My Best Friend Is a Goddess

by Tara Eglington

  Adriana stops and looks at me. Maybe my voice gives it away. It sounds tremulous to me, and my voice is normally anything but tremulous. I wait for her eyes to widen in realisation.

  Instead, she nods towards the entrance to the gym. ‘He’s in our dance class! Oh god. I don’t want to dance in front of him.’

  I don’t want to dance in front of him either. I have this vision of myself knocking down dancers like dominos.

  ‘Ade, he’s just a guy.’ I ignore the voice in the back of my head that’s screaming, Theo is NOT your average guy! ‘It’s great that he’s in the same class. You guys will have an opportunity to talk and get to know each other.’

  My tone is all enthusiasm, but as I’m talking to her I’m envisioning Theo smiling at Ade, making silly jokes, and her eyes sparkling like they did at lunch.

  Her eyes are sparkling again now. It’s the one thing that makes me feel better about all of this.

  The bell rings again.

  ‘Come on, you can do this,’ I say, and link her arm through mine and walk us into the gym.

  As we enter, I’m telling myself the same thing. I chatted with the guy for what … ten minutes? It’s only in my mind that Theo is my crush. I just have to unravel that fantasy, see it for what it is, and rework him into Adriana’s crush. Then I won’t get the weird feelings about him any more.

  But when I see Theo standing on the other side of the gym and smiling our way, it’s like someone’s taken off the top of my head and scooped everything out. My whole skull feels lighter and I’m dizzy from it. I find myself touching the top of my head like an idiot, making sure it’s still intact.

  He’s looking at Adriana, you idiot.

  I look at Adriana too. If she wants to go to him, I’ll walk her over there. Being her wing-woman is slightly excruciating at this point, but I have to shock my system into acceptance.

  She knows what I’m thinking, as always, and shakes her head. She’s scared. Normally I would insist that she overcomes her fear, but this time I’m selfishly relieved. By our next dance class, I’ll be in a different headspace. Emotion will have caught up with reality.

  ‘Alright!’ A tall, dark-haired man wearing head-to-toe black claps three times.

  I assume this is the dance teacher, because every one of his muscles is defined, and each step he takes to the middle of the room is deliberate and graceful.

  ‘Welcome to dance class 10A. My name is Mr White and I’ll be your teacher for this unit, along with Ms Miere.’

  A slim woman joins him in the centre of the room. I see that, like Mr White, her every move reveals years of dance training.

  ‘So, you guys have a formal coming up, which means you have about ten weeks to become comfortable with dances like the waltz, the rumba, the cha-cha,’ Ms Miere says, her voice full of enthusiasm. ‘I’m already seeing a few nervous faces around the room — stop stressing! This class is about having fun and learning some steps — nothing too complicated, I promise — so when you’re dressed up in your suits and gowns, you’re going to feel at ease with your dates on the dance floor.’

  I am obviously a complete idiot. I assumed this class would be some kind of beginner ballet, or jazz, or hip-hop or something. Not the type of dancing where your partner puts his hand on your waist, or you have your arms round his neck. I know from seeing snippets of Dancing with the Stars that some of those dances are sexy. No-one is going to want to dance sexy with me.

  I start to feel sick as I get an image of myself standing alone at the formal while everyone else is on the dance floor. Now that Ade looks the way she does, there’ll be guys lining up to ask her to dance.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ Mr White announces. ‘Everyone find a partner. By partner, I mean someone of the opposite sex.’

  Adriana and I look at each other in horror.

  People are pairing up around us. Mostly it’s guys approaching girls, although some girls are going up to guys too. This feels a hundred times worse than waiting to be picked for a team in PE.

  ‘Em, I’m going to be the last one left!’ Adriana whispers, her voice panicked.

  I see that lots of male eyes are darting to Adriana, then away, then back again, like scared animals. They’re too terrified to approach her.

  ‘Ade, someone will choose you any second now,’ I tell her, knowing that one of the more confident guys is sure to bowl over soon. I was the one who was going to be left without a partner.

  ‘No, that’s not happening.’ Her tone becomes hard as she looks to my right.

  I see that Dylan’s approaching.

  ‘Addy, be my partner?’ he asks. His voice is confident, but I can tell from the tiny inflections that he’s incredibly nervous. ‘I think I’ve watched enough musicals to have some Fred Astaire moves down.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Adriana is staring at him.

  ‘I know that admitting to watching musicals sounds less than manly, but they’re from the Golden Age of cinema and a wannabe director’s got to do his research —’

  ‘No,’ Adriana says, her face flushed.

  ‘No?’ Dylan looks confused. ‘You think the musicals are a bad idea?’

  He’s incredibly clueless sometimes. Adriana is glaring at him, too angry to say any more, so I’ll have to break it to him.

  ‘She doesn’t want to dance with you, Dylan.’

  Dylan’s still looking at Adriana. She folds her arms.

  I try again. ‘Dylan, maybe you should find yourself another partner.’

  I’m starting to realise this is going to be the theme for the rest of the term. Dylan chases Ade, Ade continues to act like he barely exists, Emily stands up for Ade and then consoles Dylan in the aftermath. I’m getting a headache.

  Dylan is saying something like ‘Don’t be her bodyguard’, but I barely hear him. All my focus is on Theo, who is walking straight towards us.

  He’s going to ask one of us to dance.

  A tiny kernel of hope inside me bursts into something bigger as Theo gets closer and I actually feel like he’s angling more my way than Ade’s.

  Maybe I’m not out of my mind. Maybe we did have a connection, and he wants to dance with me, so he’s coming over to ask …

  Dylan puts his hand on my arm to try and get my attention, but I’ve dived into a Theo-cavern and am lost to the rest of the world. Theo is looking at me, and for a moment I’m convinced he’s going to pick me. Me. Emily.

  And then his eyes travel from me to Adriana. I feel like I’m four years old and someone has burst all of my birthday balloons in one go. He holds out his hand to her. ‘May I have this dance?’

  Adriana looks at him like he’s a hero who’s swept in to save her from an evil villain, and nods her head. He leads her to the side of the room where everyone who has a partner is standing, and I’m left behind, partnerless. I’ve never felt so stupid and awkward in my whole life.

  Of course he was never going to pick you.

  Dylan is staring over at them. He sighs and looks back at me. ‘Sorry, Em. I didn’t mean to put you in the middle.’

  ‘Do me a favour?’ I’m desperate not to be the last girl left. To have Theo see me be the last girl left. ‘Be my partner?’

  And that’s how I wind up dancing with Dylan, who spends the entire lesson either staring at Adriana or repeating every detail of his falling out with her.

  Not that I can judge. I spend the lesson tripping over my own feet, or shuffling the wrong way during our sad excuse for a cha-cha — partly because an unco like me should never attempt partner dancing, but mostly because I’m staring at Adriana and Theo. Seeing her cheeks go the lightest pink when he puts his hand on her waist. Watching them laugh together when they both step in the wrong direction.

  But mostly I’m looking at Adriana’s expression. She’s more alive than I’ve seen her in years. It’s like she’s been a tree stuck in permanent winter, and now it’s spring and she’s become an actual blossom. Adriana needs something like Theo after all she’s been through
the last few years.

  A few times she gives me this look like, Can you believe this is happening? And though part of me hurts, I send back a smile that says, I told you so!

  I’m glad he chose her. Seeing her dance with him is the practice run for being able to handle the day when she’s in his arms for real.

  Secret Thoughts of Adriana Andersson

  I want to say dancing with The Cutest Guy is the best boy moment of my life.

  Part of me believes it: the cutest guy I’ve ever seen in real life crossed the room to ask me to dance. The other part of me knows I’m lying to myself.

  My best moment was with Dylan, and the memory of it dances through my head the whole lesson.

  It was January. The road seemed to shimmer with heat as I walked over to Dylan’s, though it was five o’clock and should have been cooling down by then.

  But inside Dylan’s family’s media room it was cool. We sat on their leather couch, and with the air conditioning on, the leather cold against my legs, cold enough for Dylan to hand me a cotton blanket before he headed to the kitchen. I spread it over my lower half, and when Dylan came back with a bowl of popcorn, he stole some of the blanket for his legs too.

  His right leg was suddenly touching my left. There was an electric current running up from the spot, right to the top of my head. I shivered before I could stop myself.

  ‘Still cold?’ Dylan pulled the blanket up so it was at chest level. He smiled at me, his hand on the play button. ‘Are you ready for the masterpiece that is Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?’

  I smiled back, hoping that he didn’t know how much this Monday-night ritual meant to me; the fact that even if he’d suggested we watch foreign action films with no subtitles, I’d still dash over here without a second thought.

  Suddenly he put the remote down and stared at me.

  For a second, I thought he knew and my heart sank. Any moment now, he’ll make an excuse to call the movie night off, and he’ll never suggest another.

  ‘Your braid’s come undone,’ he said. His right hand, the one that had been holding the remote, reached out and took hold of my hair. ‘Let me fix it.’

  ‘You know how to braid?’ I was so conscious that his head was close to mine that my question came out in a whisper.

  ‘You’re pretty surprised for someone who knows I have sisters.’ Dylan pulled the tie out and my hair spilled loose over my shoulder. ‘I’m a pro when it comes to a fishtail braid as well, but it’d be great if you didn’t tell anyone that.’

  I let out an awkward laugh. All I was conscious of was his hands in my hair. Even though they were salty from the popcorn — I could smell the butter on them — and I’d only washed my hair that morning, I didn’t care. A deep-seated relief overtook me, like slipping into a warm bath. The sensations that I’d felt crushing on Dylan were one thing, but this was something else — it was scarily strong.

  When he began separating my hair into three, I realised why. No-one had touched my hair since Mum died. Layers of memories rushed in at me: Mum running the brush through my hair, humming to herself, the scent of her perfume surrounding me.

  To my horror, I was crying.

  Dylan dropped my braid. ‘I’ve pulled your hair, haven’t I?’

  ‘No! It’s just … she … my mum … always braided my hair.’

  ‘Addy.’ The way Dylan was looking at me, the kindness in his tone, just brought more tears.

  He pulled me to him so my cheek was against his shoulder, resting on the soft cotton of his T-shirt. I knew my tears were soaking through the material and I was embarrassed that he’d feel the wetness against his skin. Any second now he was going to move away from me, grossed out.

  But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed play on the DVD and we stayed like that for the rest of the film, me leaning against him, him stroking my hair. For one hundred and twenty-three minutes.

  I know how long because I saw the time count on the DVD player. And they were the best one hundred and twenty-three minutes of my life.

  10

  ADRIANA

  ‘I’d like you to stick with the same partners for future classes,’ Mr White announces over the bell and the groans from people who believe they have less-than-ideal partners. ‘It saves ten minutes of class being taken up with decisions about who to dance with. Come on, guys, you know that was a painful process — and it means you’ll get used to your partner.’

  As Theo (we introduced ourselves after he asked me to dance) and I drop our cha-cha pose, I have to stop myself from beaming. I get to dance with him the entire term, instead of standing there every lesson praying someone picks me.

  ‘So, same spot next time?’ Theo says, smiling. ‘I’m hoping I’ll be a better partner by the end of term.’

  ‘You were great,’ I say.

  Compared to the other guys in the class — who alternated between looking expectantly at their partner and waiting for her to push them the right way, or snickering at other dancers — he was a dream. He listened to Mr White’s and Ms Miere’s instructions, but also made jokes here and there so both of us felt less awkward.

  ‘Great’s an exaggeration, but I’ll take it,’ he says as we head to the door. ‘I’d better run for my bus — at least I know where that is! — but I’ll see you next science class.’ He gives me a wave as he races off.

  I turn around to look for Emily so we can head over to the car park to meet Dad, and see Dylan making a beeline for me again. It’s ironic that the person I most want to hide from now isn’t Tatiana or any of the usual suspects, but a boy I used to be crazy for.

  I dash for the girls’ bathroom. As I’m finding my phone to text Emily, someone comes in and for a second I’m convinced it’s Dylan, intent on saying whatever he wants to say to me.

  ‘You’re hiding from him now? I thought you said you didn’t care any more?’

  Sometimes I love the fact that Emily can read my mind, and sometimes I wish my every action wasn’t so obvious to her.

  I gesture my head towards the stalls. Emily checks them all, and once I know no-one’s listening, I reply. ‘I don’t care, but I don’t want him in my face. I don’t want to deal with the conversation he wants to have. I hate it when people are determined to get something off their chest and they pretend it’s all about making you feel better, but really it’s just so they can feel less guilty. It’s steamrolling over someone when you’ve already knocked them flat the first time.’

  The words come out in an angry rush. I’m annoyed at myself for still caring, for spending the dance lesson lost in that stupid memory, and for how the memory still hurts me.

  Emily looks guilty. ‘I know it bothers you. I’ll let him know that you don’t want to talk.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, don’t say anything. I don’t want him to know we’re talking about him. All I want is for him to fade into the background so I don’t have to think about that humiliating moment over and over.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘Check he’s not outside waiting, so we can leave.’

  Emily disappears, then pops back in. ‘No Dylan sighting. I repeat, no Dylan sighting. All good to proceed.’

  We head out, and even though part of me wants to dash for the parking lot, I don’t, just in case Dylan’s watching at a distance. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of thinking he unhinges me that much.

  ‘Well, thanks to Mr White and his keep-the-same-partner policy, I’ve effectively road-blocked Dylan for every dance lesson until the end of term,’ Emily says.

  I can tell she still feels bad about hassling me.

  ‘You know I never rock the boat,’ I say, ‘but if I’d wound up being stuck with him —’

  Emily cuts me off. ‘Listen, Ade …’ She hesitates. Emily never hesitates.

  ‘I know you don’t want him to talk to you, but do you want me to tell you what he says to me instead?’ she asks. ‘He was talking about you all lesson, and part of me feels like you should hear
it. He cares about you, and he always did, but it’s different now.’

  Different now. The words make me feel ill. The reality of how we used to be, compared to how we are now, is sickeningly stark.

  I shake my head violently. ‘No. I’ve done all the talking about him that I ever want to do.’

  Emily looks uneasy. ‘Ade, I get it, but you’ll regret it down the track if I don’t tell you —’

  ‘Emily, you don’t get it!’

  I’m suddenly shouting, which shocks me as much as it shocks her. She jumps like a startled animal. I hate that I’ve shouted at her. I hate shouting.

  It’s weird. Before we left Jefferson, I felt sad. In Borneo, I felt sad and numb. Now we’re back, I just seem to feel angry, which is completely foreign and something I don’t know how to handle. It’s a mess — like when you’re little and trying to learn how to hold chopsticks.

  The anger melts away as Em’s arm goes round my shoulders. ‘Ade, I promise that from now on, Dylan’s evicted from the conversation.’

  Dad’s in a ridiculously good mood on the drive home. First, he’s over the moon that my day went well (not that I said anything about Theo — that would be way too embarrassing). Second, because his day went well: ‘My patients were so happy I was back, it was incredibly sweet.’ And third, because he’s been prepping for the dinner-party cook-off.

  Dad has always loved to cook. Mum liked making simple things, like omelettes or pasta or food she’d grown up cooking, but she hated working off a recipe. She liked to cook by feel, and measuring out cups of this or teaspoons of that never seemed like fun to her. Whereas Dad is in his element julienning carrots, or blowtorching crème brûlées, or making sure soufflés don’t sink. Any time they held a dinner party, Dad planned and executed the menu, while Mum topped up the guests’ drinks and socialised.

  ‘It’s relaxing for me,’ Dad would always say, and Mum would shake her head and say, ‘You’re a very odd man’, to which Dad would reply, ‘You chose this very odd man, remember?’ and kiss the top of her head.

  This dinner party is very different. For one, it’s not a series of courses like Dad and Mum would have done; instead, it’s food on platters and in big bowls, to be shared. And there are all sorts of dietary requests, from vegetarian to gluten-free to vegan and gluten-free, and a pescetarian who eats fish but not other seafood. Dad’s had to think outside the box for the recipes he’s planned. Finally, all the guests are early and want to help, and though Dad and Isobel are trying to explain it’s like a MasterChef cook-off, no-one’s taking any notice. Instead, they’re all helping to knead focaccia dough, scour vanilla pods and tear buffalo mozzarella into pieces.