by Kristin Rae
“Why should I believe you?”
He straightens, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Because if you don’t, then you’re the one being childish. I thought you wanted me to kiss you, so I did. I didn’t know you were gonna make such a big thing out of it.”
He thought I wanted to kiss him. Nothing about him wanting to kiss me. Was he just being a guy, interpreting the situation however he wanted? He might have kissed any girl he’d been next to on that hayride. The tiny flicker of hope inside my chest dies. My first real kiss was just as fake as all my stage kisses.
Shutting my locker with a clang, I turn on the balls of my feet and take off down the hallway.
“Maddie,” Jesse calls after me and I ignore him. “Madison, stop!”
I whip myself around, eyes narrowed. “Don’t yell at me with my proper name like you’re bossing around a kid.”
“The office is this way,” he says, pointing in the opposite direction.
He catches my arm as I try to breeze past, and I glare at his hand until he lets go.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” he says. “You could probably even thank me.”
“Thank you?” I nearly shout, then lower my voice to a hoarse whisper to keep from getting in further trouble. “You’re so full of yourself, I’m shocked there’s even room for both of us in this hallway.”
“Stop it, I’m being for real. Those other losers will probably leave you alone now that everyone knows your first kiss was with me.”
My stolen first kiss.
I call upon the strength of all classy women before me and bite down a string of curses. “You’re such a cad,” I say, shoving past him toward the office to debate my way out of adding “cheater” to my expanding reputation.
Jesse rushes to catch up to me and shifts his backpack from one shoulder to the other. “I don’t know what that means,” he says before leaning in so close his cheek brushes against my loose curls. “But you’re welcome.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I’ve decided it doesn’t count,” I tell Sarah.
We’re sprawled out on the floor of the Moraleses’ TV room, sorting the DVDs I brought over, killing time while Angela and Tiffany flirt with the pizza-delivery guy downstairs.
“It doesn’t work like that,” she says, pushing The Philadelphia Story toward me. “This one sounds funny.”
I add it to the “maybe” pile for tonight’s meeting of Teens for Classic Movies.
“Maybe I wasn’t Texan enough for you.” I clear my throat, conjuring my best Southern drawl. “I ain’t countin’ it.”
Sarah shakes her head and lies on her back with a sigh, folding her hands over her stomach. “You can’t just pretend Jesse doesn’t exist for a week and magically erase the fact that he kissed you. And you kissed him back,” she adds with a cough. “We all saw it.”
I think back to the disaster of English class on Monday and shudder. Thankfully, all we got was a warning. “He almost got me sent to detention! There’s no way I would engage in a relationship with someone I have zero in common with.”
Sarah snorts. “No one said anything about getting engaged to the guy.”
“That’s not what—”
“And I’m sure you have something in common.” She sighs again. “There’s probably some chemical thing inside both of you, pulling you together. Some sparkly, otherworldly particle you both have buried deep in your hearts. Magic particles. Oooh, magnetic particles. Hence the pulling together.”
I blink. “Don’t get all weird on me.”
“I’m just trying to find a pretty way to say maybe what happened wasn’t quite the daydreamy accident you claim it to be. Maybe y’all are being brought together by the fates.” She rolls onto her side, propping her head up. Her bangs fall in front of her eyes but she leaves them. “He was active in theatre once upon a time, after all. I’d say that’s a thing you have in common that’s not too weird and otherworldly for you,” she says with a laugh.
“Doubtful,” I dismiss, though my pulse speeds up. “I can’t even get him to talk to me about it. He gets all PMS-y every time I bring it up.”
I add That Touch of Mink to the growing pile and put Send Me No Flowers back in my tote bag. I love Doris Day in both of these, but it might be a Cary Grant kind of night.
Sarah skims the synopsis of How to Marry a Millionaire and tosses it in for consideration. “This one sounds like it could be useful.”
I smile but my mind stays on track. “Was he amazing?”
She doesn’t look up from her task of movie-sorting. “I mean, his mom had him in classes all his life. He was bound to be amazing.”
“But he quit and never looked back? For sports? I just don’t get it. Did he get teased that badly about it? Haven’t we come further than that? Don’t people watch Glee?”
She grunts.
“You know, Gene Kelly wanted to quit dancing all the time,” I say, straightening. “He got teased and beat up, but he stuck it out, and look what happened. He became one of the most influential dancers of his time. He revolutionized the way movies filmed their musical numbers. He played the lead in one of the most beloved musicals next to The Wizard of Oz. He’ll be remembered and loved for, well, forever.”
“Hey, now don’t you go gettin’ all weird on me.” Sarah sits up the rest of the way, stretching her legs out in front of her. “You can’t compare Jesse to these old actors, you know.”
Leaning against the front of the couch, I stare at the cover of the Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly Collection, touching the smooth surface of the box where the white sailor hats sit crooked on their heads. For one night, Jesse was my sailor. And he’s fried everything in my brain.
Sarah moves to sit next to me and takes the box from my hands. “You’ll find the right guy for you one day, Maddie. It’s not something to get frazzled and depressed about.”
“Says the girl with the perfect boyfriend who happens to be the lead in the next school play,” I huff. “I, on the other hand, don’t think I’ll ever find a guy to fit my list of standards.”
She huffs back. “You probably won’t. The guy on my list has giant calf muscles because mine are huge and I’m self-conscious, black hair that’s long in the front and super short on the sides, plays the guitar, drives a sports car, and would be happy eating Chinese takeout every night for the rest of his life.”
I picture Ryan in his preppy clothes and clean-cut hairstyle. He drives a truck, like most every other guy at our school, and if I remember correctly, he isn’t very musically talented.
“That doesn’t sound like Ryan,” I say. “At all.”
“Right? He’s not anything close to what I thought I wanted.” She hugs her legs to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. “But he’s wonderful.”
We sit in silence as I let her declaration sink in. I mean, it’s great and I’m happy for her, but I don’t think I know what I want, I know what I want. And I don’t understand how I can be happy with less.
Only two other girls from school come to our first night as an advertised club. I guess I shouldn’t say only. It’s a miracle anyone comes who doesn’t have to be bribed. An Affair to Remember wins the vote, so it’s a Cary Grant kind of night after all. Following pizza, ice cream, and the movie, I lead a discussion comparing modern actors with their predecessors, but I get a bunch of blank stares and one request to watch The Princess Bride at a future meeting. Rather than argue that’s not exactly the type of classic movie I ever intend on highlighting, I give them the ole smile-and-nod and call it a night.
After Sarah and the two other girls leave, Angela and Tiffany pick out another movie. A new release with action like guns and explosions and guys without shirts spitting out one cheesy line after another. Total snoozefest.
I last about twenty minutes before I excuse myself for a bathroom break and peek in on Elise, who’s passed out hugging the plush elephant Jesse gave her on her first day of kindergarten a few months ago.
And I see a flash of my own future as an older sibling.
Will I be that thoughtful? I mean, sure I can be more thoughtful than an arrogant boy, but will I have any relationship with my sister or brother at all? For all I know, in a couple of years I’ll be in another state, or at least another city. I’m going to miss most of the milestones, like their first day of school, first missing tooth, first crush. Rider and I know what it’s like living under the same roof, playing together, throwing food at each other during dinner. This new little Brooks won’t remember the one year of his or her life when I was still at home. Will I remember to check in with this child throughout their life? Will I even want to?
The alarm chirps softly as it does when someone opens a door, and I head down the secondary set of stairs that lets out near the kitchen to see who else is up. The house is quiet and dark except for a night-light above the stove and floodlights filtering through the fancy decorative window between the cabinets on the back wall.
My eyes catch sight of something outside as it whizzes past the window. It happens again and I barely make out a flash of red on the white surface. A baseball. Which means Jesse must be home from work.
I feel my way around the furniture in the next room and twist the blinds open. Jesse’s only about ten feet out, illuminated in a yellow spotlight from the corner of the house. He winds up and pitches another ball toward the pool area, and my eyes follow it to a net, where it falls next to a few others. I sink sideways into an armchair and watch silently as Jesse brings the glove up toward his face, hikes up his left knee toward his stomach, stretches his right arm back, and hurls the last ball.
I’m a total creeper sitting here in the dark, like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window spying on his neighbors across the courtyard of his apartment complex. But instead of a little yappy dog digging up evidence of a murder in a flower bed, I spy Jesse scrambling around the bushes for stray balls. He pulls out the hem of his shirt, exposing the last couple of abs, and loads about five or six worn baseballs in his makeshift pouch, dumping them in the patch of dirt where he started.
He wipes his shiny brow with his forearm, selects a ball, twists it until his fingers are in just the right position along the red stitching, and throws again. I’m transfixed. On him. On his arms. The muscles that tense and relax, tense and relax. The graceful, fluid movement as he winds up and follows through. The narrowed eyes and the teeth that bite his bottom lip in frustration. Determination. He reaches down and scratches just above his knee before throwing the next one.
What I wouldn’t do to see those legs dance. Just once.
I’m quite tempted to let myself count that kiss, anyway.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Since we’re off from school the week of Thanksgiving, and because Ma’s being especially sentimental and emotional and a little too pregnant for me to be around, I spend most of my time working and practicing at the playhouse. By Wednesday, the place is pretty much deserted, with everyone out of town or getting a head start on cooking. Traditionally, I’d be baking something with apples or pumpkin right about now, but if I don’t get this triple time step down, I won’t be able to keep my spot in the upcoming production of Crazy for You.
I didn’t exactly blow anyone away in the dancing portion of my audition last weekend, but Mrs. Morales fought for me, and Mrs. Haskins, the director, said she admired my moxie and believed that with enough work and dance training, I could be one of the Follies Girls. It’s not much of a speaking part, but I’m onstage for quite a few scenes.
One step closer to Broadway!
I’m practicing in the smallest dance room—without music because so far all it does is throw me off—when I hear a door shut down the hall. I know I locked myself in, so whoever it is either has a key, or they broke in. Nothing much here to steal, though, except a bunch of dusty props and a closet full of costumes.
Using the opportunity to get a drink of water and take off my shoes for a while, I mosey toward the closed door just as whoever’s inside begins a tap warm-up. It’s the same routine Mrs. Morales taught me, starting with shuffles then progressively adding flaps, leaps, digs, stamps, and other things I can’t remember the names of. But this person goes past the part I know, and I don’t recognize the complicated sounds.
I’m standing here, mesmerized, with my hand on the knob just as I was nearly a month ago, the first time I heard someone tapping away behind a closed door. It has to be the same person. She’s incredible.
I must be taught by her.
I must be her best friend.
When the warm-up is over, I give a light knock and push open the door. The person’s back is to me, but it’s definitely a guy, which I wasn’t expecting. I was hoping to have some rockin’ female mentor, but I could work with a man . . . as long as we leave the door open and someone else is in the building.
I scan my eyes over his body and stop at his thighs. Suddenly I’m unable to breathe. I’d know those legs anywhere. I’ve dreamt about those legs.
“Jesse?”
He twists around to face me. It could be my imagination, but his cheeks look like they’re turning a shade or two darker.
“When did you get here?” he asks, a mix of irritation and surprise in his voice.
“I’ve been here a couple hours. You didn’t hear me practicing when you came in?”
He shakes his head. “And I didn’t see any cars. I thought I was alone.”
“Ah, yes. A car,” I say through a sigh. “Still need one of those.”
“Someone dropped you off?”
“Dad.”
He nods, scratching at his leg just above his knee like he did when I watched him practice pitching. Again, it draws my attention.
Then the realization slams into me like a stage curtain dropping right on my head: Jesse Morales is standing in front of me in tight black pants. And tap shoes.
I have to sit down.
I find the nearest chair and collapse into it, trying not to act like a freak. It’s just Jesse, dancing only for himself.
Such a waste.
I won’t stand for it.
He spins a chair around and straddles it, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows and crossing his arms over the chair back. His eyes are trained on the floor, but I wait long enough and eventually they find their way to me.
“So,” we both say at the same time.
“You still dance,” I finish, and I’m proud how quickly I’ve composed myself.
He inhales and lets the breath out slowly. “I help out with choreography.”
“Just choreography? I mean, you don’t like to dance sometimes? Just to . . . dance?”
“Madison, I’m not going to be in the show, so don’t even ask.”
I swallow hard and try not to shrink away from his infinite tone. It’s like I’m getting scolded, and I didn’t even do anything wrong. Yet.
“Well, I heard you through the door, and this isn’t the first time,” I tell him. “You’re good. You’re beyond good—you’re amazing.”
Now I know his cheeks are darker. “This can never leave this room.”
I agree to nothing, and he squirms in his seat until he can’t handle my staring, and clicks across the room to fiddle with his iPod.
I don’t know if I’m more dumbfounded that I may actually be about to witness Jesse dance or that he’s capable of being embarrassed about something. And in front of me. The fact that he’s still dancing and no one else knows . . . it’s like I have power. A very special power that must be manipulated very, very, very carefully. I shall use this power for good. My good.
“Teach me what you know,” I say from my chair because I’m afraid I still haven’t regained the ability to stand.
He laughs and abandons his iPod without choosing a song.
“Why would I do that?” he asks.
As he walks oh so slowly toward me, my ears barely register any sound from his shoes.
Because if I never see you dance, I might possibly die.
&nbs
p; “Because . . . you owe me?” It comes out as a question.
More laughter bounces off the mirrored walls as he continues his leisurely pace in my direction. He stops behind my chair, resting his hands on the plastic backrest. I keep my breathing as steady as possible, refusing to let him get to me. I can tell he’s leaning down to me, and I swear if he starts to sing I really will fall over right here on this floor.
“Maddie,” he says much too softly.
What was that I was just saying about me having power? And aren’t I supposed to be mad at him for . . . something?
“Like I said before, I helped you. I don’t owe you anything else.”
And the spell is broken.
I jump up and rush down the hall to my practice room, grab my shoes, and march straight back to my chair. Jesse looks on as I stifle a whimper and shove my sore feet in my shoes again. We have to wear character shoes for the performance, which are practically high heels with taps, so that’s what I have to practice in. They’re killing me.
“I mean it,” I say. “Stealing my first kiss and saying I should thank you is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. And you’re going to make it up to me.” I pause to see if he has a reaction, which he doesn’t, outside of narrowing his eyes. “By giving me tap-dance lessons.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t think s—”
“Oh, it’s happening. And it’s starting right now,” I demand. “Unless you want your secret to get out. . . . I’m sure your jock friends would love resurrecting your old moniker, whatever it was they called you. Twinkle Toes, perhaps?” I probably wouldn’t actually do that to him, but he doesn’t need to know that. This must happen even if self-preservation is his sole motivation.
A scowl takes over his face as he runs a hand through his thick hair.
“Furthermore, I’m in this show that your mother helped me get in, and I’m not going to mess it up with inferior tapping.”
He leaves me hanging for far too long before saying, “You know this means you’ll actually have to talk to me again.”