Waltz This Way (v1.1)

by Dakota Cassidy

  Jasmine sighed, shifting on the couch. “It’s not like we’re asking you to hurry up and sleep with someone. We’re asking you to get off your ass and get back in the game. We don’t just mean earning a living either. Do you know what you like to do aside from dance? Maybe you like to spelunk, and you wouldn’t know it because you never took the time to figure it out. Those six months you’ve been mourning that dick are six months you can’t get back. I don’t know about you, but Stan the Dancing Man wasn’t worth six minutes of your life let alone half a year.”

  Yeah. A small crack in Mel’s reluctance rippled inside her. “So what do I have to do? Is there a ritual ex-princess hazing?”

  Max shot Mel a sympathetic look. “Your hazing began when you went to your studio and found out it was locked because Stan didn’t want you to have it anymore, honey. When he took you from the kids who so obviously loved you. You’ve been hazed enough, in my opinion, and of all of us, you at least began to try and get it together more quickly than we did. You might be filling the gaping hole of your depression with junk food, but you multitasked and did it while you looked for a job. At least it wasn’t booze and cheap sex. Those are messy interventions.”

  She and booze had never worked well together. Too much to drink made her either cry or sing. Both of which no one wanted to endure. “Is there some type of award or maybe a merit badge for my chaste nature and sober state?”

  Max’s laughter tinkled. “No awards. Your reward is you haven’t slid all the way down the slope. I thank God at the very least I didn’t have to drag you out of bed like I did Frankie. So here’s the score. Take this.” She held out a manila envelope in Mel’s direction. “Look at it. Mock. Look at it again when you’re past rolling on the floor in fits of laughter. In the meantime, I have good news for you.”

  Mel took the envelope with a shaky hand. Max was right. She didn’t want it, and if some of the crazy catchphrases her father had picked up from Maxine were included in the divorce packet, she would indeed mock. “Thank you. So the good news?”

  Max beamed. “You have an interview for a full-time job!”

  Frankie and Jasmine clapped their hands.

  But Mel was instantly skeptical. “People in Riverbend are hiring women who can spin without getting dizzy?” There really was a job for everyone.

  “I saw your old competition videos on YouTube. You were truly beautiful to watch, Mel, and your partner, Neil Whatever, from Celebrity Ballroom—hellooooo,” Frankie commented with a sigh of exaggerated lust. “You were both so sexy at such a young age. Very sultry. Maybe sometime you can teach me how to roll my hips like that. I’m sure Nikos would appreciate it.”

  “Were.” “Was.” All words that contributed to her now. Neil was part of her was. They’d kept in touch over the years and made a point of seeing each other whenever possible, but his job and her life with Stan didn’t always allow them the kind of time she wished they had together. Still, he would always be one of her best friends.

  Max sighed just as breathy before saying, “Actually, yes. You have an interview at Westmeyer.”

  Mel was taken aback. “The private school for boys who’re Mensa candidates?”

  Max grinned. “That’s the one. God, I can’t tell you what it’s like to be around all those little geniuses. I feel like a total idiot. In fact, I am an idiot compared to them, but I can’t wait until you meet Dean Keller.”

  Mel gave her a confused look. “Is this a private lesson? Does the dean want to learn how to samba?” She didn’t want to dance. Strike that. She didn’t want to move. She’d only agreed to Waltzing Wednesdays at the Village because she needed the money. As it stood, as the condition of her body stood, she was better off working at a Container Store.

  “He might after he sees your hips in action,” Jasmine snorted.

  Maxine laughed. “No. Westmeyer has a tradition. All the boys must learn to ballroom dance to hone their sorely lacking social skills. Most of the boys who attend Westmeyer are introverts with their noses always buried in a book. They don’t work well with others and are typically more awkward than your usual tween with girls. As you know, twelve and up is an age of discovery.”

  “Oh, I love it!” Jasmine snarfed. “Hormonal smart kids who can waltz.”

  “The tradition goes back as far as the early forties and is attrib-uted to the woman who opened the school— Leona Westmeyer. Her love of ballroom dancing and the traditional, in particular, was what led her to insist the boys learn how to dance. According to Dean Keller, the boys’ reluctance to socialize with anything other than a petri dish worried her enough that she mandated they all learn to dance and have fun. Lightening up being the key goal here. Back in those days, ballroom dancing was common. Everyone knew how to dance. Its resurgence on TV seems to please Dean Keller.”

  “Leona Smith Westmeyer?” Mel asked.

  Max looked down at her papers then nodded. “Yep. You know her?”

  Mel clutched her hands in front of her, trying to remember what she knew of Leona’s history. “I know of her. She’s legendary in American smooth ballroom dancing. I had no idea she had a school for boys, let alone one for geniuses.”

  “Her son was one, and he was who inspired her to open the school.”

  “So what good does it do for me to teach boys to dance with one another?” She didn’t want to dance. God, she really didn’t.

  “They have a big dance in December just before Christmas break, and then again in the spring with an all-girls private school— Thurston’s the name, I believe. Anyway, Westmeyer’s dance instructor retired at the beginning of this school year. Westmeyer begins earlier than public schools to allow for the heavy load of classes those boys endure. They’ve had a lot of trouble replacing the last teacher. It would seem there aren’t many ballroom teachers in Riverbend— you’re it.”

  Lucky, lucky boys. “But what about the Village classes?”

  “I’d appreciate you staying for a while at the Village— just on Wednesdays. You’re going to be hard to replace there, but I have someone in mind to take over your other duties.”

  “But I haven’t danced in …”

  “In six months. I know,” Max confirmed. “Your father told me. But it’s your best skill and the one that’s most marketable. This is a helluva lucky break to find something so well suited to you, especially considering it’s not a common profession. So if you want a job that’s full time and has bennies, dust off your leotards and suck it up.” Max smiled before glancing at her wristwatch. “And now we have to get going— you have an interview to get to.”

  Mel clutched the envelope under her arm, her knees suddenly weak with fear. She’d never been on an interview. “I don’t … I mean …”

  “You’ve never been on an interview. I know. Me neither before I was divorced, but I can tell you this, I got really good at begging. Just ask the manager of the Cluck-Cluck Palace, and then thank God I nabbed you an interview doing something you love instead of one that involves the mindless task of shredding cheese.” Max grabbed her purse and a light jacket.

  “Don’t panic, Mel,” Frankie soothed, rising to give her arm a squeeze. “You’ll be fine. By the way, take my number, Jasmine’s, too, in case you ever want to talk. The three of us meet at my husband’s diner, Greek Meets Eat, once a week on Tuesdays, if you’re up to grabbing meat loaf and some coffee. Drop by.”

  Mel took the slip of paper from Frankie and shoved it into the pocket of her skirt. Frankie’s husband. She’d remarried after that fiasco? Talk about the will to trust. No way was Mel ever getting married again. “Thank you …” She gave Frankie a faint smile of gratitude, trying to hide her curiosity about Frankie’s husband.

  Jasmine handed the baby back to Frankie and reached out to smooth Mel’s rumpled sweater, then took hold of Mel’s shoulders and turned her toward the door of Max’s office. “Come hangout with us on Tuesday. You won’t regret the diner’s meat loaf. Now, go get ’em, tiger. Grrrrr.”

  Mel suck
ed in a breath of air and followed Max out the door with trembling legs.

  She rooted through her purse, praying she’d remembered to throw a couple of Hostess CupCakes in it before she’d left for Trophy.

  Instead, she came up with a Ziploc bag full of carrots and celery with a note taped to it.

  It had a smiley face on it and read,

  Sugar rots your teeth, SpaghettiOs.

  Love,

  Dad

  Shiny.

  Oh, and grrrrr.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dear Divorce Journal,

  Stupid. That’s what this divorce journal is. How do you like that, Maxine Barker? Huh? Oh, and suck this, Princess.

  “I hate to say it, but this looks like Frankenstein’s summer house,” Mel remarked as she and Max drove toward the imposing brick structure of Westmeyer on her first official day as ballroom instructor.

  Max’s laughter filled her car. “It is kind of gloomy, but the foliage is gorgeous, don’t you think? I love when the trees begin to turn.”

  Max’s words drifted to her ears. She just hadn’t had enough time to sit with this job thing. A career, as Max called it. It was bigger than she was right now. “That’s the ‘always look for the silver lining commandment,’ isn’t it?” Mel joked, folding her arms under her breasts in a protective gesture.

  “It is. I knew you couldn’t resist my pamphlets. No one can.”

  A glimmer of a smile wrestled with Mel’s lips. So, yeah. Guilty.

  She’d skimmed the contents of the packet Max had given her last night over a salad and a piece of grilled chicken. She’d even tried the divorce journal writing thing. You had to laugh at some of the crazy things Maxine must have spent hours and hours thinking up. It was only right she honor the effort and the job Maxine had found for her.

  “And yes, before you say it, it took a long time to come up with some of those witty words of wisdom. A writer, I ain’t.” Max gave her a knowing look and a raise of her eyebrows.

  “You’re like a mind reader at a carnival. Spooky.”

  “I have to be. If I don’t anticipate the cruel jokes you’ll make about my divorce advice, I can’t be prepared to fire back, now can I? So, how do you feel today? Did you get a good night’s sleep? Eat something nutritionally balanced and not slathered in chocolate?”

  “All while I memorized your pamphlet as if it were the new Bible.”

  Max pulled into a parking space and patted Mel on the back. “I’m glad you have a sense of humor. You’ll need it with a bunch of preteen boys who’d rather have lobotomies than learn how to dance.”

  Mel looked down at her hands, clutched together in a ball. “I don’t want to dance. How can I expect them to want to?”

  “You’ll find it again, honey. I know you will. Someone who danced like you did can’t have lost all of that joy. It’s just buried under a pile of shit that’s become more important— like survival. But dancing was once your life, and the pleasure you took from it isn’t stupid or insignificant. It’s not trivial.”

  Mel’s head shot up. That was exactly how she felt. Dancing seemed superficial and a ridiculous skill to have when she could have been a shop teacher or a garbage man. “How did you know?”

  “I know because being a housewife was to me like dancing is to you. Okay, maybe that’s a shitty analogy, but you get the meaning, right? You think to yourself, ‘Jesus, what good does it do me to love to dance when I don’t want to get out of bed. Who cares that I was, at my peak, once a champion in the sport?’ ”

  Mel nodded her consent, the deep regret for her lost youth stung like vinegar on a fresh wound these days. “I knew the hazards going in. I knew making a living as a dancer was at best a huge risk and at worst a pipe dream. But back then when I met Stan and he was full of so much praise for my work, I thought nothing could stop me. Youth, right? But then his work took precedence. I became more of an assistant to him, and I stopped pursuing auditions because his work always took us all over the globe. When I think about how glad I was that he decided to do the show because it meant we’d stay in one place for an extended period of time, it makes me want to drive to Hollywood and choke him.” But only after she cut out his heart.

  Max clapped her thigh. “Good! Angry is good. It beats indifference. That’s death. Trust me. Look, everything you once loved looks very dull and drab to you right now, but I promise, it gets shinier once you dust it off and give it a good buffing. This is your opportunity, Mel. No one who danced like you did can stay dormant forever. No one.”

  Nervous anxiety skittered along Mel’s spine. “Suddenly, I’m a nervous wreck.” Since she’d snared this job yesterday, her attitude had been one of unsettling indifference. It didn’t feel like the coup of the century. It didn’t feel lucky. Maybe she just couldn’t feel anymore?

  Though, it certainly should feel lucky, considering her complete lack of marketable skills. She was going to make a semi-decent salary and she had benefits. In a few months, she and Weez could stop leeching off her father.

  Max had told her how Frankie and Jasmine had struggled. That her struggle was a far shorter journey should be a reason to be grateful. She’d only been broke a few months instead of close to a year like Maxine.

  Instead, last night, after her boring dinner and only a half of a spoonful of some refrigerator-hard frosting, she’d gone to bed without a single worry about her new employment.

  She was too caught up in how much she missed her other students, students who weren’t reluctant participants and who wanted to learn to dance, and the ongoing plan to finely hone Stan’s perfect murder.

  But this morning, as she haphazardly made an attempt to cover the dark circles under her eyes with concealer and applied a light gloss to her pale lips then packed a lunch of apples and a bologna sandwich with mustard, her stomach had twisted and heaved.

  When Max, who’d been kind enough to give her a lift because her father had a podiatrist’s appointment, had pulled up, Mel had almost turned tail and run.

  She was no Hilary Swank in some remake of Freedom Writers.

  These kids wanted to dance as much as she wanted to wax her legs.

  But it turned out Max was a hard taskmaster who took no shit. So here Mel was on the way to start her new career.

  Max turned in her seat. Her green eyes so warm it made Mel’s heart thaw a bit. “Just keep your eye on the prize, Mel. A paycheck. A pretty good one, too. One that will afford you a place to live eventually—and plenty of chocolate frosting. And self-sufficiency. There’s nothing like that for your wounded pride. You taught in L. A.; you can teach in Jersey. I know you were good at it because I saw that interview on Hollywood Scoop with the little boy who said he missed you.”

  Humiliation flooded her cheeks in the shade of red. How that reporter from Hollywood Scoop had conned Tito’s mother into letting him do an interview left her speechless. Not to mention, pissed.

  “Tito. He was a great kid.”

  “These kids will be, too,” Max soothed. “Now get a move on, teacher, or you’ll be late.”

  Like it was her first day of kindergarten, Mel slid from the car with reluctance. “All right,” she offered dejectedly.

  “Don’t forget your lunch.” Maxine tossed the brown paper bag at her and waved. “Have an awesome first day, Mel!”

  Mel watched Max drive off like her mother had just abandoned her at the 7-Eleven. She wanted to run after Maxine and cling to the bumper of her car. Beg. Plead. Cry.

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

  She paused when she was unable to relax.

  Okay, deeper breaths.

  “Hey! Mel, right?”

  Mel stopped her breathing exercise cold, turning to block her eyes from the sun as a tall man approached.

  He lifted a broad hand in her direction, the scent of his spicy cologne drifting to her nose on the early morning breeze. “Remember me? Nephew to Myriam the Hun?”

  Oh, she definitely remembered. How could she forget so much hot? H
er heart skipped at least two beats when she peered at him through the sunlight. The curl of his hair around the collar of his casual jacket made her knees weak. “Drew, right?”

  He grinned and she wondered why he appeared so pleased she’d remembered his name. “That’s me. C’mon, I’ll walk you in.”

  Everything seemed brighter suddenly when he placed a light hand to her waist. She didn’t feel as much like she was headed to the guillotine with Drew taking long strides beside her.

  Not until she saw her reflection in the school’s doors anyway. Her thick, kinky-curly hair, always difficult to contain no matter what product she used, flew around her chalky face in tangles, pulling out of her ponytail, and her wraparound skirt was wrinkled. Much to her delight, she’d also missed a button on her sweater, leaving it uneven.

  Ah, but she’d remembered her bra. The miracle one. God was good.

  “Do you have a son who attends Westmeyer?”

  “Me? No. No children here. I … I teach here.” That’s right. She was a teacher. Teacher, teacher, teacher.

  “You’re a teacher? I thought you were a dancer.” He stopped at the wide double doors of the school, looking down at her with his dreamy eyes.

  Mel’s eyebrow cocked upward. How had he known that? “Well, I wasn’t born knowing the steps to the tango. I had a teacher who taught them to me.”

  He chuckled, his white teeth flashing for a moment. “Right. What I meant to say was what do you teach?”

  Mel cocked her head, running a nervous hand over the length of her messy ponytail. “Ballroom dancing.”

  Drew’s dark eyebrow’s slammed together. “Say again?”

  “Ballroom dancing.”

  “Here?”

  “It seems so.”

  “And who hired you?”

  “The dance fairy?”

  She’d meant to make him smile again, because it was so nice, but he wasn’t smiling. “Was it Dean Keller?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “God damn it,” he spat, shoving open the doors and stalking through them.