Instructions for Dancing

by Nicola Yoon

  “When Shirley first told me she met a man…let’s just say I was skeptical.”

  Another round of mm-hmms and laughter.

  I sit up straighter. It’s weird hearing someone else talk about Dad like he belongs to them.

  “But I said to Shirley that I would keep my mind open when I met him. And when I did meet him, I told him I was going to be hard to please.” She smiles down at Shirley. “But, miracle of miracles, he pleased me. First of all, he’s a good man. A family man. I’m so glad to have two new grandchildren to fuss over.”

  She smiles over at our table and raises her glass to Danica and me.

  I raise my glass of sparkling cider, and Danica raises hers too.

  It’s only been a few minutes, but I can already tell that Shirley’s mom is the kind of person who loves big. She’s proud and fierce and sweet too. It’s obvious how much she loves Shirley. It’s obvious that she’ll love me and Danica big too.

  There’s a part of me that would like to get to know her, that would like to feel the weight of that big love. But another part of me resents being claimed. My family was just the right size before. I already have two actual grandmothers. I don’t need another one. I don’t want another one. And I know what I’m feeling isn’t exactly fair, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

  Shirley’s mom keeps going: “And you should see the way he looks at my Shirley, like she put the sun and the moon and all the stars in the sky. It’s almost embarrassing the way he loves her. But a love like that is what she deserves.”

  I want to protest. Dad loved Mom like that too, didn’t he? Where did all his love for her go? Did it just disappear? Did he transfer it all to Shirley? Is that how love works?

  “And you know my Shirley loves with her whole heart. She just dotes on him and his ten-dollar English-professor words. So now I want everybody to raise those glasses high. Yes, yes, get them up there.” She looks down at Shirley. “Sweetheart, you are the love of my life. I’m so glad you found the love of yours.”

  Tears are streaming down Shirley’s face, and she doesn’t try to wipe them away. Her face is so full of love for Dad, it’s almost hard to look at. I’ve thought a lot of awful things about her over the last year. I’ve called her a liar and a cheat. I blamed her for taking Dad away from us. And for making things awful between Mom and me and Danica and me. I’ve been angry. So angry.

  But looking at her now, I see how much she loves Dad. Of all the things I expected to feel today, understanding for Shirley wasn’t one of them. It’s hard to completely hate someone who loves someone you love. She loves Dad. I can’t deny that. Just like I can’t deny that I still love him.

  Danica’s crying too. I don’t know if she’s feeling conflicted or overwhelmed like I am. I reach over and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back, and then it’s all too much for me. Too many emotions swirling together inside me. Too many emotions that are half one thing and half another. Too much beauty and too much sadness.

  I squeeze Danica’s hand again but then let go of it and bolt from the table. By the time I get to the bathroom, I’m crying just as hard as Danica and Shirley were. I hide in one of the stalls and let my tears fall.

  I don’t know how much time goes by, but eventually I’m not crying so much anymore. In the mirror I fix my tear stains and mascara smudges as best as I can. I text Danica to tell her I’m in the bathroom and that she should come get me when she’s ready to go. I don’t trust myself not to cry again in front of everyone.

  Less than twenty seconds later, the door swings open. I turn around fast, hoping it’s Danica and we can get out of here and go home.

  But it’s not Danica.

  It’s Shirley.

  She takes a searching look around the room until she finds what she’s looking for.

  And what she’s looking for is me.

  “There you are,” she says, sounding relieved. She walks over to where I am at the sink. I see the moment she realizes I’ve been crying. “I was hoping we could talk,” she says, relief gone from her voice.

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

  She nods like she understands. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to forgive me. I know that’s too much to ask.”

  I relax a little, knowing that.

  She takes a deep breath. “I want to thank you for deciding to come to the wedding.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. “I’m not doing it for you,” I say.

  “I know, but thank you anyway.”

  She closes her eyes for a quick second and takes another deep breath, gearing up for something.

  I wrap my arms around myself. I’m not sure I’m emotionally ready for anything else today.

  “There’s another thing I want to say,” she says. “I’m sorry for the way things happened between me and your dad. And I’m sorry that this is hurting you. I love your dad. I know you might never like me, but I already love you because you’re a part of him.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

  Her eyes roam across my face, looking for something. “You’re so much like him,” she says with a smile. “He’s real good with uncomfortable silences too.”

  She turns around to face herself in the mirror. “I’m terrible at it. All I want to do is talk and talk and talk to make it better.” She laughs and adjusts her veil. “I’m doing it right now, I guess.”

  “A little,” I say with a small smile.

  There’s hope on her face when she turns to me again. But I drop my eyes from hers. I can’t make any promises. I’m not ready for that, not yet.

  “Thanks for coming today, Evie. It’s really nice to see you,” she says.

  * * *

  ——

  Danica’s mostly quiet for the entire cab ride home. She doesn’t even look at her phone.

  I stare out the window and think about all the visions I’ve seen in the last few months. It occurs to me that an unhappy ending for one person can mean a happy beginning for another, the way Mom’s unhappy ending with Dad led to Shirley’s happy beginning with him. I think about the way we’re all just starring in our own stories.

  In her speech, Ms. Gene made it sound like Dad rescued Shirley somehow. In her version of things, Shirley’s not the evil stepmother that I think she is, that I thought she was. She’s the princess who finally found her prince.

  “What did you think?” I ask Danica when we’re almost home.

  “I thought it was beautiful,” she says.

  “Me too,” I say. And I mean it. It was beautiful. But it was sad too. Both things, and at the same time. I don’t know why so much of life is like that.

  CHAPTER 43

  Entertain Us

  LA DANCEBALL IS only four weeks away now, and Fifi steps up our practice schedule from rigorous to outlandish. Instead of two hours, our weekday sessions are now three. She takes us back to the promenade to see how well we can attract an audience and keep their attention. She makes us teach mini dance lessons to strangers, and then dance with the strangers. “Best way to learn is to teach,” she says.

  The extended practice sessions improve our salsa, bachata, Hustle and West Coast swing. But the Argentine tango is still a beast. Mostly it’s my fault. At least, according to Fifi it’s my fault. “You need to be more sensual and loose,” she tells me. “Let yourself be swept away.”

  And I am trying. I have the steps down cold. X’s lead is stronger now, and I’m better at following it. But I still can’t manage to relax. For the tango, I’m supposed to give myself to X as if I can’t help myself. But I’m afraid that if I pretend even for three minutes, I won’t be able to stop. The truth is, I don’t want to stop. And even though I’m seeing fewer visions these days because I know how to avoid them, I’m still afraid of what the future holds for us.
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  Now that I’m friends with my friends again, X slips into our little group as if he’s always been a part of it. He goes with me to all our beach bonfires. He brings his guitar and we sing silly songs and play Tipsy Philosophicals. We go to his shows as a group. Cassidy drinks too much and blames it on the music. Groupies are supposed to party, she says. Martin nicknames us X Faction.

  As spring gets hotter, we decide to spend Sunday mornings at Cassidy’s house by the pool instead of at Surf City Waffle. The first time X takes his shirt off to get into the pool, I nearly die. I look so hard that I trip over my own feet and almost knock myself out on the lip of the pool. For the rest of the day I’m convinced I’ve stumbled into one of my romance novels. How else to explain how ridiculously hot his whole chest-abs-stomach combination is? X without a shirt is very nearly fatal.

  At three weeks to go before the competition, Fifi changes our schedule again. We go from outlandish to fantastically, breathtakingly unreasonable. Four hours of practice a night instead of three. She cares not at all about my social calendar, homework or home life.

  “Dance is life!” she says.

  At two weeks to go, she begins videotaping every practice. She makes us watch our performances while she critiques them as if we’re not in the room.

  The last week before the competition, she adds full dress rehearsals to the four hours of practicing.

  When I get to the studio on Monday for our first dress rehearsal, X isn’t there, but Fifi, Archibald and Maggie are. The three of them have set up folding chairs in the back next to the windows.

  Only after hugs and kisses does it occur to me why they’re here. “Are you going to judge us?” I ask, horrified.

  Fifi answers. “Not judge. We are audience. You will entertain us.”

  Somehow that answer is more horrifying.

  “I’ll go change,” I say, and get the hell out of there.

  Studio two doesn’t have a class tonight, so I use it to change. I unwrap my costume from its garment bag and love it all over again. It’s an emerald-green, sequined, spaghetti-strapped dancer’s dream. In a previous life, this dress was a mermaid princess. I shimmy my way into it, very careful not to mess up my braids, which are held up by approximately seventy-seven bobby pins. I check to make sure my heel protectors are on before strapping on my sparkly gold shoes.

  Once everything is on, I face the mirror to get the full effect.

  The full effect is…not bad.

  The dress is fitted close, but not too tight. Except for the spaghetti straps, my shoulders and arms are bare. It feels like I have an ocean of skin, all of it glowing brown from the Sunday mornings at Cassidy’s pool. Hopefully the judges don’t mind tan lines. I examine myself from all angles and decide I like the way my body looks, curvy and strong. I lean closer to the mirror. Dance competition makeup is supposed to be theatrical and unsubtle. I’ve done an okay job, but Danica would’ve done it better.

  When I get back to the studio, X is still not there. Archibald and Maggie coo at me, telling me I look beautiful. I’m in the middle of executing a perfect spot turn when X finally does walk in.

  It’s a testament to Fifi’s relentless training that I don’t stumble, because X right now is my own personal earthquake. He belongs on the cover of a romance novel about bad-boy rockers with hearts of gold. He’s wearing black suspenders with smoothly tailored black pants. It turns out I really like suspenders.

  I drag my eyes up to his face and realize he’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him.

  “Jesus God, Evie, you look fucking—”

  Maggie cuts him off before he can finish. “Xavier Darius Woods, watch your language,” she scolds.

  In her entire life, no one has ever dared to shush Maggie, but I almost do it. I look fucking what?!

  X rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, Grams,” he says, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  “You look nice too,” I say.

  Fifi claps. “Positions!”

  X and I take our places, and Fifi hits play.

  Five dances and twenty minutes later, we’re done. Archibald and Maggie marvel at how much we’ve improved.

  “Westside Dance won’t know what hit them,” Maggie chuckles.

  In her mind, she’s already making room for the Top Studio Amateur trophy.

  Since she’s “just audience member” today, Fifi will only say she enjoyed our performance. She tells us to go home and get rest.

  X is getting his guitar from the closet when I break down and ask him. “What word were you going to use before?”

  He knows exactly what I’m talking about. He turns around, giving me his full attention. “Astonishing,” he says.

  Then he puts the whole sentence together. “Jesus God, Evie, you look fucking astonishing.”

  It’s because I’m thinking about looking “fucking astonishing” that I don’t notice Archibald and Maggie are still in the studio. It’s why I don’t notice the way they’re leaning into each other.

  Why I don’t notice they’re about kiss until it’s too late.

  And I see.

  CHAPTER 44

  Archibald and Maggie

  BRIGHT MIDDAY SUNSHINE on a studio lot. A line of dancers, all of them Black men and women, holding portfolios and waiting for something. They’re dressed head to toe in fluorescent spandex, with neon sneakers.

  One of the dancers is Maggie, but a much younger version of her. Her face is clear and open, no wrinkles along her forehead, no gray at her temples. Instead of dreadlocks, her hair is braided and laced through with silver threads.

  “This is the third audition we’ve been at together,” says a voice from somewhere behind her.

  Maggie turns to the voice. “Is that so?” she says to the young man she finds smiling at her. She raises a cool eyebrow. “I don’t remember you.”

  A young Archibald falters and looks down at his feet, unsure what to say next.

  Some of the women surrounding Maggie snicker.

  A man wearing neon-purple spandex says, “Brother man, you have to come better than that.”

  Archibald straightens, recovers himself. “Listen, I just don’t want you to be the one that got away.”

  Maggie unarches her brow, considers him for a long moment. “Best not let me get away, then,” she says as her name is called to audition.

  * * *

  —

  Television-blue light splashed across a group of smiling brown faces crowded into a small living room. Maggie is sitting in Archibald’s lap. His arms circle her waist. Her arms rest on top of his.

  “There! There he is!” Maggie screams, pointing at the screen.

  The friends lean in closer, picking out Archibald from the group of background dancers in the music video.

  Archibald doesn’t bother looking at the TV. Instead, he holds Maggie even tighter. “I love you,” he says.

  Maggie twists, throws her arms around his neck. “I love you too,” she says, and they topple over backward onto the ground.

  * * *

  —

  Nighttime in a silver-tinseled ballroom. Archibald and Maggie are dancing the Viennese waltz.

  Archibald is wearing a tuxedo.

  Maggie’s wedding dress is chiffon and lace.

  They spin again and again into each other’s arms.

  They are made of joy.

  * * *

  —

  A pale-green hospital room in the not-quite morning. Archibald and Maggie are lying together on the bed.

  Maggie is holding a small swaddled bundle in her arms. “Look what we made,” she whispers to Archibald. “Look at this beautiful thing we made.”

  * * *

  —

  A small kitchen with fading yellow sunlight leaking in through the blinds. Archibald and Maggie
are sitting at a table, a worry of bills between them.

  “I’m going to take that substitute teaching job,” Archibald says.

  Maggie shakes her head. “I don’t want you giving up your dreams.”

  Archibald pushes the bills to one side, clears a path for his hand to take hers. “I already have my dreams, Mags.”

  * * *

  —

  Almost midnight in another pale-green hospital room. Maggie is sitting upright in her bed. On her face is a mixture of exhaustion and elation.

  Archibald is holding their toddler-daughter in his arms.

  “Remember,” Maggie says to the little girl. “Hearts grow bigger so you can love more.”

  The little girl nods, kid-solemn, and doesn’t take her eyes off her baby brother.

  * * *

  —

  Archibald steering Maggie down a long, dark hallway. She’s blindfolded and taking small, careful steps. Archibald guides her into a dance studio. The floors need finishing, and there’s a panel missing from the back wall of mirrors.

  “Just what are you up to, Archibald Johnson?”

  “You ready to find out?” Archibald asks as he undoes her blindfold.

  Maggie gasps and presses her fingertips over her heart. She spins in place. “Oh, Archibald,” she says. “What did you do?”

  “Time to start up those dreams again,” he says.

  * * *

  —

  This moment right now, the two of them sharing a small kiss in their studio.

  * * *

  —

  A wide-open field and a coffin being lowered into the ground. It’s snowing so lightly the flakes dissolve before they touch the ground. Maggie and Archibald lean into each other. “This isn’t right,” Archibald says to Maggie. “We’re not supposed to be here.”