by Nicola Yoon
“Fiona Karapova, don’t you dare—”
But before Maggie can start scolding Fifi, the studio door opens behind me.
“Ahh, here is partner now,” Fifi says.
I turn around. It’s the boy I met in studio five the first time I was here. Xavier. X.
“It’s you,” I say.
“It’s me,” he agrees.
“But why?” I ask.
“You mean that existentially or what?” He smirks and raises an eyebrow at me, displaying not one but two Classic Romance Guy Characteristics.
Maggie interrupts our staring contest. “You know each other?”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “Yvette, right?”
“He stole my bike,” I explain, stomping out the infinitesimal and completely uncalled-for spark of happiness I feel that he remembered my name.
“Borrowed it,” he clarifies.
“So he could break up with his girlfriend,” I explain some more.
“We were already broken up,” he clarifies some more.
“She bought a prom dress,” I remind him.
In my periphery, I see Archibald and Maggie watching us with mouths slightly open.
I know how this looks. It looks like we’re bantering, like sparks are flying between us like in witty, old romantic comedies. It looks like the start of something. But I promise you, there are no sparks. Nothing here is on fire.
Archibald chuckles. “Well, Evie, this is our grandson, Xavier.”
“It’s just X, Gramps,” X says. He gives Maggie a hug.
“Come,” Fifi says to X. “Stand next to girl so I can see you together.”
By “girl” she means me.
X walks his long legs over to me.
“We will have to do something about clothes,” Fifi says as she scrutinizes us both. “But they are good match height-wise,” she says to Archibald and Maggie. “And both very good-looking. Especially X,” she says, and waggles her eyebrows like some sort of demented cartoon character.
“Fiona, be a dear and don’t undress my grandchild with your eyes,” says Maggie.
“You prefer I should use my hands?” asks Fifi.
Archibald guffaws an actual guffaw.
X cough-laughs into his fist.
To be fair, Maggie kind of walked into that one.
After we’re done laughing, both Archibald and Maggie explain how the competition works. We’ll be competing for the Top Studio Amateur prize in the Nightclub Dance category. Nightclub is made up of five dances: bachata, salsa, West Coast swing, hustle and Argentine tango. Westside Dance Studio, their main competitor, wins the prize every year.
“But not this year,” Maggie says with a determined nod.
They—Archibald and Maggie—touch each other the entire time they’re explaining. A small hand squeeze here, a quick caress to the face there. You can practically see love bubbles floating out of their eyes when they look at each other.
After they’re done, they wish us luck and leave the studio, arms around each other’s waists, laughing about something.
Fifi waits for the door to close before turning to X. “Forty-three years your grandparents have been married, yes?”
“Sounds about right,” he says.
“You live with them. Tell me something: they are so lovey-dovey at home too?”
X nods and laughs. “Never seen anything like it either. They’re the real deal. My pops says they’ve been like that his whole life. They won the love lottery when they found each other.”
I make a note to myself to avoid seeing them kiss at all costs. I don’t want to know how it ends for them.
“Now,” Fifi says, “we get to work, but first we talk about clothes.” She points at X. “What is horrible thing you are wearing?” She looks at him like he’s a boil she wants to lance.
X looks down at himself. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
He’s wearing shorts and another ironic T-shirt (it reads Ironic T-shirt).
“You Americans and short pants. I do not understand it.”
He gives me a quick look that asks me to save him. I give him a look that says save yourself. “What’s wrong with shorts?” he asks quite reasonably.
“Where I come from, they are for children only. Not ballroom dancing. You do not wear again.”
Then she turns her attention my way and stabs me with her eyes. I’m wearing jeans and a formless Disneyland T-shirt. “I do not know what this hobo outfit is, but will not happen again,” she says.
She positions us so we’re facing the floor-length mirrors. “Today we start with bachata.”
X gives her his full attention. “We’re doing this thing without music?” he asks.
“With those outfits, you two do not deserve music,” she says.
I feel X grinning at me in the mirror, but I ignore him, admiring Fifi’s outfit of the day instead. Today’s asymmetrical skirt is pearl white and made from satin or silk or butter. Her stiltlike heels are scarlet. Her lipstick matches her heels.
Fifi nods at X. “I start with you,” she says. “Then I do your partner and then you dance together.”
“First you watch,” Fifi says to X. She snaps her fingers. “One-two-three-four.” Like she showed me before, she does the basic side-step, but without adding in the hip movement.
X is busy paying attention to Fifi, so I can finally let myself take a good look at him. Nothing much has changed since the last time I saw him. He’s still ridiculously hot, but now that he’s wearing shorts I know he has nice calves too. They’re wide and muscular, with just a modicum of hair. Who even knew that I liked calves?
“Now you try,” Fifi says to X, interrupting my calf musings.
His dreads are piled high again, and he rubs his hand over the back of his head. He takes a step, but with his right leg.
“No,” Fifi says. “You start with left. You are lead.”
“Shit. Sorry,” he says, and starts again.
While he practices, Fifi quizzes him about his life. He tells her about his band (X Machine) and about where he’s from (someplace called Lake Elizabeth in upstate New York).
I listen but try to make it look like I’m not listening. It involves a lot of nonchalant stretching.
He does the step a few more times before Fifi finally gives him a nod-sigh. “Good enough for now,” she says, and turns back to face the mirror. “Now I show you hips.” She throws me a look. “Your partner there is not so good at this part.”
She repeats the side step, but this time with the infinity hips.
As soon as X begins to copy her, I drop my eyes back to the hardwood floors. I do not need to see his infinity hips.
“Fine, fine,” Fifi says after a while. “Now you,” she says, pointing at me.
I practice while she watches. Twice she tells me that my hips are “like rusty spring.”
X cough-laughs after each insult. I glare in his general direction.
“Now you try together,” Fifi says finally.
My stomach does a (small, very small) flip at the thought of standing so close to him.
“We dance open frame,” Fifi says, positioning us so we’re facing each other. “If we ever make it to Argentine tango, we do closed frame.” She imbues the “if” with so much overwrought skepticism it sounds like eeeeeeef.
“Now face each other and hold hands at waist level,” she says.
X takes my hands in his.
I immediately take them back. His hands are giant blocks of ice.
“Holy crap,” I say. “Are you actually a corpse? Why are your hands freezing?”
“Shit, sorry!” he says. “I get cold when I’m nervous.” He breathes on his hands and then rubs them together like he’s trying to start a fire.
&nb
sp; He holds out his hands again and I take them. They’re not any less cold.
“Okay, now relax your shoulders. They do not belong next to ears,” says Fifi, pressing on X’s collarbone. “You have nice strong neck. Let the people see it.”
Who are these people clamoring to see his neck? I wonder.
She turns to me, and I adjust myself under her scrutiny. My stance is perfect. But I’m holding my body so far away from his, I’m practically in another room.
“What is matter with you?” she asks me. “Is his breath stinky?”
She turns to X. “Open your mouth and breathe for me,” she says.
“No way I’m doing that,” he says to her without taking his eyes off me. “My breath is just fine.”
I can’t decide if it’s basic self-respect or supreme arrogance to assert that your breath is not foul.
Fifi pokes my rib cage until I get closer to him. She adjusts us some more while explaining to X that he needs to be a strong lead.
Now that we’re standing so close, he seems even taller. Which is fine. At least I don’t have to look directly into his eyes. Instead, I look directly into his clavicle. It’s a good word. Clavicle.
Fifi jerks my chin up. “Look at him,” she says. “This is sexy dance, and sexy is in the eyes.”
I groan, but on the inside.
“Begin,” she says with a stomp of her heel.
X starts, but on the wrong foot. We go in opposite directions.
“Left foot!” says Fifi.
“Shit, sorry!” says X.
He gives me a rueful smile. A smile full of rue.
We start again with Fifi calling the count. Bachata is all about small steps, but X’s are too big.
Fifi corrects him, but then he overcompensates by making them too small.
He steps on my left foot four times in a row. He says “Shit, sorry” after each foot stomp. I decide it’s his favorite expression. It’s possible I should wear steel-toed boots to our next practice.
Fifi moves us on to the forward basic and then to turns.
“For spot turn, lead is very important,” she tells him. “You have to steer her a little bit. Let her know what you want her to do.”
The first time we try it, I end up in his armpit.
“Maybe steer a little less,” Fifi says, laughing. “She is not large construction vehicle.”
I end up in his armpit again.
We practice without the turn for the next twenty minutes until we’re both sloppy from tiredness.
“Okay, is enough for one day,” says Fifi. As soon as she says it, I drop X’s hands and put a few feet between us.
He frowns at me but turns to Fifi. “So you think we can win this thing?”
She scoffs. “What is expression about cart and horse?” she asks him.
“Don’t put the cart before the horse,” says X.
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “In this case, don’t bother with cart, because horse might be dead.”
X catches my eye and laughs so big and deep that I can’t help but laugh too.
“What is funny?” asks Fifi. “The only way to win is practice, practice, practice. I see you tomorrow. We work on other dances. Do not wear little hobo clothes again.”
With her gone, the studio feels small. It gets smaller with every second that passes.
“Okay, see you,” I say to X, and all but run to the closet to get my backpack.
He’s right behind me when I turn around.
“My guitar’s in there,” he says.
I move out of his way and then move myself out of the studio and into the hall closet to get my bike. I’m just starting down the stairs when I hear him behind me.
“So how’d you get roped into this?” he asks.
I can’t tell him the real truth, so I tell him the half version of it that I told Archibald and Maggie. “It sounds like fun,” I say.
“You still think that even though I’m your partner?”
I stop in the middle of the staircase and turn to look up at him. He’s three steps above me, so he’s even taller than normal. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Just got the feeling you hate me a little bit.”
I stumble and almost miss the final step into the outside world but manage to steady myself against my bike.
“Who said I hated you?” I say as soon as he’s out on the sidewalk. The sunlight is so bright, I have to squint against it to frown at him properly.
He notices my squinting and takes a couple of steps to the right to block the sun with his head.
Thoughtful. Now I can frown at him without squinting.
“Your entire body language says you hate me,” he says.
“Leave my body out of it. Look at my mouth instead.”
He focuses on my mouth.
Because I just told him to.
Some days I just shouldn’t speak.
I clear my throat. “What I’m saying is I don’t hate you.”
He holds on to his guitar straps with both hands. “Sure you do,” he says.
I swing onto my bike. “I’m not going to stand here arguing with you about how much I don’t hate you.”
“Okay, what do you want to argue with me about, then?”
“I— What?”
He gives me that enormous brain-cell-destroying grin, and I realize he’s just been teasing me this whole time.
“You’re right,” I say. “I do hate you.”
“You don’t even know me,” he says.
“Yes, but once I do, I’ll probably hate you.”
He tilts his head to the right again. It’s his thinking pose. “Oh, you can predict the future?” he asks.
I stare at him for a little too long. What would happen if I told him Yes, I am able to predict a kind of future?
I stand up on my pedals, getting ready to go. “Why are you doing this?”
“Gramps asked me to. It’s a big deal for them if we win. Also, I have a just say yes philosophy.”
“What does that mean?”
“I say yes to anything anyone asks me.” At the disbelieving look on my face, he clarifies, “Nothing immoral or illegal.”
“But why?”
“Life’s short. Seize the day. Live in the moment,” he says, smiling. “You have any philosophies I should know about?”
Does don’t banter with extremely hot and possibly smart and interesting guys who are very definitely players count as a philosophy?
“I don’t have any philosophies,” I say.
“You should try the say yes thing. It’s very freeing.”
“No,” I say.
“I see what you did there,” he says with a smile. “I also have a no small talk policy.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Just getting it all out there,” he says.
I squeeze my handlebars and adjust myself on the seat. “Okay,” I say, “I’m going away from you now.”
“I promise to step on your toes less tomorrow,” he calls out.
I pedal away and tell myself that my heart is speeding because I’m riding so fast. Not because I was having so much fun bantering with him right there on the sidewalk. Really, I should know better than to banter. Why? Because in every romance book ever written, banter is a gateway drug. Banter leads to actual conversation, which leads to dating, which leads to kissing, which leads to coupling, which leads to heartbreak.
I turn the corner onto my street and remind myself that the only reason I’m entering this competition is so I can figure out a way to get rid of the visions. Despite how it might seem, this is not a love story.
CHAPTER 15
Dance Number Two, Excerpted
“YOU ALWAYS HAVE trouble telling left foot from right foo
t?”
“You are leading her, not kidnapping her!”
“Unless toes are broken, keep dancing.”
“Get closer! Is his breath still stinky?”
“Sexy is small word. Why so difficult for you to understand?”
“No, no. Now you look like giant flightless bird. Elbows down!”
“Loose arms!”
“I danced tango with sprain ankle one time. A little toe bruise is nothing.”
“No rocking side to side. You are not little teapot.”
“Frame is sloppy. Why?”
“Music is privilege, not right.”
CHAPTER 16
Dance Number Three
SAME AS DANCE number two but with marginally less toe bruising.
CHAPTER 17
Dance Number Four
“KEEP DANCING, I put music on now,” Fifi says twenty-five minutes into our fourth practice.
I’m so shocked I miss a step.
X misses his too. “Holy shit,” he says. “If we earned music, I guess we’re not so bad.”
“We’re pretty bad,” I say.
Fifi calls the bachata count—“Five-six-seven-eight”—and we begin.
Despite the music, we make our usual mistakes. The Into the Armpit Twirl™. The Toe Destroyer™.
By the third and fourth times, we make fewer mistakes.
The fifth time, we get all the footwork right.
The sixth time too.
In the middle of our seventh time, Fifi turns off the music.
“Finally, you have steps down,” she says. “Now real work can begin!”
I don’t know what she means by “real work,” but I’m sure I don’t like it.
She walks over to the closet and pulls out a boom box. Why do we need a portable stereo when we have a perfectly functional built-in sound system? you might ask. I might ask it too.
“Evie,” she says when she’s done checking the boom box for batteries. “What are most important elements of ballroom?”
Despite my trepidation over what’s happening with the boom box, I answer right away. “Footwork, musicality, artistry.”
“Yes, but forgot two.” She turns to X. “You want to guess?”