Finding Your Feet

by Cass Lennox

“‘Not at all.’ Jesus, you crack me up.”

  They stood and ambled over to the dance machine stall. Two people were currently on the machine, stomping in time to the instructions on the screen, while four people with weary expressions sat watching. Two students—judging by the U of T cap one of them was wearing—with a camera filmed the guys on the machine from the edge of the crowd. Sarah went up to three lithe-looking people waiting at a table at the front of the stall. Other lithe-looking people chatted at the back of the stall, but Sarah ignored them.

  Evie and Bailey hung back to watch the guys on the machine. One of them was doing well, but the second one lagged woefully behind, messing up further in his haste to catch up.

  “You ever do this?” Evie asked Bailey.

  “No way.” They even wrinkled their nose; clearly the idea didn’t impress.

  “My friends and I used to. Back at uni, I mean.” Evie smiled at the memories. “There’s nothing like dancing on that thing after four Jägerbombs. I can’t believe they still make these.”

  They watched until the end of the song. The lagging dancer sagged at the end, relieved it was over.

  “Man,” he said to the one who’d passed with a reasonable score. “You owe me big time.”

  A girl in the crowd next to Evie clapped loudly. “Mark! That was amazing! You were awesome!”

  The winner, waved happily at her. “Thanks, baby.”

  Two of the judges whispered intently while the other two scribbled notes. Or what looked like notes; Evie saw one of them pull out a folded piece of newspaper from behind a sheaf of papers and place it on the table in front of her, a half-finished sudoku puzzle prominent on the top. The two whispering judges stopped talking and the one wearing a blazer shrugged as though she couldn’t care less.

  “Mark,” called the other judge, a lean man with a receding hairline. “You’re in.”

  Mark’s girlfriend shrieked wildly while Mark victory-punched the air, then high-fived his exhausted friend.

  Sudoku Judge sighed and began assembling papers from under the puzzle. The one next to her smirked at something on his phone.

  As Mark and his friend left the dance machine, Sarah came up to Evie and Bailey, hands wringing guiltily. “Um, guys, sooo, Tyler is my friend, and he’s one of the dancers doing this competition thing, and he was saying that they’re short on people and well . . .”

  Bailey held up their hand. “Hell no.”

  Sarah’s eyes went big and puppyish. “Please. I said we’d go on the machine once, just to draw some people in. I want to help him out, please?”

  “Your friend is a dancer?” Evie looked around Sarah at the dancers she’d been talking to. They were all gorgeous: a woman with a sweet face talking on the phone, a vest-clad, sparkly guy staring in shocked disbelief at Mark, who approached him with forms in one hand and the other held high, and a grumpy-looking lean black guy next to the sparkly guy. Grumpy caught her staring, and Evie felt something like an electric shock go through her. Oh. What was that? He scowled, then turned to his friend.

  Hmm. Pleasant. She couldn’t imagine Sarah being friends with someone negative, so clearly Tyler had to be the sparkly guy.

  “—do you mind?” Sarah asked her.

  Evie pulled herself back to reality. “What?”

  “Going on the machine with me?”

  Evie looked at the dance machine. Dance on that thing with Sarah? Well, if Bailey wasn’t willing, it was a no-brainer. “Of course not. I can do those things in my sleep.”

  “You can, eh? Go easy on me.”

  Minutes later, when they were standing there eyeing the countdown on the screen, Evie remembered that university was five years ago and that she hadn’t danced on one of these since her second year of uni, which really meant six years of not doing this. Also, she’d never done this sober.

  Bugger.

  New experiences, Evie. Dancing on a machine in front of a crowd of strangers. No sweat.

  The beat started, and she focused on the arrows in front of her. A tinny Britney Spears track trilled from the machine, but she barely noticed as she caught the first few arrows without a problem. Step. Step. Too lightly and the machine wouldn’t register, too hard and it would slow her down. Stomp, stomp, step.

  The song kicked into the bridge, and a flurry of arrows started scrolling. Evie stomped, her arms flying in time to the rhythm while her feet struggled to coordinate with the arrows and the beat. She missed a few and joined back in on an easy step, carelessly swiping at the sweat on her face. Christ, when had this ever been fun?

  Oh, right. After four Jägerbombs.

  Four frantic minutes later, the song finished and she sighed in relief. Her score ran across the screen, pleasingly high considering she hadn’t done this in years. She looked over at Sarah to see her panting and wide-eyed.

  “Holy shit-snacks.” Sarah pointed at the screen. “Look at that score!”

  “Eh, it’s all right.” Evie became aware of a low roar behind her, and she turned to see a sizeable crowd cheering and clapping. She grinned and bowed, receiving more cheers. She turned to Sarah. “That was fun.” Surprisingly, she meant it.

  “I need to sit down. I’m too old for this.” Sarah hobbled off the machine. “Tyler owes me a drink.”

  Evie went to join her but found her way blocked by two of the judges, the ones with the receding hairline and the expensive blazer. Blazer looked annoyed while Receding was excited.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “that was the highest score today.”

  “Really?” Evie said. If she was the highest score on that machine, they had to be scraping the bottom of the barrel for this . . . What was this for again?

  She turned to read the signs scattered around the tent, but the judge kept her attention.

  “My name is Derek Hastings, and this is Justine Cherry.” He held out his hand and Evie shook it, unsure why he was so excited. “We are the directors of QS Dance and Cherry Studios, respectively, and I would just like to congratulate—”

  “You on partnering one of my dancers for the competition,” Justine butted in, shaking Evie’s hand firmly in turn. Very firmly.

  “Competition?” Evie struggled to remove her hand from Justine’s grip.

  “You definitely don’t want to embarrass yourself with one of them,” Justine added, pointing at the nearby dancers.

  “Justine, you’ve allocated your dancers’ partners already,” Derek hissed at her.

  “We’ll swap. She’s a smart girl.” Justine’s green eyes flickered to Evie. “You’re gay, right?”

  “Excuse me?” Evie asked coldly.

  “Please excuse us a moment, Miss—er,” Derek faltered, having not gotten her name. “Er, ma’am.” He spun Justine around and leaned in close to her, whispering fiercely.

  Oookay. Time to walk away from the strange, rude people. Evie side-stepped around them, only to see the sudoku woman approach her. She held forms in her hands but, unlike Derek and Justine, didn’t intrude into Evie’s personal space.

  “I’m Jean Hastings, assistant director for QS Dance. You’re good.” She smiled at Evie. “What’s your name?”

  What in the world was going on? Who were these people? “Evie Whitmore.”

  “Evie, please consider taking part in our competition. Do you have three hours free every day for the next week?”

  Evie blinked, then finally turned to look at the signs littered around the stall. Perform at Pride! Be partnered with a dancer from two of the best dance schools in Toronto! Learn to dance in seven days! LGBTQA2S and allies welcome. Must be comfortable appearing on film.

  Things clicked together.

  Oh bollocks.

  “I’m very sorry,” she started, “I didn’t really know about—”

  “She’ll do it.”

  Startled, she looked over to see the lean, grumpy dancer at her side. When did he get there? He was her height, with dark curly hair and light-brown skin, and he glared at her as though she were some kind o
f idiot. But he had to be one of the most gorgeous men Evie had ever found abruptly standing next to her—not that she was an expert on the matter.

  And like all vaguely good-looking men, he came with entitlement and an apparent inability to mind his own business. Or perhaps he was just as rude as his boss.

  Time to end this nonsense.

  “She can speak for herself,” she said, crisply enunciating every syllable.

  His eyebrows raised. “Sorry.”

  That strange feeling shot through her again. She ignored it and turned back to Jean. “I’m terribly sorry, but my friend didn’t tell me that this was an actual audition, and I’m afraid I can’t—”

  “Evazilla, do it!” Sarah joined them, practically flinging herself into their little circle. Next to her, the stocky cameraman aimed a camera at Evie, occasionally panning to something over her shoulder. Evie glanced behind her—the judges were hissing in each other’s face. Hmm. Professional.

  Sarah’s voice drew her back to the conversation. “You should totally do this. You’re on vacation! You have the time.”

  Jean and the dancer’s faces turned crafty. Evie was going to kill Sarah for revealing that.

  “You will be compensated for your time,” Jean said.

  “No, I won’t,” Evie told her. “Tourist visa.”

  “It doesn’t have to be monetary.” Jean seemed pleased. She nudged the dancer.

  “It’s a really good opportunity,” the dancer said, as though that should be obvious to her. “Please do it.”

  Evie stared at them all: Jean looked hopeful, Sarah was excited, the cameraman looked bored but gave her a thumbs-up when she caught his eye, and the grumpy dancer waited with his arms crossed. Behind her, the two judges—directors?—still argued.

  “Justine, this kind of behaviour is beneath both of us,” Derek said.

  “I didn’t organize this in order to lose,” Justine responded coolly.

  Christ on a stick. What the hell was wrong with these people?

  “Please,” the dancer repeated. Meddling and scowl aside, he seemed sincere about her doing it.

  Dancing. Her? Really? A week of learning something new, then showcasing it at Pride; that would definitely be a challenge. Evie didn’t know the first thing about dancing, but all these people seemed to think she could do it. Plus, hadn’t Sarah said something about them struggling to find people?

  Evie sighed. While it was a pleasant novelty to have a gorgeous guy begging her for something, she couldn’t stretch this out any longer.

  She turned to Jean. “Three hours a day?”

  Jean smiled triumphantly. “Yes. More if your schedules can support it. I’ll ensure you’re compensated somehow for your time. You will be matched with Tyler, who’ll be responsible for your performance and who will perform with you at Pride.”

  Tyler. Right. Sarah’s friend. This would probably be fun with someone like him. Evie had visions of jazz hands and flamboyant spinning. “. . . Fine.”

  “Yes!” Sarah crowed, hugging her. The cameraman managed a double thumbs-up while balancing his camera on his shoulder.

  Jean thrust the forms and a pen under Evie’s nose. “Please fill these in. We require a deposit, to be refunded when you complete the performance next Saturday.” She glanced over Evie’s shoulder and pulled one form from the bottom of the pile. “I would appreciate it if you signed this one now.”

  Evie skimmed the form as Sarah bounced next to her. On her other side, she was strangely aware of the dancer staring at her. What was his problem? She raised an eyebrow at him.

  He was smirking. “Did Sarah just call you Evazilla?”

  Jesus Christ. Evie felt herself blush. Wasn’t it time for him to disappear? Why did he care anyway?

  Sarah’s friend hadn’t seemed flustered at all until he’d asked her about that name. She’d come off the stupid dance machine with the highest score of the day, bowed to the crowd like a pro, handled Justine and Derek well considering they’d practically ambushed her, and only now did she look even a little self-conscious.

  She went adorably red, then sputtered, “It’s a nickname.”

  Tyler couldn’t help grinning. When he’d spoken to Sarah on the phone, she’d said a British friend from the internet was visiting and that she was a lot of fun. So far, so true. Her accent made her outrage seem that much more furious. It tapped into his inner flirt and made him want to tease her more, which was odd because he hadn’t seen his inner flirt since way before breaking up with Lucette.

  He tried to damp it down, but, “Oh yeah? What kind of nickname?” came out despite himself.

  “One that’s none of your business, thanks.”

  “How mysterious.” He grinned. “You’re an international woman of mystery.”

  The look of furious disbelief he got was worth it.

  Sarah shook her head. “Ty, stop. Her name is Evie.”

  Evie did a double take. “You’re Tyler?”

  He waved. “’Sup.”

  Evie crossed her arms. “You must be joking.”

  Sarah glanced between them, a big grin on her face.

  Maybe this could be going better.

  Jean tapped the form. “Evie, focus.”

  Evie glared at him again, then returned to reading the form. Long seconds later, she signed it. Tyler released a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. Jean pulled the paper away and left to add it to the forms from the previous people who’d agreed to this joke of a competition. Sarah clapped her hands and bounced around some more. Trust her to be more excited than the people actually taking part.

  Behind Tyler, Derek exhaled sharply. “Justine, we’ve scared away the crowd and it’s lunchtime. I’m too hungry to have this conversation with you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Tyler watched as Justine dropped a thin hand onto Evie’s shoulder and Evie instantly twisted out from under it. She regarded Justine with open disapproval, for which Tyler couldn’t help giving her a mental high five. Justine wasn’t known for being nice for the sake of it.

  “Sorry about that,” Justine said breezily. “Where were we?”

  “Leaving,” Jean said from the judges’ table. “She signed with us.”

  Justine arched an elegantly plucked eyebrow. “Oh? That is . . . unfortunate.” Tyler took a step back; she was pissed. She fixed Evie with a wide smile, one so forced Tyler thought he could almost see her cheeks straining. “You can still back out of it. My dancers are far more experienced and highly trained than—” her eyes ran over Tyler, unimpressed “—these people. It’s not a problem to swap over to my school. We would love to have you.” Behind her, Derek ground his teeth audibly.

  Evie glanced at Tyler and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t tempt me.”

  Seriously?

  “What?” Justine asked.

  Evie smiled like a shark finding a school of fish. “I’m most terribly sorry, Justine, but the answer is absolutely not. See, I don’t mind these people.”

  Damn. Damn. Her tone was so cold it was freezing Justine’s face all on its own.

  “Though, I might be persuaded if you could answer one little question for me,” she continued. Sweet though she sounded, her eyes bored into Justine’s. “What’s my name?”

  “Excuse me?” Justine asked, obviously taken aback. “Your name? It’s . . .” She fell silent, lips thinning. Behind her, Derek turned red.

  Tyler looked between them. Wait, no introductions had happened back there? Ha. Amazing. He’d expect no less from Derek and Justine, given how cutthroat they were being about this. But Evie didn’t know them, and she didn’t seem willing to play ball.

  “Exactly.” Evie’s smile dropped from her face. “Where I’m from, we appreciate good manners. You’re incredibly rude.” She glowered at them: him, Katie’s camera guy, Derek, and Justine. “In fact, you’re all vultures. It’s just a bit of dancing. Sarah, we’re late for lunch.” She marched off, forms crumpled in one hand.
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  Well. Shit. Tyler crossed his arms, impressed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen someone tell Justine off before.

  Sarah winked at him before following her.

  Jean called after them, “Get those forms back to me when you show up for your first session!”

  Justine’s lips had turned nonexistent. She turned on Derek. “Keep her. I don’t need some oversensitive tourist asking me stupid questions.” Then she marched off, a perfect example of a pissed-off white lady. Her business partner, Patrick, stood with a sigh, shook Jean’s hand, and walked after Justine.

  Derek gave one long exhalation and quirked a smile at Tyler, Jean, and the camera guy. “That went great, don’t you think? We got good people in the end.”

  Tyler wanted to scoff. I mean, yeah, Derek, we did, but the one I’m partnered with hates us all.

  The camera guy, whose name was Brock if Tyler remembered correctly, shrugged and walked over to Katie, the film student. She had watched all proceedings from a spot beside the stall, making notes, chewing gum, and generally being as unobtrusive as her mother, Justine, wasn’t.

  Tyler turned to gaze after Evie. She, Sarah, and Bailey were walking towards the other end of the park. He’d been waiting most of the morning to be assigned a partner to teach, so he was relieved to finally have one, especially someone who seemed promisingly able. But, magnificent as that display of temper was, it was also a little worrying. What if she was a diva? What if she was difficult to teach?

  Worse, what if she was another temperamental freak like Lucette?

  Speaking of temperamental freaks who also happened to be divas, one of them draped an arm over Tyler’s shoulders. “She’s a fucking firecracker,” Gigi said.

  When Evie and Sarah had first stepped up to the machine, Gigi had made joke after joke about their appearance, like he had about nearly every single person who’d auditioned, earning him a smack on the back of his head from Carmen. He’d only stopped when he’d realized Evie was a natural, and switched like lightning to requesting a swap. Apparently Mark the Jock wasn’t quite to Gigi’s tastes. It would’ve been funny if Tyler wasn’t so used to Gigi being, well . . . Gigi. Tyler had said no at the time, preferring talent over brawn, but after that flash of temper, he was tempted to reconsider it.