by Kristin Rae
“Well, considering it’s in the name of making it up to me, I’ll allow it. I may even start carpooling with you again, you know, for convenience.” Angela still takes me to school in the mornings, but my mom has been picking me up lately.
One of his eyebrows rises. “And we’d have to spend quite a bit of time together.”
“I’ll get over it.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up. “And you’d have to take it seriously.”
“I’ll be the most willing and dedicated student you’ve ever had,” I say, drawing an X over my heart.
Scratching his chin, he says, “What makes you think I’d be a good teacher?”
At this point, I don’t even care what kind of teacher he’d make. I just want to see the boy move.
Clearing my throat, I ignore his question and muster the courage to ask one of my own. “Can you show me your time step?”
He sighs. “Which one?”
“Um . . . the first one?”
When he reaches the middle of the room, his feet fly. All the steps are there, I see them, I recognize them. Stomp, hop, step, flap, stamp, stomp, over and over, alternating feet. It’s the most effortless movement I’ve ever seen from him. Like it’s easier than walking.
His ego wins out, and his steps transition into a continuous flow of the most beautifully complex rhythms. He moves across the floor with such grace and strength, my brain doesn’t understand how he could ever want to do anything but this.
I try to fight the thought, but this boy . . . he’s getting closer to what I want.
“Say you’ll dance with me,” I softly plead when he finishes the impromptu demonstration.
He chugs half a bottle of water and tosses it into his open duffel bag. “How much do you already know?”
I give my shoelaces one last yank and stand just in front of him. I shuffle my right foot, out-in, out-in. “Shuffle.” I do a similar movement, but instead of pulling my foot toward me at the second sound, I keep forward and put weight on it. “Flap.”
After a deep inhale, he closes his eyes and mutters, “This is going to be so much work.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Now that we’re talking again, I have my after-school driver back until the end of this year. In January, Jesse has practice with the baseball team after school, but Angela will be done with volleyball so she’ll chauffeur me around until I’m able to afford my own set of wheels—a slowgoing effort. Hard to save much working part-time at $7.50 an hour.
I don’t love being dependent on other people for rides. Even though it’s handy that my current carpool driver is also my instructor for my super-secret dance lessons twice a week.
We pull out of the school parking lot and head in the opposite direction from the playhouse.
“Wait, where are we going?” I ask, my legs bouncing in anticipation of getting to practice.
“Miss O’s” is all he says.
“Who?” I slouch in my seat, wondering why he didn’t just drop me off first.
“It’s a cupcake place.”
“Cake?” I exclaim, my mood brightening. “This isn’t some kind of trick, is it? You can’t joke about cake with me.”
“No tricks,” he says through a laugh. “I have to pick up an order for my mom and bring it to the playhouse.”
The small cupcakery, a cheerfully decorated space of pink and turquoise, is crammed in a busy shopping center not too far from the high school. The sweet aroma energizes me as soon as we walk in the door. I rush to the display case to ogle the miniature cakes swirled high with frosting and sprinkled with colored sugars or chocolate chips. I want them all.
“What’s their best flavor?” I ask as he rings the bell on the counter.
“I usually get vanilla,” Jesse says.
I scrunch my nose at him. “You would.”
An employee comes out from the back, pulling an apron over her head. “What can I get y’all?”
“Just picking up an order for Sherri Morales.”
I frown when the girl turns to find it. “You do realize I want one, right?”
He laughs. “I do now.”
The girl slides the box of mini cupcakes onto the counter. “Anything else?”
“Do you have a yellow cupcake with chocolate on top?” Jesse asks.
I gape at him. That’s exactly what I was scanning the case for but couldn’t find. My absolute favorite.
She shakes her head. “No, but we have lemon poppy seed.” She points to it, then to another. “Or maybe you’d like the chocolate with chocolate frosting?”
He shrugs. “Vanilla’s fine.”
I order red velvet and Jesse pays for both of ours.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll get the next one. Now that I know this place is here, we’re coming back. And soon.”
I hover my face over the plate to inhale the goodness as I head for the bar table along the front window.
Jesse takes the stool next to me and picks at the white icing of his cupcake with a plastic fork. “Sorry you won’t get as much time to dance today. I know you need the practice.”
“Oh, don’t even!” I resist smacking him upside the head. No matter how true his words are, he better be joking. “We’ll just have to make up the time the day after tomorrow.” I take a bite of the moist red cake and suppress an embarrassing sound of enjoyment.
“Fine.” He flits his hand in the air like he’s tired of the subject.
“Do you think red velvet is really just chocolate cake with red food coloring?” I ask.
He glances at my plate before he says, “How should I know?” Abandoning his fork, he picks up his cupcake with his fingers. His mouth is open as wide as it can get, but the tower of icing heads straight for his nose.
“Just trying to make conversation. If you’d rather sit here in silence like we do on most of our rides home, fine by me.” I swivel my stool at a slight angle away from him.
In my periphery I see the entire hunk of icing fall down to his plate. I risk a glance and laugh at him.
“Finally something he can’t do.”
“It just fell off.”
“Elise could eat that with less of a mess.” I snatch a napkin from the dispenser and hand it to him, motioning toward his upper lip.
He misses a glob on his nose, which shimmers with sugar crystals. “This is a sissy dessert, anyway.”
“You poor cupcake-challenged boy.” I grab another napkin and help him.
He jerks his head away, and I end up smearing the icing down his cheek.
“Would you just sit still?”
I swipe at the streak with a finger, accidentally grazing the corner of his mouth. Our eyes meet, and my mind jumps to Halloween, the last time we looked so closely at each other.
His cell phone rings, thankfully snapping me out of any swoony thoughts I had at the memory of our kiss. The kiss I keep trying not to count but can’t forget.
He pulls it out of his pocket and answers. “Hey, Franklin. What’s up?”
I nearly snort. “There’s a person named Franklin?” I ask so only Jesse can hear.
He smiles and twists the phone away from his mouth. “Last name,” he whispers to me before saying, “She dumped you? Oh, man, that’s lame,” to whoever Franklin is.
I try to tune out the tough-guy style of consoling and focus on enjoying the last few bites of cream cheese icing. Most of his words blend in with the easy listening background music, but I can’t help hearing loud and clear when he says, “Girls are stupid, man. Not worth the effort.”
My chewing slows and my body feels heavy. He keeps chattering on, oblivious to my inner crisis.
I tell myself he’s just feeding that Franklin kid lines, but it had to be in his head to say it in the first place. I don’t know if he really feels that way himself, or if he took the opportunity to send me a hint, but I do know he just said one of the most unromantic things I’ve ever heard in my life.
I work extra hard at practice, maybe to prove t
o myself and to him that I’m worth the time he’s spending to train me. He doesn’t seem to notice my determination, but my body sure does. By bedtime, I’m babying a new blister and massaging my calves to keep them from cramping. But I shall not whine. I’m that much closer to having dancers’ legs.
I click off my paper lantern creation above my bed and collapse onto the feather pillows, my new mantra repeating in my head: Boys are stupid. Not worth the effort.
All boys except for one, who I can only dance with in my dreams.
I’m floating between awake and asleep when my phone vibrates from the nightstand.
Jesse: You’re mad again.
Me: I’m asleep.
Jesse: Obviously.
Me: . . . ?
After a few minutes with no response, I hug my pillow, setting my mind on the ballet with Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse in Singin’ in the Rain. It’s one of my favorite scenes visually, a wide expanse of pastel pinks and purples, with Gene contrasting in all black. And it’s all in his character’s head. He knows he can’t have the girl, but in his dreams, he sees them together. He fights with everything he has to show her he can be what she needs.
The long white veil from the top of my dress catches the breeze and floats behind me like a cape. I circle him and it clings to his body. He twists around and uses it to guide me against him, spinning and wrapping us both in the fabric.
Dropping to one knee, he leans me down across his leg, eyes studying my face.
Mine study him too. Deep brown eyes, tiny scar on his cheek, lips that part and—
My phone buzzes. Again. I consider throwing it against the wall.
Jesse: Tell me what I did.
Me: Gee. Could you have said something offensive, I wonder? You think girls are what, now?
Jesse: I don’t think you’re stupid.
Me: What a relief. I think I’m trying to sleep.
Jesse: You know I was just saying what Franklin wanted to hear.
I roll my eyes, tapping a fingernail on the screen until I figure out what I want to say back.
Me: Then you should have said that PARTICULAR girl, not “girls,” which is all-encompassing. I was sitting right there.
Jesse: I just had to use my dictionary app. This further proves you are not stupid.
I turn onto my side and pull the sheet up over my smile, as if he can see.
Jesse: So . . . we good?
And the smile’s gone. The kiss is definitely not counting.
Me: Was that an apology?
Jesse: Yes.
Me: Well it sucked. Add it to the list of things you have to make up to me.
Jesse: There’s a list? When will you decide I’ve appropriately rectified all of these wrongs?
Me: Excellent use of that dictionary app.
Jesse: Thank you.
Jesse: That wasn’t an answer.
Me: I’ll let you know when it happens.
Jesse: I’ll take the use of “when” as optimism.
Me: Autocorrect. Should have been “if.” Good night.
Jesse: Night.
Jesse: And I’m sorry.
I return my phone to the nightstand and burrow under the covers. My mind speeds through the same dance scene to pick up where I left off, with me in place of Cyd, of course. But when I get to the part with the dipping and the kissing, Gene’s also replaced.
With Jesse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rica bursts through the door of the mock apartment onstage, in costume, and asks in a panic, “Are there M&M’s in the greenroom?”
We’re putting the finishing touches on the black box theatre before the opening of Barefoot in the Park tonight, and the prima donna is getting on everyone’s last nerve. If Ryan gets through all three performances without wringing her neck, it will be a miracle.
I stop straightening a row of chairs and blink, my head cocked to the side as I try to figure out if I heard her right. “Uh, no. I don’t think so.”
“I need M&M’s.”
“I suppose you also want me to pick out all the blue ones, or something ridiculous?”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Like I want you touching anything I’m going to eat.”
I flash her my teeth in a sarcastic smile and blink a few more times, with no intention of hunting down candy just for her. I may be in charge of the greenroom tonight as part of my extra credit, but I’m not a personal assistant to a movie star.
Mrs. Morales’s voice calls out from the room entrance. “I’m about to let our audience take their seats. Rica, get back behind that door, and everyone else, get where you’re supposed to be, please. Show starts in fifteen minutes.”
Rica disappears and I head for the last row reserved for students in theatre classes and claim a seat beside a younger girl I don’t know. We smile at each other, but I’m saved from having to start a conversation when Brian plops into the empty aisle seat on my other side and hands me one of the programs we just spent the last hour folding and stapling together.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” He unzips his navy hooded sweatshirt. “You’re thinking about how annoying it is that when it’s cold outside it’s hot inside?”
“Well, now I am, but no.” I point to the cast list on the program.
“Could have been us.” He reaches toward me like he’s about to pat my leg or something, then changes his mind.
“Should have been.” I twist in my seat and wait until his eyes find mine. “Have I apologized recently? Because I’m so, so, so sorry. We had it, and I ruined it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it for my sake. I think Ryan would have gotten the part anyway. He’s really good.”
“You’re better at the funny,” I offer quietly, so no one overhears.
He looks away from me but smiles, biting a fingernail. “Did you watch any of their rehearsals?”
“No,” I huff. “I don’t even want to watch it now, but whatever.”
“Just focus on Ryan. We’re here for him, not her.”
I sigh, crossing my arms. “I know, I know.”
“And I brought him flowers for the curtain call,” he says with a laugh. “Some really girly-looking pink and white ones.”
“Oh, that’s great!” I smile. “I should have gotten some for Sarah for directing.”
“We can divide them up if you want.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, and he nods. “Where are they?”
Brian looks around on the floor. “Shoot. Left ’em in my car.” He stands and tugs his sweatshirt around him. “Be right back.”
I thumb through the cream-colored pages of the program without really reading the ads, but my heart flutters when I spot a half-page promo for Crazy for You at the playhouse next month. I want to shout to everyone taking their seats around me that I’ll actually be in that one. And maybe someone will bring me flowers.
“You look jealous,” says a familiar voice.
Jesse’s standing over me, dressed in a green shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, as usual, and thumbs hooked on the pockets of his distressed jeans. His dark hair spikes up every which way, and I wonder if he spent half an hour getting it to look that perfect or if he just ran a hand through it.
“I’m not jealous, I’m . . . disappointed. In myself.” The program falls out of my hands and flutters to the floor, where I leave it. “And I’d rather not be here,” I mutter.
“Me neither.” Jesse sits next to me, settling in like he’s planning to stay there for the whole performance.
“Brian was sitting there,” I say.
“You want me to move?” He faces me as the houselights cut off, daring me to answer with that smug smile of his.
My mind takes me back to that dream where I was dancing with Gene and suddenly he turned into Jesse, and I’m thankful I’m sitting down. And I’m glad it’s Jesse next to me and not Brian.
I shake my head. “So why are you here? I thought this wasn’t
your thing . . . anymore.”
“Mom likes the support, or whatever.”
“That sounds so sincere.” I snort.
“Hey, I came, didn’t I?”
Brian reappears as the music intro plays through the speakers, a mass of assorted flowers in hand. He looks from me to Jesse with his mouth hitched to the side, one of his cheeks puckering.
“That’s my seat,” Brian says.
“I told him that,” I’m quick to say, so he doesn’t think I had anything to do with it.
Jesse shrugs.
“Come on, man,” Brian says, clearly annoyed. “Just go sit somewhere else.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Jesse rests a boot over the opposite knee. “If you wanted to sit by her so bad, you shouldn’t have gotten up.”
“Whoa,” I say, turning to Jesse in surprise. “I’m flattered to be worth your time.”
“Shut up,” he fires back through a laugh.
Brian throws me one last glance for help, but all I can do is mirror his puckered expression, secretly thrilled two guys are practically fighting over who gets to sit next to me. He gives up and sidesteps past us to the end of the row, and Jesse crosses his arms and sinks deeper into his chair, satisfied.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Jesse asks as the music plays on but the actual show has yet to start.
“I don’t know,” I answer, staring at a girl’s wavy hair in front of me. “It’s Saturday, so probably sleeping in. Why?”
“Feel like a bonus practice session?”
My eyes widen. “For realsies?”
His body shakes once as he swallows a laugh. “Yeah. For realsies. I’m free in the afternoon if you are.”
I look at him and he’s making this face I’ve never seen on him, eyes soft and almost . . . hopeful? Maybe he misses dancing more than he let on.
I can work with that.
“Sure. Tomorrow.”
The stage lights brighten, and Rica once again bursts through the door to the living room of the tiny one-bedroom apartment, humming a melody, filling an empty paint bucket with invisible water for a bouquet of flowers.
I lean toward Jesse to comment on the set and our shoulders press together. He tilts his head down to hear me, and I find myself staring at his ear, my thoughts gone. His ear, of all things. We all have them, they’re nothing special. I move even closer, hoping that if I lose focus on it, I’ll remember what I was going to say, but I still haven’t said a word and he turns to look at me without warning. Our cheeks brush against each other, and we pull away slowly. A tremor shoots down my spine to my toes.