Finding Your Feet

by Cass Lennox

“No, it’s just . . . um . . .” She couldn’t say Tyler’s presence seemed to make her more awkward than she already was, not to someone who knew him so well and who seemed prone to reading into things. “I, uh, I’m not a dancer, Sarah. I jog slowly and do aerobics and lift weights when I remember to. Not dance.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Listen to you. ‘I’m not a dancer. I only do every other form of exercise.’ You can handle this.”

  “I can barely touch my toes.”

  Sarah took one of Evie’s hands in both of hers. Perhaps it was just Sarah, but Evie had a feeling Canadians were a relatively touchy-feely bunch compared to the British.

  Sarah’s hands were warm and dry, and she gazed steadily at Evie. “Honey. Relax. Relax. I kinda think that’s the point of this thing. Tyler’s a teacher. It’s his job to teach you from scratch.” She patted Evie’s hand. “You’re in good hands.”

  Like she’d said at lunch, that wasn’t the point. “I don’t think I made the best of impressions.”

  “Whaaat? No way, you were great! All in everyone’s faces and not taking shit and raaar.” Sarah made claws. “Very Evazilla.”

  Evie frowned. “Yeah, but that’s not really okay. I was brought up to be decorous and accommodating.” It would be helpful to at least not snap at people, especially if they were Tyler and dancing with her for the next week. Oh dear. Trust her to start off on the wrong foot.

  “Overrated,” Sarah declared, sipping her beer. “This is Canada, not England. We’re polite, but we’re not doormats.”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “It is, Evie.” Sarah turned uncharacteristically serious. “You weren’t rude, you just gave their shit back to them. You sassed Justine. You think she liked you before that? She didn’t. Her and Derek, and yeah, even Tyler, they didn’t give a crap about who you are and that you have manners and are supposed to be—what was it, decorous? You know? You fixed a problem for them, and now they like you fine. What you said doesn’t matter. What you did does.” She smiled. “You’re good people, Evazilla, but you can’t care about what strangers think about you like that. You can’t be perfect to everyone.”

  Evie opened her mouth to say she didn’t care what Justine thought, but stopped when Sarah’s point sank in. Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought it was.

  “Especially when they crowded you like that,” Sarah added. “My God, you should have seen Derek and Justine behind you.” She held up her hands and mimed two mouths snapping at each other.

  “I did see that. I think everyone saw that.”

  “And,” Sarah’s eyes sparkled with glee, “everyone’s going to see you dance on stage at Pride.”

  Evie’s stomach plummeted. Bugger. She hadn’t quite taken in that aspect of it. She picked up the event sheet and skimmed the description. Static stage somewhere on Church Street. Static. Not the parade. Thank Christ.

  Sarah reached forward and picked up the release form for the documentary. “This documentary should be fun to watch. I hope the crew releases it on YouTube for public viewing.”

  What?

  Sarah pulled out her phone. “I mean, someone’s already put a video up, but I think the proper camera will be better quality, eh?”

  “There’s a YouTube video?” Evie hauled Sarah’s phone around and watched as Sarah hit Play. Someone’s fuzzy mobile camera had caught her dancing around on the machine. It was from behind, so at least her face wasn’t visible. She bounced and side-stepped and paused with the music, arms and shoulders swaying, her whole body getting into the swing of it. The title of the video was Girl kills on the dance machine, and it had two thousand views.

  Oh God. How was this happening?

  “I’m seriously rethinking this,” she said.

  “Why?”

  Evie wanted to throw the phone at whoever had filmed her. “You know I’m not out to my family. What if they see this online somehow?”

  Sarah frowned. “Honey, you know I don’t advocate coming out before you’re ready. But maybe you should have considered that before deciding to do something as public as this?”

  Fuck. She couldn’t win. Evie dropped her face onto the table, past caring. Her phone buzzed in her bag, and she fumbled blindly for it.

  “Besides,” Sarah continued as Evie turned her face on the table to check the screen, “so what? What happens in Toronto stays in Toronto.”

  An email from her mum. “You’re right,” Evie murmured. Looked like Mum had sent a Rowena Whitmore special.

  Evelyn, hope you’re having a wonderful time in Toronto. Who was it you were staying with again? I hope you’ve made them a meal to thank them for their hospitality. Richard has received a promotion and we’re all so proud. Shep got into the radishes and was very sick, but Dr. Nishan pumped his stomach and he’s much better now. What’s the latest on the settlement, and have you heard anything about work for the summer? You shouldn’t live off savings if you don’t have to. In fact, if you have a spare grand or two lying around, you should consider a few ETFs. Your father says they’re all the rage in DIY investing these days. Retirement happens to us all! Do let us know when you have a plan in place. Your father says hello by the way. Stay away from poutine, you know how too much grease affects you. All that northern food really hasn’t done you any favours, darling. Call us soon.

  Good Lord. She thumbed a quick I hope Shep is all right, hug him for me, then reread the message. Couldn’t she ever stick to one topic? Since Doug—who was her stepfather, thanks, Mum—had received his massive salary increase two years ago, Mum had become insufferable. Investment advice? Really?

  “What’s up?” Sarah asked.

  “My mum is out of touch with reality.” Evie turned the screen off.

  This wasn’t unusual. Mum always had been, well, a handful. Evelyn was Rowena’s middle name, and Rowena loved reminding everyone how Evie was named after her, but “not too much after her” because “Evie should be her own person.” Even after Evie had moved to York, a fair distance from Devon, she still received messages like this regularly. At first, she just thought their relationship was very close. When Evie had been figuring out her sexuality, however, she’d realized that their relationship was less very close and more suffocating. Truthfully, when U of T had accepted her to the master’s program, part of Evie’s joy at accepting had come from knowing there would be an ocean and a lake between her and her mum.

  Not that it appeared to be stopping the emails.

  Evie put the phone away. “Do you feel like having poutine tonight?” she asked.

  Sarah lit up at the idea. “Fuck. Yes. Let’s get as much Canada in you as possible.”

  As Evie cracked up, she imagined sending exactly that line to her mum. Oh, if Rowena only knew what she was up to.

  Tyler opened his bedroom door and walked the three steps to his bed, relishing the sight of it for a few seconds before falling face-first into the comforter. Oh yeah. His body sank into the mattress, muscles slowly decompressing like they always did after intense activity.

  He lay like that for a while, mind turning over the day. The rest of it had sped by in a blur of classes and shift work, but his thoughts were on a loop of Class, training, choreography, Evie.

  Over and over again, Evie and her fierce blue eyes and crystal-sharp voice, telling Justine where to go, loudly and proudly and with no hesitation.

  He flipped over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

  Evie. He had to choreograph something for her. He’d already blocked a basic routine out, but now that he’d actually met the person he was dancing with, he had to adapt it to her. What he had didn’t match the personality he’d seen.

  He rolled over to his bedside table where he’d left his choreography notes from the previous evening. He scanned them, noting the words ringed in red at the top of the page: A dance for the masses, and the Pride theme, Fierce. He smiled. That shouldn’t be a problem for her. The real challenge was harnessing Evie’s natural gifts in moves that
looked good, but that a complete beginner could pull off.

  Mind ticking over the story of the dance and possible moves, he headed into his combined living room and kitchen. The place was tidy, tiny, and tired, but he loved it. It was the first place he’d rented by himself, and he relished having his own space too much to care about its deficiencies.

  He pushed the donated sofa and coffee table to the edges of the room, then started humming the song he’d chosen for the performance and visualizing the opening moves. He blocked them out, adjusted, and quietly felt them out, turning through the room. In his mind, a shadowy partner took form opposite him, reacting to his lead. She spun, met him in a hold, stayed in step and in sync as he tapped out complicated footwork. She floated around him as he stood in pose. He held his part, her part, and their combined steps together in his head, imagining them as though he were an audience member as well as both of the dancers.

  Reaching the chorus, he held out his hand and she took it, folding herself into his arms— No. Not like that. That was Lucette. He shook his head and redid the movement. This time the shadow took his hand to throw it away and advance on him, power in her imaginary body.

  Definitely not Lucette. He had to remember that.

  He matched her step for step. This was a dance of adoration and struggle. He the scorned but tenacious suitor, she the resistant but intrigued lover; it was a classic story that had been told and retold countless times. Just in case the audience didn’t get it, it would be set to the fast, furious, and popular “Are You Gonna Be My Girl” by Jet.

  The last few bars pounded in his head, and he found himself on his knees watching the shadowy girl stride away from him. She evaporated as she hit the sofa. He sat down hard and reached for his notes, scribbling the moves down while they were fresh in his head.

  Oh man. He’d forgotten this. He’d missed this. Creating, blocking, twisting the music into his body and releasing it again through muscles. Building the dance, visualizing it, making sure that it fit, that they fit. Maybe Derek had been right about needing to partner someone again. He’d forgotten how freeing partnered choreography could be without another person’s input.

  Without a specific person’s input.

  Just like that, Lucette was back in his head. He blinked. She perched on the sofa in their old apartment with that perpetual expression of distaste. She lounged in their kitchen, fork in one hand and a bowl of noodles in the other, telling him the choreography for his part wasn’t masculine enough. She crushed herself against his chest, crying and telling him she was only trying to help. She danced with him, lovely hard lines in the soft light. She stomped around the apartment in a rage. She looked into his face and said hurtful words about him and his body and the things he lacked as a dancer and as a man, and then she slammed the door on her way out. She flew back in, smiling and begging forgiveness. She lay next to him in bed, dissatisfied and ranting. She danced with him again, lovely and sinuous. Then she resisted his lead. Then she was gone.

  His fingers tightened around his pen. Lucette was gone. She’d been gone for a year. And what he’d blocked out on paper was good. He knew it was. It wasn’t the traditional binary that Lucette had preferred, true, but it was more equal. More give and take. More partnership than lead and follow. More emotion.

  Memories of her had no place here.

  She was negative and hurtful and she didn’t understand you or how to be with you or how to be happy. She’s not part of your life anymore.

  He closed his eyes. He knew all that, so why did this still hurt? And why did she still intrude like this?

  The dance played out in front of him on the sheets of paper. He ran back through it in his head, tweaking his notes anew. When he was happy with what he’d written, he sat back and looked up. His imaginative shadowy partner stood with attitude, hip out and arms crossed. Well? she seemed to be asking.

  “I don’t know,” he said to her, “but I hope the real version of you can carry it off.”

  She shrugged.

  While he was being honest. “I also hope you’re nicer to dance with.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  He needed to get a grip. He was talking to his imagination. The clock in his kitchen said it was after 1 a.m. He hadn’t eaten. His phone blinked at him from the table, which meant he’d missed a call. Life involved other shit that needed to be dealt with.

  “I need to get out more,” he said to her. She dissolved.

  Typical.

  The dance school was a shortish streetcar ride from the university campus, but Evie had underestimated how long coffee with the course director would take, especially as they’d had to find somewhere that wasn’t filled with graduating students. By the time she reached the school, she was out of breath and barely on schedule. Worth the delay, though; Evie was more excited about the course than ever.

  But when she reached the front door, she wanted to go back and leave fifteen minutes earlier—Tyler was outside, slouching against the wall and visibly annoyed. The slim redhead and camera guy from the previous day were there too, and they perked up when they saw her.

  She stopped in front of Tyler, panting. “Sorry. Had coffee. Ran late.”

  “It’s your time,” he said.

  If her face hadn’t already been hot from running, she’d have flushed. What was this guy’s problem? He’d seemed mellower during lunch, but now he was back to the bristly obnoxiousness he’d had at the audition.

  The redhead stepped forward. “Hi. Evie, right?”

  Evie glanced from her to the camera and back again. “Yes?”

  “I’m Katie Cherry. This is my cameraman, Brock Stubbs.” The camera guy waved. “We’re doing the documentary about this dance performance, and we’ll be filming part of every session you do.”

  Cherry? Like Justine from yesterday? Evie took a closer look at her, and, yes, Katie had red hair and thin features similar to Justine’s, only softened by youth and a smattering of freckles across her face. She blew a pink bubble until it popped, then smiled at Evie as she rechewed the gum.

  Right. The university project. “Nice to meet you. I think I have a form for you.” Evie pulled her backpack off and fished out the release form.

  Katie scanned it and nodded, apparently satisfied. “Thanks. Okay, the drill is, ignore the camera. Pretend it’s not there. Just be yourself, act natural, do dumb shit, whatever. It’s fine, as long as you forget the camera is there.”

  Evie wasn’t convinced. The camera and the cameraman were both a little big to just forget about.

  Katie snapped her gum. “I want to interview both of you during breaks or after the session. We won’t film the whole thing because we have to get around to the other couples too. When you’ve finalized your practice schedule, please pass it to me so I can—”

  Evie tuned her out when she noticed Tyler looking increasingly pissed off. This wasn’t the best of starts. How was she going to learn a dance from him if he was angry?

  “—screening in the fall,” Katie finished.

  Wait, what? Evie returned her attention to her. Katie held out her business card. Bewildered, Evie took it. Embossed writing and a matte finish. Nice.

  “All clear?” Katie asked.

  “Crystal,” Evie said. Damn it. She had no idea what Katie had just told her.

  Tyler huffed impatiently. “We done here?”

  Katie gestured to the door. “After you.”

  He pulled away from the wall. “Come on, Evie. There’s more admin to get out of the way.”

  They walked into the dance school. It was in an old industrial building, but the interior was surprisingly warm and bright. The reception area had a welcome desk and chairs, and notice boards studded with staples and the occasional dance poster on the walls. A group of students lounged in one corner, stretching their legs. Three corridors and a staircase led further into the building.

  Tyler strode down one corridor, and Evie hustled to keep up. Katie and Brock followed closely.r />
  They stopped outside a door with a plaque reading Marketing/Finance and entered to find Jean sitting in front of a computer at a neat desk, complete with empty inbox tray. Evie suspected that Jean was only in the building this Saturday for her and the other contestants. She smiled at the sight of them. “Evie! Tyler! You made it.”

  Evie dug into her backpack for the remainder of the forms. Her bag gaped, and Godzilla’s head emerged. She caught sight of Tyler’s bemused expression, and hastily stuffed Godzilla back down. He was only there so she could bring him to the pizza place Sarah wanted to visit that evening. Evie slapped the forms, as well as the refundable deposit, in front of Jean.

  “Thank you.” Jean smiled before flicking through the mess of papers and sorting them.

  All too soon, they were done and shooed out of the office. Outside, they ran into the sparkly dancer, the one Evie had originally thought was Tyler, and Mark from the previous day. Mark chatted happily with Katie while the dancer looked down the corridor, his face red. Brock was also red and staring in the other direction.

  “Gigi?” Tyler said.

  The dancer turned to them. A grin crept over his face when he saw Evie. “Well, look who it is.” He bowed theatrically to her. “Madame High Score, I am Gigi LaMore, née Rosenberg. Welcome to QS Dance, or as we inmates like to call it, hell next to a barre.”

  “I’m Mark.” Mark waved. With his short-cropped hair, basketball shorts, baseball cap, and Nike shirt, he looked the very image of the North American jock stereotype.

  She eyed Gigi, unsure what to make of him. He certainly looked the part of a queen, with a leopard-print scarf, diamond earrings, purple hair, and clinging tracksuit bottoms, but there was a defensive curl to his stance and his flamboyance seemed exaggerated. “I’m Evie. Is Gigi your stage name?”

  Gigi gasped in faux outrage. “Absolutely not!”

  “Yeah, it is,” Tyler said drily.

  “I like it. How did you come by it?”

  Gigi’s gaze flickered to Brock before he grabbed her hand and spun her around. “I was a good little girl with a very nice drag mama.”