The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [187]
Studs stood, posing and watching with a smirk of superiority on his face. He liked to see them pass, see their faces. The youngest Bleu kid, dark, tall—hell, almost six feet—went dancing by, his nose up in the air as if it were severed from his face; he kept glancing all about him as he danced, looking, Studs guessed, for everyone to notice him. The kid he had only came up to his shoulder, and she looked damn young. Christ, he’d be robbing the cradle here. Weary winked as he went by, crudely socking it into a plump girl.
A fake collegian, one of these guys who bought college boy suits on the installment plan, danced by like a whirlwind. Noel Morton followed, turning in a speedy succession of circles, his coat tails flying behind him as if they were affected by strong winds. The jazz was fast and full of sex. Studs’ blood thumped. His feet worked. He turned, and saw a kid, she couldn’t have been a day over sixteen, making eyes at him. An awfully sweet-looking kid, with large black eyes. It was pretty just to look at her, her body half-formed, thin, so touched with energy. She smiled as he took a step towards her. They walked to the floor. She clung close followed every step with lightness, and it would have seemed as if he were dancing with himself, if she had not held herself so tight against him. She chattered steadily, telling him about a movie she had seen. Then she said that her name was Nellie, and explained that it was her first time up here. She described a crazy woman with an accent who taught her history at Park High, and talked all the time about ouija boards, so funny. When they drew into a corner, she heated him up with a twisting little wiggle. It made him feel like a bastard. Christ, she was younger than Loretta, and seemed so damn innocent. A kid coming into it all. He tried to draw away from her, but she squeezed more tightly, and her breath came down hot on his cheek. He looked down at her, and her responding smile was tight and forced, almost painful. He felt like a bastard, but he couldn’t control himself, and they danced sidewise, socking and shimmying the whole length of the floor. At the end of the dance, she was limp and perspiring. She said she was going to hold the eleventh dance open for him.
He bumped into Weary again, and Reilley asked him to come on back to the crap game. Weary stopped to talk to some guy a minute and Studs waited. They walked back. The music began and dancers passed them. Weary suddenly stopped, frowned.
“Why, that sonofabitch!” he said, standing with hands on hips. Studs saw June Reilley, dancing with a slim fellow, who was about two inches taller than Weary. She seemed to see her brother, and a look of fright came swiftly on her pretty dark face. She seemed just like the kid he’d danced with. It made him wonder, was something happening to girls with this jazz age. Weary motioned for June to come to him. She said something to her partner, and they danced over towards Weary and Studs.
“What are you doing here?”
“Why... Why, I was dancing. There’s nothing wrong with my dancing... You come here and dance, don’t you?”
“Nobody told you you could. You go on home, and do it quick. If you ever come back here, I’ll slap your little face. You’ve got no right here. Hear me!”
A great big baby tear rolled down her cheek.
“Go on!”
“I won’t. You have no right to make me, or tell me what to do. You’re not my boss and I don’t have to do what you tell me to. I won’t go.”
A crowd gathered. Her tall dancing partner edged out of sight. June broke into uncontrollable tears.
“I’ll tell you once more to leave or get dragged out of here!”
“I won’t,” she said, sweet and cute, as she cried and stamped her right foot.