Bone Dance by Martha Brooks

so alive. She’s worried that it will sprout feet and walk.
    Drenched in sweat, she woke up and reeled off the bed. Staggered to her dresser. Pulled off her nightshirt and hauled on another one. In bed again, she fell back into a stunned sleep.
    In the morning, she contemplated how her dreams fell into two categories. There were the ordinary dreams, like the usual kind people have every night. And then there were what she’d begun to think of as the big, scary dreams. The drum dream was another of those. Lying in the middle of her bed, in the June sunlight, she still felt its overwhelming spell.
    She shivered every time she thought about it, allday, at her weekend job at Cuppa Java, where she foamed milk and emptied tiny containers of coffee grounds and made an endless procession of lattes and mochas and cappuccinos and vegetarian sandwiches. She thought about it, and goose bumps did a slow loose-minded dance up and down her arms.
    Back in her room at night, as she lit a candle, the phone rang. It was Peter. He had something to give her. Could he come over?
    Twenty minutes later, he appeared at her back door with a huge unrolled poster of Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon as they appeared, on their road trip, in
Thelma & Louise.
    â€œYou’re Thelma,” he said, rolling it up, handing it to her. “I’ve always thought you look sort of like Geena Davis. The red highlights in your hair. The eyes. The bones. This is your graduation gift. It’s all I could afford.”
    â€œPeter, I didn’t buy you anything.”
    He pulled her against him. Kissed the top of her head. She wanted to tell him how she felt about him. How complicated that was. Maybe he knew already. His arms trembled.
    And then he whispered, “You’re a wonderful person, Alex. You know that, don’t you? You are a queen. A goddess.” He held her at arm’s length, grinning at her as if she were just too good to be true.
    Something caught her eye past his shoulder. She looked out to his car by the curb. The door was open. Some blond guy with bare arms sat, legs stretched outthe passenger’s side, cigarette in his long fingers. He squinted at them through a trail of smoke, then smiled a beautiful smile. The evening was calm and humid. The cedars in the front yard were heavy with earthy perfume.
    She smiled brightly at Peter, didn’t know what to say or where to look. And then she did look at him, and he looked back, clear-eyed and solemn, waiting.
    Finally she told him, simply, “I hope you have a good time.”
    He walked away, stopped, turned around. He gave a slow smile and then, right in the middle of the sidewalk, did an ironic little dance all for her.
    Later, around one in the morning, still awake, in the dark, staring at the ceiling, she thought about the stunning truth of Peter’s life. And then her mother’s familiar soft rap came at the door.
    â€œI figured you’d still be up,” she said, coming into the room.
    Alex rolled over, struck a match, and lit the candle again. She patted the side of her bed for Mom to sit down. Her mother’s hair was pulled back with a brilliant yellow silk-wrapped elastic band. She sat down cross-legged on the bed. Her satiny knees poked out from under bold-striped cotton pajamas. She smelled faintly of L’Air du Temps perfume, which she put on every morning even if she only went across the hall to the little bedroom that Grandpa had transformed for her into an office space. Alex rememberedhis ten-year-old Chevy truck, full of lumber, parked under the cedar trees, the plate on the front that said
I’m Spending My Kids’ Inheritance.
    â€œI want to talk to you about something,” said Mom.
    â€œSure.” Alex’s heart rose high and achy in her throat.
    â€œI want to offer you my car for the week,” Mom began, “to go out to your father’s. To Earl’s.”
    â€œYou’re offering me your car? For a