Instructions for Dancing

by Nicola Yoon

  The first time I ever visited Cassidy’s house in Beverly Hills, I was in middle school. Her house is so big I remember thinking that Dad had gotten the address wrong and taken me to a hotel or country club. But no.

  I ring the bell and Martin answers the door. Instead of hello, he says, “Just warning you, they’re still pretty mad.”

  “How mad is pretty mad?”

  “Be prepared to offer up one of your organs,” he says, and closes the door behind me.

  “Who’s angrier?”

  “Sophie’s less likely to take a swing at you.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Also, you should know that they really believe in public displays of affection. They kiss all the time. They call each other ‘babe’ all the time.”

  “Even Cassidy?”

  “Especially Cassidy. You don’t know the things I’ve seen, Eves,” he says.

  I shudder-laugh. More shudder than laugh. Sixty-three percent shudder.

  “Thank God you’re back,” he says. “It’s not the same without you.”

  He leads me through the house and out to the pool.

  At first, they don’t see me. They’re too busy canoodling in the water. I don’t want to interrupt, so I take a seat at the outdoor dining table. It’s spread with fancy plates, actual silver silverware and champagne glasses. I see the remnants of waffles and a few different syrups.

  “Did you guys get takeout from SCW?” I ask.

  “No, it turns out they have a family chef now,” Martin says.

  “Jesus, they’re so rich,” I say.

  “Yup,” he says, and offers me a plate.

  I’m too nervous to eat, so I just sit there and wait. I don’t have to wait long for Cassidy to realize I’m here. “I don’t remember inviting you over,” she says, using her I’m about to set something on fire voice.

  Martin mimes pulling out and offering an organ.

  I start with the basics instead. “Hey, guys.”

  Sophie gets out of the water, wraps herself in a towel and sits down on a lounge chair. “Hi, Evie,” she mumbles, but she doesn’t look at me.

  Cassidy gets out of the pool and follows Sophie to the lounge. She ignores me completely. To Martin she says: “Why is she here?”

  “I came to apologize,” I say.

  In her eyes, I can see Sophie wants to forgive me. She rests her hand on Cassidy’s shoulder and squeezes, but Cassidy just folds her arms tight.

  I look to Martin for help. “Grovel,” he mouths.

  I didn’t think it was going to be this hard to get back to being friends. But now I’m realizing that it might not be up to me. What if they decide not to forgive me? Then X will have been right: I’ll be responsible for our breakup. Not them.

  “Why’d you say we should break up?” Cassidy asks. “It’s me, right? You think I’m not good enough for Sophie?”

  I can’t believe she thinks that. Or, I can believe it. It’s basically what her parents have been telling her all her life with their constant neglect.

  I walk over to the lounge chair and squat in front of her. “No, Cassidy. It’s not that at all. It’s just me. Ever since Mom and Dad—”

  Sophie squeezes Cassidy’s shoulder again. “See, I told you,” she says.

  I’m happy to know that Sophie’s been holding on to her faith in me.

  But Cassidy isn’t ready to forgive me yet. “Jesus, just get over it already. Ever since it happened, you’ve been—”

  Sophie interrupts her. “What Cassidy means is we miss the old Evie. Not everyone’s going to end up like your parents. Some people are happy.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so selfish. I’ve been a complete idiot,” I say to Cassidy.

  She shakes her head, but I catch a glimpse of a small smile. “Complete idiot bitch,” she says.

  “I’m sorry I was a complete idiot bitch,” I say, smiling back at her. “I didn’t mean any of what I said. I’m so happy you guys are happy.”

  Cassidy beams. It might be the first known beaming in Cassidy history.

  “You’re beaming.”

  She scowls. “I don’t beam.”

  “Yes you do,” says Sophie.

  And then Cassidy does another un-Cassidy-like thing: she blushes.

  We all stare at her.

  “Fuck,” she says.

  We spend the rest of the day catching up. Martin’s right that Sophie and Cassidy are charter members of the public displays of affection fan club. And the word babe needs to be exorcised from their vocabulary. And it really is strange watching them touch and kiss.

  But I can’t deny that they’re happy. Really happy.

  I wish I could make it last for them. That’s the superpower I should have, making love last forever.

  We keep hanging out until it’s time for me to head home for dinner.

  Sophie pulls me into a hug. “We missed you, Evie.”

  Cassidy joins the hug. “Next time we won’t forgive you so easily.”

  “This was easy?”

  “You still have all your organs,” Martin says, wrapping his arms around all of us.

  “That’s true,” I say. “I missed you guys too.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Bachata Monday

  “I’M GLAD YOU made up with them,” X says as soon as he walks into the studio on Monday evening.

  I texted him last night to tell him I fixed things with Sophie and Cassidy.

  “Me too,” I say. “You were right.”

  He pulls me into a hug. “I’m right a lot. You’re going to have to get used to that.”

  “Oh, shush,” I say. Our eyes connect. The air between us shifts from teasing to wanting.

  “When I said get to know each other, I did not mean biblically,” Fifi says loudly and with a cackle from the doorway.

  We spring apart. Fifi cackles more.

  “Danceball is only six weeks away. Is time to get serious.”

  We practice for two hours straight. By the end, X and I are both sweaty and exhausted.

  “That was best practice yet. Chemistry is much better,” she says with a wink. “But unfortunately, need more than chemistry to win.”

  She sets us a grueling practice schedule. Mondays are for bachata. Tuesdays are for salsa. Wednesdays for West Coast swing. Thursdays for the Hustle. Since Argentine tango is the hardest, she schedules three days of practice: Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

  After we agree to the schedule, she claps her hands together. “Now is time to see what you two are really made of,” she says.

  CHAPTER 36

  Salsa Tuesday

 

  X: Fifi is not in her right mind

  Me: More caliente! More caliente!

  Me: I think caliente is the only Spanish word she knows

  X: How many times do you think she said that?

  Me: Fifty or sixty

  X: Maybe more

  X: So I’m reading that book you told me about

  Me: Which one?

  X: Cupcakes and kisses

  X: I wasn’t expecting it to be so DIRTY

  Me: You’re at the first bakery scene

  X: Frosting belongs on cake

  Me: So narrow-minded you are

  X: What are gorgeous mounds of flesh?

  X: I didn’t learn about that in bio

  Me: They only teach that stuff 2nd semester senior year

  X: Ouch

  Me: Sorry

  X: For real tho, I don’t think this thing with the frosting is sanitary

  Me: Goodnight X

  X: Never going into a bakery ever again

  Me: I’m sleeping now

  X: Who even knows where those cookies have been


  X: Secret sauce my ass

  X: You still there?

  Me: Yes, sorry. I was dying of laughter

  X: I like making you laugh

  Me: You’re pretty good at it

  CHAPTER 37

  West Coast Swing Wednesday

  I’M FAST ASLEEP and dreaming when my phone chirps at me.

  X: You up?

  Me: Yes

  X: Can I call you?

  Me: Yes

  My phone rings right away. “Hi,” I say, trying to sound like I wasn’t just fast asleep and dreaming.

  It doesn’t work. “Oh man, I woke you up,” he says.

  “No, it’s okay,” I say, blinking into the dark. “How are you? How’d your show go?”

  “Show was fine,” he says. He doesn’t say anything for a while. I hear the rustle of his sheets and I tug my blanket up under my arms and nestle down into my pillows and wait for him to go on.

  “My pops called. We got into it again,” he says.

  “About what?”

  “Same thing we always argue about. How I’m throwing my life away with the music nonsense.”

  “I’m sorry, X.”

  “Yeah,” he says. We slip into silence. It feels like we’re lying side by side in a small boat floating down a dark and quiet lake.

  “Want to know a secret?” he asks. His voice is scratchy and soft.

  “What?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if he’s right.”

  I’m too surprised to say anything right away. I would never guess X has doubts about music, not from the way he talks about it and not from the way he is onstage.

  “You remember when we were playing pool and you said when you found out about your dad’s affair, it was like he betrayed your idea of who he was?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think maybe that’s how Pops feels about me. Before Clay died, the band was just a hobby. Pops and me always had an understanding—nothing too explicit—that I’d go to college and major in something practical. After Clay died, though, everything changed for me. I started trying to make sense of the world and my place in it.”

  His voice is so quiet now I have to press my phone closer to my ear to hear him. “In the end all I could come up with was how much I loved playing guitar and singing and being onstage. I figured out that being in the band meant more to me than I thought it did. And once you figure out what you love the most, you don’t really have time for anything else. I couldn’t get Pops to understand that, though. I get why he’s mad at me. I changed the rules on him.”

  I turn onto my side. My blinds are slightly open, and moonlight makes long rectangles on the floor. “I’m gonna say something and you don’t have to say anything back, but you can’t get mad at me either. I’m just gonna put it out there.”

  “Okay, what?” he asks.

  “I think you should finish high school.”

  For a while he doesn’t say anything, and I think our little metaphorical boat on the lake is about to capsize. But then he starts to laugh. “Woman, I pour my heart out to you and you tell me to finish high school.”

  “Your heart is great. It really is. And I promise you, you’re not wrong about music. I’ve seen you onstage. You were made for it. But also, just finish high school. You have one semester to go. Your dad will be a lot less mad at you, I promise.”

  His laugh turns into a low chuckle. “All right, my turn to say something that you can’t get mad at me for.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not that bad.”

  “Oh boy,” I say again.

  “I think you should try to work things out with your dad. I think you should go to his wedding.”

  Now our boat does capsize. I sit all the way up. “After what he did? Why would you say that?”

  “Right after Clay died, I used to see him everywhere, but it was weird. I didn’t see all the things we used to do. I kept seeing all the things we were supposed to do.” He clears his throat. “That make sense?”

  “You were missing the future you were supposed to have.”

  “Yeah, like I was having memories of things that never got to happen.”

  I think about Dad and all the stuff we don’t get to do with each other anymore. It’s the big things like playing pool, and it’s the silly, small things too. Like the way he used to kiss my forehead at the kitchen table every morning. Or the way he played Ella Fitzgerald or Nina Simone on Sunday mornings. The way he would leave the kitchen cabinets open and drive Mom up the wall.

  You can miss the future with people who are still alive too.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll think about it.” I try to stifle a yawn, but it comes out anyway.

  “I should let you go to bed,” he says. “Sorry I woke you up.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You can wake me up anytime,” I say. “Good night, X.”

  “Good night, Evie,” he says.

  CHAPTER 38

  Hustle Thursday

 

  Me: You were good with the hustle today

  X: I like it

  X: It’s basically disco dancing but with a partner

  Me: That’s a good way to put it

  X: I didn’t come up with that

  X: I read it online somewhere

  X: Trying to impress you with my dazzling insight

  X: Did it work?

  Me: Only a little

  X: Ha!

  X: So I was thinking maybe your friends would want to come see a show on Saturday

  Me: Do I get to come too?

  X: Nah, just your friends

  Me: Hehe

  X: So that’s a yes?

  Me: I’ll ask them but I’m sure they’ll say yes

  Me: They like you

  X: I like them too

  <9:38 PM>

  Me: I thought about what you said last night about dad and the wedding

  X: Yeah?

  Me: I haven’t decided what to do yet

  Me: But I’m thinking about it

  X: That’s good

  X: I’m thinking about what you said about school too

  Me: And?

  X: Still thinking about it

  Me: That’s good

  <12:05 AM>

  X: Reading cupcakes and kisses again

  Me: Can’t get enough huh?

  X: The girl just said her guy smells like cinnamon chocolate buttercream

  Me: Very specific

  X: What do I smell like?

  Me: You’re odorless

  X: Nah

  X: I smell like rock and roll

  X: And man sweat

  X: And the blood of my vanquished enemies

  X: You there?

  Me: Laughing

  X: Take your time

  CHAPTER 39

  Argentine Tango Friday

  ON FRIDAY, FIFI is dressed in full Argentine tango splendor: short, cherry-red asymmetrical dress complete with fringe. The fringe is also asymmetrical. Her shoes are red, high and strappy.

  X wolf-whistles at her when he walks in. “You’re hot fire today,” he says.

  She strikes a dramatic pose with her right hip jutted out and her left leg extended. Her facial expression is somewhere between I want to kiss you and I want to murder you. She meets my eyes in the mirror. “You will wear very similar outfit for competition,” she says.

  I protest. “It’s a little short, Fifi.”

  “You have legs for it.” It’s a compliment and an order.

  Beside me, X just kind of laughs into his fist.

  “Now,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Argentine tango is my favorite dance in all the world. It is
seductive. It is sorrowful. It is sensual.” Zeductive. Zorrowful. Zensual.

  X looks at me, laughter dancing in his eyes. I slap my hand over my mouth so I don’t have a giggling fit.

  “My first tango instructor say he would spend his last three minutes on earth dancing the tango. When you two feel like that, then you know you are ready.”

  “Damn, Fi, that’s a lot of pressure,” X says.

  “That is tango,” she says. She stomps her foot. “Now, we get started.”

  She positions us in the center of the studio a few feet away from the front mirror. “First thing to know is that hold is closed,” she says, and adjusts our arms. Once she’s satisfied with that, she circles and corrects us until our spines are straight but tilted slightly toward each other. “Now you put chests together.”

  My heart takes off at full speed. I’m not sure where it’s going.

  Next she moves us on to the tango walk, which is more a dramatic glide than a walk. In a normal walk, your heel touches first, then the middle, then your toes. In the tango walk, it’s the opposite.

  “Other thing to know is that tango is dance of improvisation. I will teach you steps and techniques, but you have to put them together when you dance. You have to feel.”

  She faces the mirror and begins swaying to a song in her head. “X, when you dance you must lead her into her passion. You must seduce her mind with your body so that she is yours for the taking. And Evie, you must give yourself to him—”

  “That’s totally sexist,” I say.

  She waves me off. “Yes, of course. That is tango,” she says again.

  We practice for two hours. Fifi alternates between praising my technical skills and lamenting my inability to “give in to passion of music.”