The young man who meets her under the spotlight is nothing short of spectacular. Even though his body isn’t a boy’s—every muscle in his arms and chest ripples under the thin material of his shirt—his face is determinedly set. His smile is just too perfect to be a smirk. His slicked-back hair should be cheesy, but against his tanned skin, chiseled features, and broad shoulders, it’s the touch of Old World that he desperately needs. The touch that elevates him above the standing of a mere arrogant boy. That, and his beautifully wicked smile. His crisp white shirt is open at the throat, and his black pants are cut to perfection.
The tango god of my PG-13 dreams.
My jaw hangs low, low, low.
Blake starts to laugh.
The music cuts in. The bandoneóns count out the beat. The drums thud softly.
And the girl dips to the floor, dragging her left foot in a slow semicircle across the wood to begin the tango. The boy spins her in a lazy arc and then brings her up onto his chest.
She slides . . .
. . . down his body.
They mirror each other’s motions in perfect unison. To an unhurried beat. To a pair of Spanish guitars and a languid piano. Twisting, turning, dipping . . . gliding.
It’s beautiful. So elegant.
So fucking sexy.
The boy spins her in place with a single crisp flick of his wrist. She faces him. He catches the girl behind the right knee and lets her fall back almost to the floor, her curls dusting across the scuffed wood.
Then he pulls her across the scratched surface and she comes out of the dip, one hand on the side of his face. He meets her there, to finish the tango with a careful slide of their joined hands. The music fades, a note lingering from the double bass.
For a breathless moment, the entire club is still.
The stillness is swallowed by cheers. Men and women of all ages whistle their approval.
And I’m stuck there, dumbfounded. Motionless.
Needless to say, my dreams are no longer PG-13.
“You’re drooling, Maya,” Blake teases.
I’m rudely shaken from my fantasy. “Shut up, Gandalf.”
“Gandalf?” His eyes go wide.
“Well, somebody should tell you.” I try my best to peer down my nose at him, which is pretty difficult, since he’s so much taller. “That beard is the worst.”
“Actually, now that you’ve likened me to one of the Istari, I think I’ll keep it forever.”
Again, I’m forced to look him in the eye. “The Istari?” Disbelief flares in my voice.
“That’s what they’re called, love,” he condescends. “If you’d read the books instead of just watching the films, you’d—”
My eyes practically bug from my skull. “I read the books! My senior exit project was on The Silmarillion, you Oxford swine! I bet you—”
Mickey Taveras blasts from the speakers, cutting off the rest of my perfectly premeditated retort.
Indignation humming through the air, I march onto the dance floor to the sound of the salsa drums blasting from the speakers.
What a prick!
Who cares what he thinks anyway? I look around for Flinching Dustin, and find him sitting at a small table by the bar, deep in conversation with one of the Swedish girls who came to the club with us.
Whatever. All I need is a willing dance partner and a count of eight.
My focus renewed, I wait in the wings beside the crush of spinning bodies. In no time at all, a faceless guy takes hold of my hand, his palm settling on my waist as we turn across the dance floor.
I guess it is probably odd that I fell so in love with salsa, but the explanation is actually pretty simple. As children, Cristina and I bonded over Bollywood movies. Particularly all the dancing scenes. We would mimic the extravagant sequences in our favorite films, even down to constructing matching outfits out of my mother’s old saris. In return for me teaching her how to move like Aishwarya Rai (hahaha!), she taught me how to dance salsa like JLo.
And stars were born.
Over the last four years, I’ve managed to become pretty decent. I mean, I’m never going to be one of those girls who can clear a dance floor. But there’s nothing quite like the feeling of being able to move with this kind of abandon, forgetting all around you except the beat.
The guy in front of me takes my right hand and spins me across the wooden floor in a series of quick turns. I flash once, twice, three times . . . my eyes meeting his at the finish of each revolution. Once we whirl out of the turns, I whip my shoulder-length hair through the air and shimmy into the final count of eight.
His eyes widen, and he begins talking to me in a stream of rapid Spanish.
I shake my head and shrug ruefully as the next salsa song bursts from the speakers.
He smiles, then brushes a polite kiss across my knuckles.
“Maya.” Blake shoves his hand in my face for the umpteenth time tonight.
I bat him away like an errant mosquito. “Go away. I’m dancing.”
“I can see that.” Blake grins insufferably at my dance partner. “Do you mind, sir?” Even though my dance partner doesn’t speak English, he catches on right away, offering me over like a lamb to good-natured slaughter.
I frown, the memory of my last encounter with Blake still seared into my brain. Of my inexplicable unease. “I don’t want to dance with you.”
“I don’t want to dance with you either.” Blake takes my hand and swings me into his arms.
“Besides, I—”
When he blends seamlessly into the next count of eight, my mind is officially blown.
“What the fu—”
“You know,” Blake interrupts, “I don’t actually like salsa. I prefer bachata. I think it’s much sexier, don’t you?”
“Y-you—” I splutter before looking down at his feet. “You dance on two!” My accusation hangs in the air, as shrill as a cat’s dying screech.
“Oh?” He smiles. “You dance on one? See, this is never going to work between us, love. I knew it the moment I first saw you.” Blake spins me with a perfect flick of his wrist. When I face him once more, his eyebrows waggle in playful jest.
Then he rolls his shoulders back and forth, his tongue wedged between his teeth. It’s disturbingly sexy, in an awkward sort of way.
I can’t help it. Unabashed laughter spills from my lips, way too loudly.
When the song ends, I’m almost sorry.
Until another hand taps me on the shoulder.
It belongs to the tango god. The one of the crisp white shirt and the perfectly sly smile.
Holy shit.
Argentina, we are going to be good, good friends.
My heart slams in my chest as the tango god grins at me. Then he asks a question in heartbreakingly beautiful Spanish. I shake my head and point at my mouth, as though it’s to blame for my inability to speak. He laughs, and it’s just as gorgeous as everything else on him. Like honey and smoke.
He still holds out a palm, insisting.
Who cares that we can’t understand each other? Love transcends language. Transcends culture. Transcends—
“You should dance with him,” Blake says quietly.
Startled from the fairy tale weaving through my mind, I glance at Blake. The fuzzy dreamscape clears.
Sharpening into focus.
Standing before me is a boy who doesn’t flinch. A boy who isn’t a dream.
A boy who surprises me with his truth.
I hesitate. “But . . .”
Blake’s features soften. “I’ll wait for you over there.”
“You will?” I say softly.
“Of course.” He nudges me. “Let him sweep you off your feet. But only for a little while.” Blake leans in close, his breath brushing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Then let me show him how it’s really done.”
With a knowing smile, I take the tango god’s hand.
As I look back, Blake smiles at me.
There is
no trace of the Cheshire cat in it.
And I’m whirled into another dance.
With the possibility of something more over my shoulder.
Cass, An, and Dra
NATALIE C. PARKER
My futures are snaking threads that tangle through my present, my past. Mom tells Pia and me to mark the paths we choose so that we keep our memories in line with the reality we’ve lived.
She says, “Your great-aunt’s mind forked like a river and she lived two lives—one that was real, one that was only real in her mind. Those forks split again and again and again until she didn’t know who she was anymore.”
When we ask how that’s possible, her response is, “Just because we choose one future doesn’t mean the other one is forgotten.”
It’s a short story, but it has long fingers that have curled over my shoulders and around my throat since the first time I heard it. I must always know which future I choose and which I don’t, or my mind will wander away from me.
There are only ever two possible futures. They appear before me like a question: this or that? This has been true since the snakelike voices first whispered in my ear. Choose, Cass, choose. They do not care which way I choose, only that I do.
It’s like this.
An sits at the edge of the river, her white sandals flung on the sidewalk behind us, her legs hooked over the edge of the embankment. We are at the farthest end of the public path, away from the playground and open green. The only people who pass by are joggers and cyclists and teens like us, looking for a spot to call their own. We should not be hanging ourselves over the concrete barricade between the path and the river. It’s dangerous, not safe; risky behavior. The river here is fast and deep, but this is what An and I are—we are risk and challenge, we are the person the other constantly seeks to impress.
The day is as warm as Puget Sound summers get. The sky is clear for miles, and the river is flush with glacier melt. School is out and whatever hours we haven’t committed to working our asses off for cold, hard cash, we spend together.
With her hands pressed to the embankment behind her, An dips her body down until the bottom edges of her shorts darken with water. The river spills up her warm brown thighs. She laughs, tosses her bright smile up to where I sit with legs crossed, shoes on. I am not impressed, and she knows it.
“Cass,” she says, pulling herself out of the river and onto the concrete beside me. “Let’s go to the bridge. Let’s jump.”
I look down the river from where we sit. The bridge is half a mile away and more than a hundred yards up. We’ve talked about jumping for two years, since we were fifteen and the senior class shut down the bridge with a midnight party on the eve of graduation. Nobody jumped. The river there is rocky, though not shallow. The water is dark and tempting, and An and I decided jumping would be the kind of adventure that made us legendary: Cass and An, the kids who did what everyone else was too scared to.
Choose, Cass, choose.
If I say yes.
We’ll grab our bicycles from where we threw them in the grass and fly down the path. The summer sun will dog us all the way, warming our backs. My legs have always been stronger than An’s. Even so, I’ll be sweaty and breathless when we arrive. She’ll kiss me—salt and raspberry lips stealing the little breath I’ll have caught.
“Don’t think about it,” she’ll say. “Just do it.”
The river will race beneath us. My skin will prickle with sweat. We should not be doing this, but once we’re there, there’s no going back. We’ll wait until the cars have cleared before we climb to the other side of the fence.
The drop will look steeper without the protection of the fence. I’ll feel dizzy and alive in a way that is paralyzing and unlike anything I’ve felt before.
I know that is how I’ll feel. The future doesn’t come with sensation. It comes with facts. These are the things that will happen if I say yes. I only know the future, I don’t feel it.
An will take one of my hands in hers. Our palms slick and hot and unsteady.
“Don’t forget to scream,” I’ll say.
Then we jump. The world will rush by and it hurts—oh, I know it will hurt—when we hit the water. There is blood and a few tears and we’ll laugh even as the cold river sweeps us away.
If I say no.
An’s frown will be as pretty as any other part of her. I’ll lean forward and kiss her—river brine and raspberry lips stealing my breath.
She’ll pull away and try one more time. “Please. I’m bored.”
“Not today,” I’ll answer. “But I have a better idea.”
We’ll grab our bicycles from where we threw them in the grass and pedal to our secret spot. The air will be cooler beneath the bridge, the shadows closer. We know exactly how to slip between the scratching brambles of the blackberry bushes to the chilly space beneath.
An will kiss me, the river will splash and rush and I’ll kiss her back. She’ll take one of my hands in hers. Our palms slick and hot and unsteady, but we’ve been there before. I know exactly how that will feel. The future can’t hide it from me.
It all flashes through my mind in an instant. Like memories, they arrive fully formed. I know them as well as I know things that have actually happened, both paths as alive as if I’ve lived them. They fit snugly in my mind next to memories of what I ate for breakfast and the time I broke my arm jumping on (or off, rather) the trampoline behind An’s house. And that’s the way it always is. I remember every future I’ve never lived, so sometimes choosing one over the other seems irrelevant. Why bother if I’ll have both from this moment on? But Mom’s story of my great-aunt haunts every choice I meet. So I choose the brightest of the two, because that’s the moment I’ll remember.
It doesn’t matter that I know what happens on either path. What matters is the experience. It’s not knowing I’ll survive, it’s feeling the fall.
I say yes. We jump.
I decided long ago that I would always choose An. No matter what the future offered me, An was both relentlessly steady and perfectly unpredictable. I can’t control the futures I’ll see, but I can control my path through them. An is my guiding light, the compass that points true north through countless futures, and the force that will keep my mind steady.
We became best friends when we were just kids. Probably because the others in our grade weren’t born with the risk bone, but instead with the survival bone, the think-of-the-consequences bone. Or maybe we were too obsessed with each other to let anyone else get close. Whatever the reason, our transition from friends to best friends to something so much more was as natural as a growth spurt.
If I know nothing else, I know that my future will always include An. When the future says, “Here is another fork in the road, that way includes no An,” I say, “Then I choose this way.” When An says, “Let’s go to U Dub and study theater,” I say, “Okay.”
An calls on a Friday night. There’s a party—there’s always a party—and even though we are not the partying sort, she wants to go. This one will be different, she promises. It’s not in town. Not even close. It’s in so-and-so’s backyard, well, sort of their backyard. It’s in a lot next to so-and-so’s backyard that’s just been cleared for a new house, and it’s on the edge of a hill that overlooks the Cascade Mountains. It’ll be glorious, she promises. Mountains in the moonlight, a bonfire, and music, and someone’s bringing Jell-O shots.
An pleads and teases. It’s our last summer as kids, she says. It’ll never be the same, she says. She dares me to wear that top she loves so much. It’s soft and nips in oh so slightly at the waist in a way that makes me look more like a girl. An loves it. I don’t, but I’d wear it for her. I can imagine the smell of smoke, the gentle kiss of the night air against my cheeks. I will lose my head, dance until all I am is the beat of the bass, then lean into An’s arms and dissolve like paper in water.
In my mind, it’s nice. I think I’ll say yes.
But before I can answer her, I hear t
he snakes whisper in my ears. Choose, Cass, choose.
If I say yes.
The party will be everything An promised. It’ll be in a clearing that overlooks the mountains, the bonfire will be roaring, the stars will embody every diamond cliché I can think of. There will be dancing and shrieking and making out. I’ll wear the shirt An loves, but ground myself in cargo pants and boots. As usual, I’ll be a walking paradox that no one knows what to do with. No one except An. She’ll guide me into the dance, and I’ll catch the flash of her bright lips and the gloss of her dense brown curls in the firelight as she hops and twirls and tips her head to the sky. She’ll touch my waist, I’ll tug at my shirt and convince myself it fits, but ultimately, there will be something about the crowd I just can’t sink into.
I’ll slip out of the bobbing throng of bodies and find a spot at the edge of the clearing. I’ll lean against a pine tree, checking first for sap, and then I’ll wait for An to get her fill. I’m always envious of her ability not to care. Of course, it’s easier for her. I’ve always been unable to lose myself like she does, and instead I’ll lurk at the edge of the party where I can watch without being seen.
That’s when I’ll spot a figure directly across the clearing, leaning against a pine tree in much the same way I am. They’re disinterested in the party, but as soon as we lock eyes, I know that disinterest doesn’t translate to me.
The figure will move, push away from the tree and walk toward me with so much purpose, I’ll feel—I mean, I know I’ll feel—pinned in place, an iridescent beetle held still by the light pressure of a single finger. In the inconsistent cut of firelight, I won’t see more than the hip-length leather jacket, the confident stride, the flash of black hair against golden skin.
They’ll stop two feet from me, and I’ll be breathless.
“What’s your name?” I’ll ask.
“You don’t know?” Their voice will slip against my skin like satin.
“I don’t know you,” I’ll say in protest.
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