Instructions for Dancing

by Nicola Yoon

  * * *

  —

  Nighttime in an old-fashioned bedroom.

  Older versions of Archibald and Maggie are lying on their bed. Archibald is on his back, his right arm wrapped around Maggie.

  Maggie is lying on her left side. Her head is tucked into the crook of Archibald’s neck. Her right cradles his chest.

  The room is dim with amber light. The source of light is not obvious.

  The air surrounding them is undisturbed by breath.

  CHAPTER 45

  The Invention of Language

  DAD USED TO say that there was a word for every emotion, but I don’t think he’s right about that. I don’t have a single word for the way Archibald and Maggie’s vision makes me feel. Wonder and fright and astonishment and joy and terrible strange sadness and blossoming hope.

  Love is too small, too singular a word for the feeling it’s trying to hold. Just one word isn’t enough, so I want to use them all. Sometimes I think love is the reason language was invented.

  When Archibald and Maggie met in that audition line, they had no idea what they were at the beginning of. They didn’t know that their love of dancing would make a place for others to love it too. Or that their love would branch out into the world and make children and then grandchildren. Or that their love would lead to mine.

  Maybe the whole point of love is to make more of itself.

  I try to fall asleep so I’ll be ready for Danceball tomorrow, but the vision won’t leave me. It plays in my head all night. I watch as Maggie and Archibald begin their lives together in the audition line a thousand times. I watch as they die together in bed a thousand more. I laugh through the happy parts of their lives and cry through the sad ones. Sometimes I do the opposite.

  Martin said I was supposed to learn a lesson from my superpower. Is the Archibald-and-Maggie vision the lesson? Maybe what I’m supposed to learn is how big and strong love can be, and how long it can last. Their vision is the only one I’ve ever seen that doesn’t end in heartbreak. Not every couple is Mom and Dad.

  I fall asleep thinking about the fact that even though I’ve been trying to deny it, I’m in love with Xavier Darius Woods, and I have been for a while now.

  CHAPTER 46

  Danceball

  DANCEBALL SATURDAY FINALLY arrives. X and I were up talking on the phone, so I only get two hours of sleep before my alarm wakes me up at six-thirty. If Fifi figures out I haven’t gotten a full night’s rest, she’ll kill me with her stilettos.

  By the time I’m showered and dressed, I feel more awake. Unfortunately, I don’t look as awake as I feel. I poke at the dark circles under my eyes for a few seconds before deciding I need professional help.

  I knock on Danica’s door three times, but she’s either still asleep or ignoring me.

  I ease open her door. “Dani,” I whisper-shout.

  She groans and buries her head under her pillow. “Go away.”

  “I’m sorry. I need makeup help.”

  She unburies herself and squints over at me. Her face is puffy and she’s wearing her silk sleep cap, but somehow she still looks great. “I was having a really good dream,” she says.

  “Danceball is today and I didn’t get any sleep and I look terrible.”

  She sits halfway up and plucks her phone from her nightstand. “It’s seven twenty-three a.m., Evie. On a Saturday.”

  “I need you, Doctor Dani,” I say.

  She sits all the way up now. “Wow,” she says, “you haven’t called me that in forever.”

  It’s true. It’s been so long I can’t actually remember the last time.

  When Danica first discovered the wondrous world of makeup, I was the one she did all her experimenting on. I’d pretend to be a patient whose face needed (cosmetic) saving and she’d be the genius young surgeon, the only one with enough guts and talent to help me. She’s made me into a ’60s hippie love child, a ’70s disco diva, an ’80s bubblegum-pop star. I’ve been glam, metal, hip-hop, punk rock, goth and more.

  I don’t remember when we stopped playing or why.

  “Can you save me, Doc?” I make my voice low and gravelly and clutch at my face, pretending to be sick.

  She laughs and bounces out of bed to inspect my face. “It’ll be close,” she says, touching the dark circles under my eyes. “You’re pretty far gone.”

  “Hey, it’s not that bad,” I protest.

  “I’m sorry, but are you the doctor?”

  “No,” I grumble.

  “All right, I think I can save you,” she says.

  She leads me to her vanity and goes to work on me.

  Forty-five minutes later, she spins me around to face the mirror. “What do you think?” She dabs at my cheek with one of her sponges.

  I lean close to the mirror and gawk at myself. “Dani, it’s incredible.”

  Her eyes fly to mine, and I can see she’s relieved that I like it.

  I lean closer. Somehow Dani made me look bold but not garish. Also, I look like I’ve slept for as long as Sleeping Beauty.

  When and why did I stop thinking it was cool that she’s good at this? I stand up and throw my arms around her, glad my lack of sleep forced me to ask her for help.

  “Oh my God, don’t mess up your face,” she squeals, surprised by my attack. She hesitates for a few seconds, but then she hugs me back.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I say. “You’re the best.”

  “I know,” she says.

  * * *

  ——

  Danceball is in the grand ballroom of the Seasons hotel. The theme is “Hollywood Glamour,” which apparently means gold. Because there is gold everywhere. Gold streamers, towers of gold balloons, gold confetti on the ground. All the signage is written in gold cursive, including a huge banner that reads Welcome to the 17th Annual Los Angeles Danceball Championships.

  My stomach does a nervous two-step and I squeeze Mom’s hand. We make our way to the registration desk.

  “A lot of you amateurs dancing today,” says the lady checking me in.

  “How many?”

  “Twenty-three.” She hands me my envelope and wishes me luck.

  Twenty-three couples means there’ll be two quarterfinal heats to determine who gets into the semis. I open my packet and check to make sure all our details are right. Age group: Under 21. Partnership Type: Am-Am. Category: Bronze Newcomer. Style: Nightclub.

  As (bad) luck would have it, our couple number is also twenty-three. Since we have the highest number, X and I will be always the last ones called when the judges announce which dancers are moving on. If we get called.

  X and I agreed to meet downstairs at the designated practice floor.

  I spot him right away, leaning against the wall next to the practice room. He looks the opposite of how I feel. Relaxed. Confident.

  I wave at him. He pushes off the wall and walks over to us.

  “Nice to see you again, Ms. Thomas,” he says to Mom.

  “Well, don’t you look wonderful,” she says. “You boys should have to wear this sort of thing all the time.”

  He hooks his thumbs into his suspenders. “Not sure these are the next big thing for eighteen-year-olds, Ms. T,” he says, grinning.

  While they chitchat, I let my eyes travel all over him. He looks the same as he did in rehearsal yesterday, but somehow better. His black patent-leather shoes are shined to glistening. His shirt is perfectly pressed. But it’s the top two buttons that snag my attention. They’re unbuttoned, and for a second I see my fingers unbuttoning a third and a fourth, until—

  “Evie, you ready for this?” he asks just as I’m getting to the fifth button.

  Yes.

  So, so ready.

  “Yes,” I say at a completely unnecessary volume.

  Mom rubs my shoulder and leans in clo
se. “I don’t remember him being this cute,” she whispers.

  I shush her and sneak a glance at X’s face, hoping he didn’t hear her.

  Mom gives me a hug and a kiss and wishes us luck before taking off to meet Archibald and Maggie and Fifi upstairs.

  “Let’s scope out the competition,” I say.

  Since the pros don’t compete until nighttime, the practice room is packed with mostly young amateurs. Per capita, the only other place you can find more sequins or bow ties on teenagers is prom. X and I shuffle along the perimeter until we find a free spot.

  “This is wild,” X says as we watch our competition. I look for the couple from Westside Dance that Maggie said would be our main adversary. They’re about our age and very, very obviously in love, given the way they can’t keep their hands off each other. They’ll have no trouble with the “give yourself to each other” part of the Argentine tango.

  Finally, one of the organizers gives us the five-minute warning. Dancers for the first heat start heading out.

  “We should go up to on-deck,” I tell X, even though we’re in the second of the two heats.

  He nods but then doesn’t move. Instead, he cups the back of his head with both hands.

  “You’re nervous,” I tease.

  “I’m not,” he says.

  I reach up and touch his elbow and gently tug his arm back down.

  He captures my hand in his and threads his fingers through mine.

  By the time we get upstairs, the heat one dancers are already competing in the main ballroom. Bachata music filters out through the closed doors. A few of the other heat two couples dance along with the music.

  Thirty minutes later, the heat one dancers file out. They’re sweaty and breathing hard but happy and relieved too. They wish us luck.

  And then it’s our turn.

  As it turns out, ballroom competitions are not stately affairs. The fans are boisterous and partisan. As soon as we walk into the main ballroom, they start whistling and screaming out the numbers of their favorite dancers.

  I hear a few loud calls for twenty-three. X and I scan the audience until we find our little cheering section in the second row on the right. They’re all waving wildly. Except for Fifi. Fifi just gives us a small nod.

  “Well, she’s consistent,” X says, laughing.

  Up at the mic, the lead judge welcomes us and goes over the rules and the order of dance. Bachata followed by salsa, West Coast swing, Hustle and, finally, Argentine tango. “Have fun, and dance your hearts out,” she tells us.

  X and I start off nervous, but by the time we get to West Coast swing, we’ve settled down. As usual, the Argentine tango is our weakest dance.

  The song ends. We take our bows and exit the floor.

  “You think we did it?” X asks when we’re back downstairs in the practice room.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.

  He rubs his chest and pretends to be wounded. “Ouch, my heart,” he says.

  Impulsively I press my hand over his heart, feeling the beat under my palm. “Not a thing wrong with your heart,” I say, looking up at him.

  It’s not long before an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. “Dancers, please make your way back to the ballroom for results.”

  The audience hushes quiet as soon as the lead judge takes the mic. She thanks everyone and says that she wishes we could all move on to the next round. It takes her forever to read the numbers, but finally she gets to ours. We made it to the semifinals.

  X lets out a whoop and our little cheering section goes wild. “Yeah, twenty-three!” Archibald yells.

  We only get a short time to celebrate, though. One hour later, we’re all back in the main ballroom and in position, ready to dance for a spot in the finals.

  X smiles down at me, definitely more relaxed than before.

  “Don’t get cocky yet,” I tell him.

  “I’ll wait until we win,” he says with a wink.

  He’s not the only one feeling more relaxed. The energy of the whole floor is different from before. The smiles are bigger, the atmosphere looser. The audience feels it too. They’re even louder, screaming the numbers of their favorites.

  The music starts, and we’re off. I lose myself in the music for the first four dances. I hope the feeling will last until the Argentine tango, but it doesn’t. My muscles tense as soon as the music starts. I concentrate too hard on X’s lead. Instead of dancing the music, I’m dancing the steps again.

  Still, it’s not like we’re bad. We make it through the rest of the dance without any technical errors. But I know if we don’t make it to the finals, it’ll be my fault.

  The wait for results is longer this time. The judges need to score each couple for each dance. Only six couples will make it to tomorrow’s finals.

  We wait for an hour. There’s a lot of pacing and back-of-the-head rubbing. I do the pacing. X does the back-of-the-head rubbing.

  Finally, it’s time for us to go back into the ballroom. I try to read our fate on the judges’ faces, but nothing doing. I try to read our fate on Fifi’s face, but nothing doing there either.

  The lead judge gets on the mic. “Thank you, competitors. You were all wonderful. The judges would like to see the following dancers…”

  The fourth number she calls is eleven. It’s the happily in-love couple from Westside Dance, the ones who are so good at Argentine tango.

  The fifth couple she calls is number eighteen.

  Once the applause dies down, the judge gets back on the mic. She smiles an I know something you don’t know smile.

  I kind of want to dance on her grave.

  “I bet you guys are just dying to find out who has the final spot,” she says, teasing us all.

  I am going to dance on her grave.

  The audience hoots in agony.

  X squeezes my fingers and smiles into my eyes.

  I smile back into his and I don’t look away, not even when the judge makes her announcement. “Congratulations to couple number twenty-three. You have a spot in the finals.”

  X pulls me into a hug.

  “I told you,” he whispers into my ear.

  All around us, everyone cheers.

  CHAPTER 47

  Becomes a Sea

  AFTER WE MADE it to the finals yesterday, Fifi took us back to the studio for one last practice.

  “Technically they’re not as good as you, but their tango is like sex,” she said as soon as we got there.

  She was talking about the Westside Dance couple.

  “Like good sex,” she clarified.

  X looked at me. “Did you think she meant bad sex?” he asked, deadpan.

  “You know,” I said, also deadpan, “I wasn’t sure.”

  She ignored us both and then made us dance for an hour, saying the competition was ours to lose.

  * * *

  ——

  X is already holding up the wall outside the practice room when I get there.

  “What’s with you getting to places on time these days?” I ask.

  “Maybe you’re a good influence on me,” he says. He pushes off the wall but doesn’t give me his usual smile.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. “Nerves again?”

  He shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

  But I can see it’s not nothing, so I say so.

  “Just thinking about the future.”

  “The one ten minutes from now, or the future-future?” I ask.

  “Future-future.”

  I start to tease him about living in the moment, when it occurs to me he might be talking about something more concrete.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Talked to my dad last night.”

  “Did you fight again?”

  “No, was
n’t like that. I told him I was thinking about finishing up school and he was really happy about it. He said he’d set it up so I could come home for the summer and get it done. Get my degree.”

  “This summer?”

  He leans back against the wall and looks down at his feet. “Yeah.”

  And I know I told him he should get his degree, and he really should. But summer seems so close now.

  I feel sick. The part of me that’s been avoiding kiss visions pipes up. All relationships end.

  Is this what happens to us? He goes home for the summer? Then, in the fall, I go to NYU and he picks up his life in LA, and we just fade away?

  “Are you going to go?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “What do you think I should do?”

  I know he’s not asking me for advice.

  “We could make it work,” I whisper.

  He lifts his head. “How?”

  “I hear New York City has a pretty good music scene,” I say.

  He moves closer to me, but not close enough. “I’ve heard that too,” he says.

  “Think the guys will mind moving the band there?”

  “Nah. They won’t mind at all.” He ducks his head so we’re face to face. So there’s no mistaking what we’re saying to each other. We’re promising each other a future.

  “Am I moving too fast for you?” I ask, remembering how I said I wanted to take it slow two months ago.

  He laughs. “No, you’re going at a good speed now. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up to me.” He holds out his hand for me to take. “Let’s go win this thing,” he says.

  We follow the other dancers upstairs to the on-deck area. We can’t stop smiling at each other. His smile makes me smile makes him smile makes me smile some more. A smile cascade. Smiles like falling dominoes.

  The ballroom looks the same as yesterday, except our cheering section has gotten bigger. I see Mom and Martin and Sophie and Cassidy. And Dad—in my excitement yesterday, I invited him to come. They scream like banshees when they see us.