fiction (v): the life and loves of a homeschooled girl

“The Kellar’s are hosting an English country dance behind their barn in two weeks,” said Mom one day in late October when I was 17. “How would you girls like to go?”

"Really?" Jen asked.

"You and Dad are okay with it?"

Sure, my parents had allowed us to learn English country dancing in P.E. But they had always kept a careful eye on the proceedings to make sure it was solely aerobic fun and no romance.

Mom smiled. "We think you girls are old enough to behave appropriately. And it will be with like-minded families."

“Who all’s going?” Jen asked.

“The whole homeschool group is invited. I know the Walker girls are going and the Sparks and the Bakers—”

“And Michael?” The words burst out before I could check myself. My face flushed.

“I think Mrs. Anderson said he wasn’t working that weekend, so I would think so.”

Michael had graduated that summer. Immediately he had started community college summer classes and an internship with one of the men at his church. Jen and I hadn’t seen much of him since graduation day five months ago.

I could feel the adrenaline starting in my toes and spreading upwards. I felt inexplicably giddy.

I looked at Jen. She smiled.

“Yes, we want to go!” we said.

I ran outside and spun around and around in our small suburban backyard. I would have run to the moon and back if I could have. I would have shouted and laughed out loud, but I was afraid someone would hear me and get suspicious. I was going to a English country dance, and the whole evening Michael would be there!

“Aren’t you just a little too excited?” came a voice inside me.

“This is Michael, we’re talking about,” I replied, all my emotions pouring into the thought.

For the five months of summer and early fall, I had been living on old memories. Memories of the wave of his hair, the Greek god-like profile, the firm jaw, the rare words exchanged. But for five years or more I had been living on make-believe memories. Of him smiling down at me. Of him standing close to me and tingles running up and down my spine. Of him choosing to come sit with me on the park bench while I watched the others play. Of him running up to me as I walked down a country road, of him peering into my face, seeming truly interested in what I was thinking, and maybe, when I was very much losing the battle of guarding my heart, I imagined him reaching out and—

But this was real. I was really going to a country dance and Michael would really be there.

I was 17. He was 18. We weren’t children anymore. Things (like courtship and marriage) could happen.

“What if Michael doesn’t show up?” came the voice inside. “Will you still be able to enjoy yourself?”

I stopped and chewed the inside of my lip. Enjoying the dance without Michael would be hard. I would be disappointed. I really didn’t know if I could enjoy myself if Michael wasn’t there. He was the reason why I wanted to go.

“Lord God, I pray that Michael comes. I really want him to come.”

Again, the tug-a-war of flesh and spirit.

“Lord, please help me enjoy the dance if he doesn’t.”

I pushed the thought aside and ran back into the house to work on math. The thought of math always sobered up any romantic thoughts.