by Nicola Yoon
Another week passes, and the visions accumulate and wash over me. I’m not sure how to feel. Mostly I feel every emotion. Shock that this impossible thing is happening to me. Guilt at invading people’s privacy. Fascination at seeing their private lives. Sadness at seeing their relationships end.
And that’s the thing all the relationships have in common.
They all end.
The girl who saw the movie three times? She got bored with her boyfriend after a few weeks and started going to a different theater.
The boy who pretended not to understand football? His homophobic family moved him away to prevent him from being with the boy he loved.
What I’ve learned over the last three weeks is that all my old romance novels ended too quickly. Chapters were missing from the end. If they told the real story—the entire story—each couple would’ve eventually broken up, due to neglect or boredom or betrayal or distance or death.
Given enough time, all love stories turn into heartbreak stories.
Heartbreak = love + time.
CHAPTER 12
Lesson Learning
“I’M THINKING ABOUT getting breast implants,” Cassidy says, apropos of nothing. “What do you guys think?”
It’s the first Sunday of spring break, and Cassidy, Martin, Sophie, and I are where we usually are on Sunday mornings: Surf City Waffle. The story is that when it came time to name this place, the owner’s six-year-old drew a picture of a giant waffle surfing on a sea of blueberry syrup. The facts that we’re not in Surf City (officially Huntington Beach or Santa Cruz, depending on who you ask) and are ten miles away from the beach and that waffles don’t surf matters not at all. The waffles are delicious.
“But why?” I ask her, even though I know she has no intention of getting implants. Cassidy is prone to sudden, fleeting obsessions. Like the time she was going to get an enormous Valkyrie tattooed across her back, or the time she wanted to become a professional trapeze artist.
She shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I just think they could be bigger.” She tucks in her chin and peers down at her breasts. “Do you think everyone will be able to tell?”
“Don’t do it,” Sophie says. “They’re great the way they are.” I’m pretty sure she blushes as she says it.
“I’ll definitely be able to tell,” Martin says as if he’s a breast expert.
“Oh, please,” Cassidy says, laughing. “You wouldn’t know a real breast if it hit you in the face.”
He scowls, but not in a serious way. Unless he’s been keeping secrets from us all, Martin’s never seen or touched a pair of breasts in his eighteen years on the planet. “One day my ship will come in,” he says.
“Will your ship be shaped like breasts?” I ask.
“I don’t think breasts are seaworthy,” says Sophie.
“Well, they definitely float,” Cassidy says, doing a weird bobbing thing with her own breasts that only Cassidy would do.
Sophie laughs at Cassidy’s antics, covering her mouth with her hands the way she always does when she thinks she’s laughing too hard.
Cassidy waits for her to stop laughing and then immediately does the bobbing move again.
Sophie laughs even harder this time. Finally, she takes her hands from her face. “Stop making me laugh,” she says, breathless.
“Not my fault you think I’m so funny,” Cassidy says.
“But you are so funny,” Sophie says. The way she says it is almost shy.
I look back and forth between them. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were flirting.
Martin, Sophie, Cassidy and I don’t have an epic origin story. From the outside looking in, I guess we seem kind of unlikely, if you judge friendships on race alone. Cassidy is white, with incredibly wealthy and neglectful producer parents. Sophie is mixed, Black French mom and Korean American dad, both scientists. Martin I’ve already described. His dad died when he was a baby.
The four of us have been friends since sixth grade, when a scheduling fluke put us—and only us—into the same study period. We started out in the four corners of the room but eventually met in the middle, killing time by trading jokes and gossip. We’ve been friends ever since.
“Let’s talk about the route,” Martin says, trying to bring us all back to the task at hand, which is planning our epic post-graduation cross-country road trip.
He pushes our plates aside and spreads out a laminated map of the United States.
“You really are from the Stone Age,” I say, teasing him for having an actual paper map.
He ignores my teasing. “I think we should stick to a northerly route,” he says.
I nod. The boy withers in temperatures above eighty degrees. Sophie says something about wanting to see some kind of biosphere in Arizona. Cassidy wants to see the kitschy stuff, giant balls of twine and all that. Martin only cares about the houses of famous dead authors like Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe. I have a list of places I want to visit too: Bryce Canyon National Park, which looks like another planet in photos, and a couple of the dark-sky parks in Utah and Ohio. I have this vision of open skies and stars and freedom.
I stare out the window as they plan. Ordinarily, I’d be paying attention. I’ve wanted to take this trip since freshman year. It’s hard to believe it’s only a few months away now.
But I’m not paying attention. All I can think about is the visions and how my trip to La Brea Dance a week ago was a total dead end.
“You’re not listening even a little bit, are you?” Martin says, nudging me with his shoulder.
I look up and give him a small smile. “Sorry,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” asks Sophie.
Before I can answer, Cassidy interrupts. “Since when does your sister wear tennis skirts?” she asks, staring toward the door.
“Since never,” I say, turning to look. Sure enough, Danica’s here, outfitted in full tennis gear. White bandana, white T-shirt, white pleated skirt, white tennis shoes. She would look ridiculous if she didn’t look so fabulous. Her new boyfriend, whose name I can’t remember for the life of me—it’s something active, to do with sports or hunting—is dressed exactly the same way, except for shorts instead of a skirt.
Martin sinks low into the booth. He stabs my leftover waffle with his fork and moves it to his own plate.
“Who is that guy, anyway?” he asks.
“Archer,” says Sophie. Sophie always knows everyone’s name.
I’m suddenly frustrated with Martin. When’s he going to give up on Danica? It’s not like love is worth all the pain.
“Can we just go back to planning?” I ask, louder than I mean to.
Sophie and Cassidy exchange a look.
Martin slumps down farther into the booth.
“What’s going on with you, Eves?” Sophie asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Just tell us what’s wrong,” says Cassidy.
I don’t know where to start. I definitely don’t want to have to explain the visions to Sophie and Cassidy. First I’d have to prove to them that they’re real, and then I’d have to explain why I haven’t told them since the beginning.
“Really, I’m okay,” I say, and give them a big smile. “Sorry I’m being such a downer.”
I look down at the map and give it (and our plans) my full attention.
After about an hour of planning, Sophie and Cassidy take off. Cassidy has to go to a “sucky fundraiser in Beverly Hills” with her parents, and Sophie is judging a second-grade science fair at the California Science Center.
“Sorry I snapped at you,” I say to Martin once they’re gone. I tell him that going to La Brea Dance didn’t help. “I don’t know what else to do. How do I get the visions to stop?”
He pours both strawberry and blueberry syrup onto his
waffle before answering. “Remember that movie I told you about, Big? He doesn’t get to change back into a little kid until he’s learned his lesson,” he says. “All those movies are like that. You’re supposed to learn something.”
“Okay, but those movies are fiction. This is my real life.”
“I know,” he says. He’s quiet for a while and then says: “I think you should go back to the dance studio.”
“But why?”
“There’s a reason their address was in that book. Try again. Go with the flow. You don’t have anything to lose.”
I make a sound between a sigh and a groan. He’s right, of course. I have to go back. I don’t really have any other options.
“Maybe you’re supposed to learn to dance,” he says once we’re outside on the sidewalk.
I unlock my bike. “That makes no sense at all,” I say.
“I know, but I’m sure I’m right about this,” he says. And then, because he’s actually an old man, he bursts into “Dancing Queen” by Abba. “You are the dancing queen. Young and sweet. Only seventeen.”
He laugh-sings three more verses before I finally, finally get him to be quiet.
CHAPTER 13
Dancing with the Flow
“OH, IT’S YOU, girl without dance partner,” firecracker woman says when I get to La Brea Dance after school the next day. “Nice to see you.”
“Hi, it’s nice to see you too,” I say. “I’m Evie,” I add, even though I told her the last time I was here. I’m hoping she’ll use my actual name and not forever refer to me as “girl without dance partner.”
She nods, and there’s a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth that makes me think she knows exactly how outrageous she is.
“Did not think I would see you again,” she says.
I don’t confess that I didn’t think I’d see her again either. “I was hoping to sign up for a trial lesson.”
“Wonderful. Which one?” she asks, looking down at her computer. “I pull up schedule.”
“What’s the easiest one you have? I’ve never done this before.”
She looks up and peers through the window at me. “Oh, you are nervous, I can hear.”
“Maybe a little bit,” I admit.
She springs up from her chair. “No, no, not to worry. Not everybody can dance good, but everybody can dance.” She leans closer to the sill. “You have time now?”
I start to say no and that I only dropped by to sign up, not to actually get started, but I stop myself. Yesterday Martin told me I needed to go with the flow.
“Sure, I have time,” I say.
She enters my info in the computer and then takes the bell out of her desk drawer and puts it on the sill. “I hate you,” she says to it.
I laugh and she does too. She leaves the office and waves for me to follow her. “Lucky for you, my Intro to Bachata class starts now. Not to worry. Is easy dance, and this is beginner class.”
She takes off down the hallway. Her outfit today is a deeply purple, mid-thigh-length asymmetrical dress with gold shoes that are at least three inches high. I don’t know how she walks in them, much less dances.
When we get to the studio, I’m disappointed to see only a few people. I was hoping I’d be able to hide away in the back.
She claps to get everyone’s attention. “Hello, everyone. I am Fifi and I am instructor.”
She pauses, arms akimbo, expecting us to respond to her greeting. “Hi, Fifi,” we say, as if we’re all in some sort of dance recovery program.
“Today, I will introduce you to bachata. At beginning you will not be good. Some of you will be like clumsy newborn baby octopus, but by the end you will be better. You will see, I am fabulous instructor.”
She makes us form a single line in front of the mirrors. “Now I teach you basics. First I show steps for leader, and then I show for follower.” She places her left hand against her stomach, raises her right hand into the air and snaps her fingers to keep time. “Is simple,” she says, swaying her hips while taking two small steps to the right. “One, two, three, pop.” On the pop, she juts her left hip out dramatically and then repeats the movement going to the left. “One, two, three, pop.”
Her movements are precise but somehow still fluid and sexy. She repeats the step two more times before telling us it’s our turn. Since there’s no music, the only sounds are her voice and the shuffle and tap of our feet against hardwood. There’s something relaxing and even a little comforting about the way we’re all moving and breathing together.
After a while she moves us on from side basic to forward basic, which is the same step, only forward and backward. Like she promised, the steps aren’t hard, and she’s satisfied that we know what we’re doing pretty quickly.
“Okay, now you know basic step, but real dance is in the hips. Watch me.” This time when she does the basic side step, her hips do a figure-eight pattern that completely changes the feel of the dance. It’s sexier, more dramatic. “Some people call this Cuban motion. You see it in dances like merengue and salsa. I call it infinity hips.” She demonstrates a few more times before it’s our turn again.
Infinity hips, it turns out, is very hard to do. It’s not long before we’re all laughing and giggling at how very finite our own hips are. I see very few figure eights, more like deformed circles or wobbly lines.
She sighs a dramatic sigh and tells us to stop. “Not to worry. Always starts like this.” She tells the couples to partner up and then beckons me over. “Now I demonstrate how to hold each other.” She adjusts me into “open position” and leads us all through the basic steps again.
The lesson is so much fun, I barely notice the hour go by. I forget about the visions. Instead, I concentrate on listening to the music and moving my body to it. Fifi is funny and encouraging and firm. She knows exactly how to break the steps down in a way that makes sense to each person.
For the last dance, she chooses a song with a faster tempo, dims the lights and tells us to pretend we’re in a club. She partners with me and we all dance together. It’s hilarious and messy, but—like she said we would—we’ve come a long way since the beginning of class.
The song ends. Everyone’s breathing hard but smiling, obviously happy and energized.
Fifi turns the lights back up. “Okay, I see you next week. Make sure to practice so not forget. I do not want to teach basic step again.”
I hang back as people filter out, even though I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. A sign of what to do next, I guess.
“I can see you enjoyed very much, yes?” she asks when it’s just the two of us.
“You’re a great instructor,” I tell her, still breathless.
“Yes, I know,” she says with a smile. “You are good student, very natural. Still need to work on hips, but you have good head for steps and excellent timing in body.”
I smile even wider. I’m surprised by how much I like her compliment. I had way more fun than I expected to. I can also feel that ballroom might be one of those things where it’s easy enough to learn the basics but much harder to get all the subtleties of movement.
She looks me up and down, contemplating something. “I have proposition for you,” she says. “There is competition they have every year. LA Danceball, is called.”
She tells me all about it. LA Danceball is one of the largest ballroom dance competitions for professional and amateur dancers in Southern California. They have lots of different age group and proficiency categories. Her proposition is that I enter the Amateur Under 21 category on behalf of the studio.
“Are you kidding?” I ask. “That was the first ballroom dance lesson I’ve ever taken.”
She waves me off. “Is amateur category. And like I say, you have potential.”
I shake my head. “Why do you even want me to enter?”
“If y
ou win, studio gets free advertising, and maybe we get some more clients.” A worried frown flashes across her face. I get the feeling the studio not only wants more clients, it needs them.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Come, come. There is reason you walk in here in first place, no?”
She’s right, of course. There is a reason I walked in here in the first place. Is this what I’m supposed to do? Enter a ballroom dance competition? Martin is in my head again, insisting that I go with the flow.
“But, Fifi, I don’t even have a partner,” I say.
“Not to worry,” she says. “I have perfect someone.”
CHAPTER 14
Dance Number One
THE PERFECT SOMEONE isn’t there when I show up at the studio after school the next day, but the owners—Archibald and Maggie—are.
“You must be Evie,” Maggie says as soon as I walk in.
“That’s me,” I say, giving them a small wave.
I forgot how striking they are. He’s wearing a gray tux. She’s wearing a glittering fuchsia gown and bright makeup. Unlike last time, her locs aren’t pinned up. They cascade around her shoulders.
“Fifi didn’t bully you into doing this, did she, dear?” Archibald asks.
“I am not bully,” Fifi protests.
“Did she guilt you?” Maggie asks.
“No bullying or guilting,” I say. Maybe my suspicion from yesterday is right. The studio does need money. “I just thought this would be fun.” And it’s true that I think it could be fun, but that’s not why I’m doing it.
“Well, that’s wonderful, dear,” says Maggie. “I want you to know there is no pressure for you to win.”
“There is itsy-bitsy little bit of pressure,” Fifi interjects. There eez eeetsy-beetsy leetle beet of pressure.