town, USA. She skipped across the asphalt, her arms flung wide. “Freedom!”

  The mood seemed to be contagious. Everyone was celebrating the fact that it was Friday and the Homecoming game and dance were tonight. Kids were yelling and joking. Music was blasting from a black Nissan. A couple of guys were throwing a football across the parking lot.

  “Ivy, look out!” Mira squealed.

  I looked up just in time to see the pointy end of the football coming straight at my face. This was not going to be pretty. Before I could react, a large hand reached in front of my nose and snatched the ball out of the air.

  The owner of the hand stepped in front of me just in time to see my mouth drop open in a horror-stricken expression. With an effortless swivel, he turned and flicked his wrist, sending the ball sailing back across the parking lot in a perfect spiral without spilling a drop of the open can of cherry coke he held in his other hand.

  “Sorry about that,” Q the Fabulous said as he looked over his shoulder at me. The mischievous grin that quirked the corner of his gorgeous mouth, however, negated his apology. It was obvious he’d enjoyed scaring the shit out of a complete stranger. He jogged away without a second glance.

  “Oh my God, he saved your life,” Mira breathed in my ear. “Isn’t he fabulous?”

  “Saved? I was almost maimed for life,” I muttered, still wondering what he found so humorous about that near-death experience. “And he looked like he enjoyed it.”

  “But still—he was close enough to touch.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please Mira. Don’t make me barf.”

  We threw our backpacks into the back seat of Mira’s vintage orange Volkswagen Beetle. It was some European model her father had driven back in the day, with silver sections over the tires. The wheels even had matching orange rims. We climbed in, slamming the doors shut behind us.

  “Come on, Jefferson,” Mira said to the car as she turned the key and pumped the accelerator. Mira’s license plate started with JCB so we’d named the bug Jefferson Christopher Beetle. “Fire that engine up, baby.” The car rumbled to a start. Mira ground the clutch and we jerked our way into the line of cars to exit. Mira was a bit stick-shift challenged, even though Jefferson was the only car she’d ever driven.

  Neither of us lived far from the school and it was only a few minutes later that she was dropping me off at my house. “Be a good girl and get all your chores done so your Mom’s not p.o.’d, okay?” she called as I climbed out of the car.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I’ll pick you up at four-thirty to go to the game.”

  “IVY! HAVE YOU practiced yet?”

  I ignored the yelling from downstairs and flipped the page of the People magazine.

  “Ivy.” I jumped as my mom suddenly appeared in the doorway to my room. I hadn’t heard her come up the stairs. She could be sneaky like that. “I asked you if you’d practiced yet?” Her dark, shoulder-length hair was just beginning to show streaks of gray.

  “I practiced this morning, Ma. Before breakfast.” I flipped another page and eyed the spread of gowns for some award show, wishing she would go away. But I knew better.

  “You practiced your violin this morning. I’m asking about the piano.” Her voice was firm, with just a hint of an accent. Nineteen years in America was not long enough to erase the threads of Vietnamese that clung to her English. “You’ve got an orchestra concert in a few weeks and Mr. Flynn wants you to play the showcase piano piece. You need to practice so you don’t embarrass yourself. Plus, it will look good on your application when you apply to medical school.” She moved down the hall. “And it wouldn’t hurt to practice your violin again too. Is your math done?”

  My mother’s voice faded and I slapped the magazine down on my legs. What my mother really meant was ‘don’t embarrass your parents.’ Practice piano, practice violin, AP classes, homework, excel, excel, excel. My parents were unrelenting in their efforts to give me a better life and more opportunities than they’d had. My uncle was a well-known surgeon in New York and they’d decided in pursuit of their American dream that both my brother and I would follow in his footsteps. What I wished I could tell them was that in the process, however, they would probably kill me.

  I stared at the poster of The Eiffel Tower that hung on the wall across from my bed. Mira and I had cut out a picture of Jefferson and taped it to the poster. Paris. Some days I wanted to ride a vapor trail there. Away from the pressure to be me—future Dr. Ly.

  I returned to my magazine and eyed a picture of Nicole Kidman and her husband, Keith Urban, posing at some gala. Sleek and beautiful. My gaze shifted over to the shimmery pale lavender gown that hung from my closet door. My dress for the dance tonight. It would have been fun if I’d been asked to my last Homecoming dance, but I hadn’t so I was going with Mira and two other girlfriends. In four years of high school I still hadn’t had a real boyfriend. Not that I had time for one. Not that I’d met anyone who I wanted to be my boyfriend. Not that my mother would let me have a boyfriend. But still.

  And Brandon Chang didn’t count. Maybe he was super cute and had a 4.0 GPA to match mine, but I’d known him since fourth grade. He was like the male version of me. I swear he’d been in every orchestra, advanced placement math and science class I’d ever taken. We even got our braces off on the same day.

  It didn’t matter that he used to like me. He got the same pressure at home to excel that I did. Nothing good could come of a relationship where both parties were neurotic over-achievers. Besides, he was going out with Jenny McNamara now. And I was counting the minutes until I could escape to college.

  Mira hadn’t had a real boyfriend either. But that didn’t stop her from crushing over them constantly. Though she’d been hung up on Kellen Peterson
for a record-breaking amount of time, I wasn’t convinced Q the Fabulous even knew she was alive.

  “Ivy!”

  With a groan, I slid off my bed and headed down the stairs. The truth was, I didn’t mind the music practice. It was all the nagging that went with it that bothered me. The invitation to play the showcase piece for our symphony concert was quite an honor. It made me nervous and excited at the same time to think of performing the complicated music for others to hear.

  As I sat down at the piano my father poked his head into the room. “Be a good daughter and do as your mother asks, Ivy.” He softened his words with a smile. “Besides, I always enjoy listening to you play.”

  “I know, Pop.” I smiled at him as I ran my fingers over the keys, enjoying the ripple of notes that flowed like a river of music. I loved the piano. That was my dream. To make music my career. I’d said something like that to my mom once. Her response? ‘Ivy, music is entertaining but medicine is a higher calling. You study music now to better comprehend medical school later.’ It didn’t do any good to talk to my father because he always went along with my mother. I’d never brought it up again.

  I lost track of time as I played, concentrating on an intricate passage until my fingers knew the notes better than my brain. The music soared through the room and filled me. It was more than an hour later when I stopped.

  “Was that an hour?” My mother called from the other end of the house where she was cooking chicken curry with coconut milk. The aroma made my mouth water.

  “I have to get ready to go, Ma,” I yelled back. “Mira’s picking me up at four-thirty. It’s the game and dance tonight, remember?” I took the stairs two at a time, trying to escape before she brandished a spoon at me to make me practice longer.

  I pulled on a maroon scooped-neck t-shirt over my white lace cami and ran a brush through my long dark hair. I scrubbed my teeth and checked for anything green that might be stuck between them. It still surprised me how perfect and straight they were, even though I’d had my braces off for almost two years. The same old Ivy stared back at me: Large brown eyes, a tiny nose, surprisingly high cheekbones, a good jaw. It would have to do. Some things practice couldn’t improve.