It's a dare, extending the hand of candor, of frank disputation. But if I take it, things
will escalate.
“I’ve already extended the hand of friendship," Rush says, waggling his naked fingers.
"We can start being friends right now.”
What is the point, I ask myself, of majoring in philosophy, of studying the art of
rhetoric and its brilliant dissection by the founders of the Western intellectual tradition, if I am
flummoxed by a schoolboy sophist?
“One dance.”
I hear her words and turn to look at my 'date,' my high school girlfriend, as she carves a
path for herself among the Ivies.
Her face is reddened, determined. I have seen this look. Among the possible next
moves are burst into tears or bite your head off. Or a return to civility if you just do exactly
what she wants. She speaks these words to Rush, not to me.
“One dance,” she repeats, letting him know that she is not intimidated by guys who like
to play head games, however important their families are. “And no bullshit.”
These few words perfectly sum up her conflict resolution proposal. You get what you
say you want, but no more games. It's brilliant. I should be content, but in fact, I'm screaming
inside.
It doesn’t help that Rush grins at me, letting me know that by his rules he's won the
point, th en turns to Penny and says, “Call me Joe.”
Penny steps between us, forcing me to look at her and murmurs, “It’s just a dance, Jon.
Don’t make such a big deal out of it.”
The band is back at it, covering her words with their noise.
32
Made with FlippingBook Digital Publishing Software