Best Kept Secret by Debra Moffitt Read Free Book Online Page A

only true sign. If I saw Forrest right now, I’d probably barf up this red sparkle punch.”
    â€œThat would be attractive,” Bet said. “Then would you be a barf-flower?”
    We laughed so hard I had to set down my drink, and we dropped into two folding chairs. When I looked up, I saw Kate and Brett two tables away. They were wearing matching checked shirts, and Kate had her hair in pigtails. Kate waved and yelled, “Come over here!” I nodded, but I didn’t want to head over there anytime soon. Couples. They were everywhere.
    Over at the stage, some background commotion was interrupting the song (a good one, this time).
    â€œCheck, check.”
    It was Forrest at the microphone, guitar slung across his shoulder. Behind him someone was banging the drums, taking a test run. Piper was over to the side, wearing a perfect Backward Dance outfit. Her skirt appeared to be suede; her plaid shirt had short puffy sleeves and tied in a knot at belly-button level.
    Next, Mr. Ford was at the microphone.
    â€œIf we could have some quiet, quiet … QUI-ET!”
    The crowd started to hush and the DJ turned off the music. Mr. Ford looked oddly anxious at the mic. Weren’t we the same people he stood in front of every day, just today he was introducing a band instead of introducing some geometric concept?
    â€œThank you. Welcome, all, to the Backward Dance. It promises to be a … a night everyone will remember.”
    Mr. Ford trailed off and seemed to have forgotten what he was about to say. As he paused, he patted his pockets like he was looking for something. Then he scanned the crowd, looking for someone. He stroked his graying beard as he squinted over our heads.
    â€œJane? Er … Ms. Russo, are you out there somewhere?”
    Bet and I looked at each other as if to say, What the heck is going on here? Ms. Russo was here, I’d seen her earlier. Bet had an appointment with her to do an on-the-scene interview about the Backward Dance. Sad as I still was about Forrest, I was having a good time and glad I didn’t need a boy to be at the dance. I thought about how I’d feel if I had been home right then. I would have definitely felt much, much worse.
    â€œWell,” Mr. Ford continued, clearing his throat. “I’m pleased to introduce our student band for this evening. And I think they’re really on to something with their name. Here they are … Pythagorean Theorem!”
    With that, a spotlight shined on Forrest’s face as he started a kind of yelly singing into the microphone. Though I couldn’t hear the words exactly, the music behind them was not bad. There was Jimmy “Penguin” Carroway on guitar, J. D. Danner on drums, and Tyler Lima on keyboard. Luke Zubin was doing some kind of sound effects (there were bells on his sneakers) and playing an overturned plastic bucket, bongo style.
    I won’t lie. Pythagorean Theorem was a little rough in spots, but there was a song in there, maybe even one I recognized. And Forrest looked just as red-hot as ever, even more so with a guitar in his hand and brown hair falling over his eyes, which were closed as he sang some of the lyrics. I wondered if he was being intense or just straining to remember the words. I felt myself drifting toward some kind of waterfall. To save myself from this plunge, I forced my brain to think of bad things about Forrest. This was kind of like when you’re trying not to laugh and people say “dead puppies.” But the only bad thing I could come up with was that he smelled like wet dog that one day in the car.
    At first, the crowd was really behind Pythagorean Theorem. There was a lot of woo-hooing, especially when Forrest paused to introduce the band members. But the crowd grew restless after the band played a song Forrest said they wrote themselves. I scanned the stage area for Piper, and she still was just offstage, dancing like one of those