Sweet As A Honey Bee
Sketch Labinski sat on the wooden floor, leaning his aching back against the living room's brick fireplace. He rested his head on his shoulder, watching Janetta dance out of the corner of his eye. Her skirt twirled around in the air, making little ruffles throughout the fabric. Janetta was in the corner of the room, teaching Link how to move his hips around so that he didn't look like he was having a seizure. Seaweed and Penny were off somewhere doing God knows what, and Tracy was talking to IQ, saying something about the Russians.
Janetta smiled patiently at Link's lack of rhythm, waiting until he was done shaking his stuff to show him how it was done. And although it was amusing to watch Link make a fool out of himself, Sketch was only watching her. The record playing in the corner skipped, but everyone kept dancing, pretending as though it never happened. Sketch didn't bother with getting up and fixing it; he laid across the floor lazily, listening to Patsy Cline singing "Wonderin', what in the world did I do?" over and over and over again.
He was reminded of how his parents used to dance around the house, stepping all over each others feet and giggling the pain away. They'd usually drink a glass of wine or two before, so they laughed louder and for longer than necessary. Still, Sketch loved watching them dance. He thought it was probably because they didn't try to be good; they just danced. Moved to the music. It was before Sally, his little sister, was born. After she came along, they didn't dance as much. Too busy taking care of the baby, and Sketch's father had to get a better job to support the family. That meant spending more time away, and less time with his family. Less time dancing.
It was in the summertime, when his parents died. Sketch and Sally were staying at their grandmother's house at Peyton Place, and his mother and father were driving out to visit their friends in Bethesda. They didn't make it. He didn't like to think about it too much.
"Hey, Sketch," Link panted, wiping sweat from his brow. His feet were still moving, but with less gusto than the others. IQ, who was standing under the doorway, rolled his eyes at his friend; he crossed his arms and continued his conversation with Tracy. "You wanna take over? Janetta's killing me."
"You just can't handle my moves," Janetta slid across the floor James Brown-style, and Sketch smiled. Normally, he would jump at the chance to dance with someone. But Janetta...she was different. He didn't know if he could even touch her without making a fool of himself.
Link collapsed down onto Sketch's grandmother's armchair, sighing heavily. "I...need...something to drink."
"I'll get you some water if you want," Sketch said, pushing off the wall and standing. Link smiled and nodded in appreciation.
"Thanks, man," Link said. Sketch brushed past IQ and disappeared into the kitchen, walking over to the sink. His grandmother hung a picture of his parents above the sink, and as he filled Link's glass with water, he looked back at their smiling faces. He missed them, but looking at their photographs didn't hurt as much as it used to.
"Hi," Janetta entered the kitchen, gliding over to him. She stepped in time with the song playing on the radio (someone had fixed it, apparently, and it was playing a Four Tops song. Sketch guessed that Seaweed had brought it over, because his grandma only had country music). "I didn't know you lived on Peyton Place."
"Yeah," he said. "It's something I don't really advertise."
"You don't have to be ashamed of it," Janetta was still swaying her hips around to the beat. "Just not a lot of white people around here, that's all."
Sketch shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, I guess." Link's glass of water sat on the edge of the counter, forgotten. She finally stopped moving around, and was now leaning against a pantry. He wiped his hands against the rough material of his jeans. Being around her made him happy and frustrated all at the same time. He really cared about her, and he had these feelings that just wouldn't go away. The thing was, these feelings he was having weren't supposed to be there. He wasn't brave like Seaweed; he didn't think he could handle the stares if they got together. If they got together. It was killing him to be around her; he just wanted to hold her, touch her soft skin, kiss her. But he couldn't, and because of that, he felt empty.
He liked her skin the most. It was this real rich color; not quite like chocolate, but more like cinnamon. She probably used cream to keep her skin so soft, but Sketch liked to think it was naturally that way. He watched as she tucked a piece of hair behind her shoulder, revealing her neck. Sketch couldn't help but imagine kissing that little patch of skin, and he felt himself blush.
"We should probably get back."