Waltz This Way (v1.1)

by Dakota Cassidy

  Mel followed close behind, forcing her eyes away from his ass encased in the jeans he wore like a second skin. “Wait! What did I say?”

  But he waved her off with a quick flip of his hand, leaving her to stand in the middle of the school’s imposing foyer while curious boys in starched black uniforms milled around her.

  Well, then. Yay, teaching.

  Mel glanced at the clock on the wall and realized she’d better find out where her class was going to be held. She stopped a short young boy with thick round glasses and a pristine black jacket with yellow piping. “Can you tell me where Dean Keller’s office is?” She’d lost her bearings after yesterday’s blur of hiring and paperwork.

  He pointed behind her. “If you take this hall approximately twenty-two point three feet then make a hard right, walk another fifteen point six and a half feet, you’ll find his office. His name’s on it. It says Dean Keller. D-E-A—”

  “Thank you,” Mel cut him off, frightened by the idea he’d actually measured how far the dean’s office was from the entry.

  She slipped between the boys and pressed forward twenty-two point three feet. Ah, there it was. Just like Young Einstein had said.

  Just as she raised a hand to knock on his door, she heard yelling.

  Drew’s yelling.

  “You told me my son was coming here to get an education— not dance like some fairy! There was nothing in the welcome package about ballroom dancing and leather pants, Keller!”

  Mel’s eyes went wide. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her gasp from escaping her lips.

  “Men,” someone muttered.

  Mel whipped around to find Dean Keller’s secretary, Mrs. Willows. She’d met her yesterday while she’d filled out insurance forms.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Hawklike gray eyes on a gaunt face assessed Mel. “Don’t be sorry. I said ‘men.’ They all react the same way when they find out the boys have to learn to dance. They make such a big deal out of it when it’s really not that big of a brouhaha. So, yes. Men. Especially a man as manly as Drew McPhee. Now, he’s all man, a man who’s probably going to be your worst nightmare while you teach his son, Nate.”

  Like she didn’t know nightmares. Mel squared her shoulders. She was offended by the very notion that if a man danced, he was some sort of slight to Neanderthals everywhere.

  Sure, there were lots of gay ballroom dancers. There were lots of gay flight attendants, too. They just didn’t wear costumes that sparkled when they left Newark airport. Dancing was healthy— it was incredibly good exercise and some of the strongest men on the planet were dancers. So enough already with the stigma. “Well, he’ll just have to suck that up, won’t he?”

  Whoa. Had that been a spark of passion in her tone?

  Heh.

  Mrs. Willows began to laugh, the wrinkles on her neck bobbing up and down. “I like you, and yes, he will if he wants his son to attend Westmeyer, especially on a scholarship.”

  “The hell I’ll see my son dressed in some tutu!” Drew shouted, storming out of the dean’s office and heading right toward Mel. His face no longer held that easygoing expression, but a hard mask of fury. His nostrils flared in angry fits of snorts.

  Hoo boy. She put her hands behind her back, clamping her fingers together. “Um, if it’s any consolation, there aren’t many tutus in ballroom dancing. It’s mostly Lycra pants and those skimpy tight shirts.”

  Drew’s blue eyes narrowed to slits in his head. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. I didn’t send my son here to learn how to do the twist—”

  Mel flashed him a sweet, totally disingenuous smile. “Oh, I don’t know how to twist. Though, I’m sure I could learn.”

  His lips thinned while his gaze left her feeling like the antichrist.

  “Look, lady. I didn’t send my kid to this fancy private school to do the sumba!” Drew’s words sizzled from his mouth.

  Mel popped her lips in obvious mockery. “That’s a rumba, or a samba, depending on the meaning of your jumble of inept words, and you’re right. There’ll be absolutely no rumbas and no sambas— or even a sumba. Not a one. You’ll be so relieved to know, I’m teaching traditional ballroom dancing. You know— the girlie waltz. Maybe a nice sissified foxtrot.”

  He dragged a hand through the luscious thatch of hair she now wanted to pull out of his head. “This is the most ridiculous rule I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Yeah. Coordination and exercise are all that and more.” Suddenly, and for the pettiest of reasons, she wanted this job. She wanted to show Mr. Manly Man that dancing was hardcore work. It took more than just some jazz hands to lift a hundred and twenty pounds of sparkly rhinestoned woman over your head.

  “He gets all the exercise he needs throwing a football around.”

  Mrs. Willows gave Drew an elbow to the ribs. “Now, be fair, Drew McPhee. You know darned well Nate hates sports. And you better get going. Ms. Cherkasov has a ballroom class to teach.” She left them with a snickering chuckle that pinged around the hallway.

  Drew jammed his hands in the pockets of his worn Levis. The tightening of his jaw left her very aware of the effort he was making to hold back. “Have I said this is ridiculous?”

  She contemplated him from heavy-lidded eyes. “With zeal.”

  “Nate came here because they don’t have the facilities to keep up with his genius in public school. He didn’t come here to dance.”

  “Did you have some sort of dancing trauma that’s led you to so vehemently hate all things dance-ish? Did some angsty teenage girl break your dancing heart at the prom? Mock your technique, maybe?”

  “I don’t hate dancing. I hate that my kid’s going to be forced to do something he hates.”

  “And what brought you to the conclusion that he’s going to hate my classes? Because I have to tell you, I’m taking this exceptionally personally. I’m a good instructor. In fact, most of my students came back year after year to attend my classes when I had my own studio. So, why don’t you stop fobbing your silly, knuckle-dragging perceptions off on your son before he’s even had the chance to experience his first class. And now, I have to go fluff my tutu. I don’t want to be late for my first day.” With those parting words, Mel stomped off to Mrs. Willows’s office to locate her classroom, leaving Drew McPhee and his blatantly discriminatory bullshit to rot in the fiery pits of hell.

  All right. So maybe she’d been a bit hasty when she’d decided for Nate that he’d love ballroom dancing.

  From the looks of the forlorn faces who’d much rather be measuring the drips per nanosecond of a ketchup bottle, she was not the Hannah Montana of Westmeyer.

  Reluctance took on a whole new level when she’d asked them all to loosen their ties, roll up their sleeves, and put their laptops in the corner of the room.

  She’d never had students who didn’t want to learn how to dance, but after Drew’s sharp, biased, stupid freakin’ words, she was determined.

  After teaching them how to stretch their muscles, and almost pulling one of her own, Mel plastered a smile on her face, addressing the group of ten boys, her first group of seventh graders for the day.

  “So, I’m Ms. Cherkasov and I’ll be your ballroom instructor this year. Why don’t we start by telling me your names? You first.” She pointed to a bland-faced, confused boy with white-blond hair and strawberry-kissed cheeks.

  His bright eyes took everything in as though he were mentally calculating the amount of footsteps it would take to make a break for freedom.

  He shuffled his feet encased in black shoes so shiny, she could see her reflection— which still looked flustered and mussed. “Johann Finklestein.”

  She was just about to move on to the next boy when Johann snapped his hand in the air. “Yes?”

  “May I just make an observation, Ms. Cherkasov?”

  Manners. Nice. “Because you asked so politely, hit it.”

  “Do you have any idea how many low IQ bullies are going to have a field day with this wh
en they find out we’re learning how to waltz?”

  Johann’s cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink, making his platinum blond hair appear whiter.

  “Do you have any idea how many bullies you’ll be able to lift over your head when I’m done with you? Ballroom dancing takes strength and control, gentlemen. Have any of you ever watched Celebrity Ballroom?”

  Three boys raised their hands, including Nate, who’d been identified for her by Mrs. Willows. “So then some of you have an idea what ballroom dancing is all about. Have you ever seen the muscles on some of the men who teach the celebrities to dance? They’re strong and in top physical shape.”

  “And they wear ruffled shirts. Polyester, I’m guessing. My naked eye tells me the thread count isn’t high enough for cotton,” one boy with dark hair and sharp cheekbones commented.

  Mel smiled encouragingly. “You are?”

  His eyes instantly went to the shiny hardwood floor. “Emilio Benito Salazar.”

  She tapped beneath his chin. “Look up when you speak to me, Emilio, please. A strong dance partner always holds his head up and his back straight, and it’s nice to meet you.” Mel winked at him to reassure she wasn’t singling him out for his bad posture. “Now, who’s next? How about you?” She pointed at Nate, tall for his age with midnight black hair and an expression of apathy on a face that was an exact replica of Drew’s.

  “Nathan McPhee.”

  “And how do you feel about ballroom dancing?”

  He shrugged his slender shoulders. “I feel like I don’t have a choice.”

  Instead of reprimanding him for his sulking attitude, Mel laughed.

  “Nope. You sure don’t. But I remember when I was your age, I had to go to pre-algebra because I didn’t have a choice.”

  Nate frowned as though the thought were inconceivable. “You were still in pre-algebra at twelve years old?”

  Mel nodded, moving toward the lockers on the far side of the room to pull out the broomsticks the former instructor had left. “I know. You guys did that in nursery school, right?” Her comment managed to illicit some chuckles, lightening the atmosphere of the room. “So let’s continue with introductions while I pass out these broomsticks.”

  Jordan, Ahmed, R. J., Kendrick, Samuel, Anders, and Hank Wong made up the rest of the group of ten boys.

  She handed them the broomsticks while they all made faces.

  “These are for your posture. And today we’re going to learn the basics of a waltz. So put these in front of you like this.” She demonstrated by putting the stick over her raised arms and letting it rest there. “This will make your backs nice and straight while you learn to be the frame for your partner.”

  “I know what that is,” Ahmed chirped, his dark, chubby features breaking into a smile. “The man is the frame and the woman is the picture, right? The frame can’t ever leave the picture. Or something like that.” Clearly embarrassed, he looked down. “My mom loves Richard Gere. She watches Shall We Dance over and over. I just heard Jennifer Lopez say it when I was making crème brûlée in the kitchen. I didn’t really watch it or anything lame like that.”

  R. J. threw his broomstick over his head, narrowly missing Jordan’s shoulder. “Sure you didn’t.”

  Mel eyed R. J., planting her hands on her hips. “And what if he did watch it?” There would be no taunting another student on her watch.

  She’d taken a lot of heat as a kid for her love of an art that hadn’t always been in the public eye like it was today.

  Instantly, R. J’s eyes grew wide at being called out. “I was just saying.”

  Placing her hands on the middle of R. J.’s chest, she tilted his torso back. “Then say it with respect, please. Now here are my rules. You all have to take this class whether you like it or not. I know some of you don’t like it, and that’s okay by me. I’m not exactly a fan of genetics, either, but I respect those who can sit still long enough to learn about it. I’d like the same respect from all of you. By the end of this semester, you’ll know how to do a smooth waltz. You’ll be graded on your posture, the rise and fall of your feet, how well you direct your partner, and last but not least, your artistry and interpretation of the music.”

  Groans permeated the air.

  “I know, I know. I suck, right?” She grinned, feeling a little more like herself. “But here’s the thing. This can be fun. I insist you have fun. It might not be as fun as thermonuclear bombs, but I promise, we’ll end up laughing. Now, if you all don’t straighten up and fly right, I’ll make you wear ruffles for your finals.”

  All ten boys instantly stood erect and clamped their mouths shut.

  She smiled again and brushed her hands together. This was going to be work.

  A deep sigh escaped Mel’s lips as she let her left leg drape over the ballet barre and arched her arm over her head to stretch. The tight pull of skin over her ribs ached, making her flesh itch.

  The day had been long. Each set of students showed her the same kind of love she’d gotten from her first class.

  None.

  She let her cheek rest along the top of her thigh and winced. Her father was right— her pretzel-like abilities were slipping. She’d better get it together if she hoped to endure eight solid hours with a bunch of boys she was hired to motivate.

  She still had to get home, shower, and change for yet another round of dancing with the seniors for Waltzing Wednesdays at the rec center. The idea that she couldn’t just go home and drop face-first into bed after consuming a can of Betty Crocker’s finest wasn’t appealing.

  But at least the seniors wanted to play with her.

  “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” tinkled on the sound system. Perfect for a waltz. Not to mention, a sad musical tribute to her new status in life.

  Single.

  Something she’d remain forever if she continued to look like the dishrag she saw in the wall of mirrors in her classroom. Her eyes stared back at her— tired and dull.

  She snorted. Pretty.

  Dropping her leg, Mel grunted when it hit the floor. Her eyes scanned the room for her purse and as she crossed the room to gather it, she did a couple of 3/ 8 reverse turns then tripped from the sting in her big toe, falling to the floor.

  Mel let her head fall forward, tears welling in her eyes.

  Fuck.

  Fuck a full-time job. Fuck her disinterest in the only thing she’d ever truly felt free doing.

  Oh, and fuck Stan.

  “What kind of dance teacher is that?” his father remarked when his new teacher tripped and fell on one of those 3/ 8 reverse spins she’d talked about. He’d found his dad watching her through the window to her classroom with a small smile on his face.

  His dad didn’t smile all that much when it came to girls, but he was smiling watching her. The harsh tone he’d used when Ms. Cherkasov fell meant the exact opposite of his rude words, too, which set Nate’s mind to working a mile a minute.

  “Though, she has good taste in music,” his father commented absently, eyes on Ms. Cherkasov.

  His father liked the new dance instructor. If he was honest with himself, so did he. She was nice and really pretty— if you liked women who were middle-aged.

  He totally hated dancing.

  Totally. But he got it. He knew he got it because he’d caught Ms.

  Cherkasov watching him in all those mirrors with approval in her eyes. He’d picked up the fundamentals of a waltz with ease.

  Lame.

  It was probably from being forced to watch those dance shows with his grandmother and Aunt Myriam. He did have a photographic memory.

  “Hey, Dad. Who you talkin’ to?” he asked, playing dumb.

  Drew planted a hand on his son’s head and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “Nobody. Just muttering. You ready to hit it, pal?”

  “Yeah. We have to hurry up, too.”

  “For?”

  “Don’t you have to pick up Aunt Myriam at the rec center in the Village tonight?” Nate knew he didn’
t, but he also knew Ms. Cherkasov was going to be teaching the seniors tonight. He’d heard her tell Mrs. Willows at lunch.

  “Shoot. Did I forget again? I thought I didn’t have to go get her until Friday night so she and Gram can play canasta.”

  Nate shrugged his shoulders, hurling his backpack over his head and began to walk toward the exit doors. “I could’ve sworn she said Wednesday. I thought I saw it circled on her calendar,” he said, looking away from his father’s eyes. He’d never been a very good liar, but he wasn’t lying to save his skin or keep from being grounded.

  He was lying because his dad needed to spend time with adults who weren’t related to him. Or at least that was what Aunt Myriam said.

  “Well, I guess you’d know with that photographic memory. Your Aunt Myriam’s gonna kill me with her social schedule at that Village lately. I’m beat, but it’s better than her driving. I was thinking we’d grab a pizza and watch some TV while you figure out how to save the world. Maybe Aunt Maura could pick her up tonight?”

  Crap. “No! I mean, Aunt Maura’s got cheerleading practice with Macy tonight, and pizza’s bad for me. I’d rather have some of Grandpa’s Irish stew and soda bread.”

  Drew stopped walking.

  Now he’d done it. He’d pushed the lying thing a little too far.

  “Did that Ms. Cherkasov teach you some dance move that made you knock your head?”

  Nate laughed. “Nah. I’m just messing with you. Grandma always makes me a meat loaf sandwich on Irish stew night. They’re my favorite— even over pizza.”

  Pushing the doors open, a cool stream of air hit Nate’s face, lifting his hair. He swatted at it, pressing the strands back over his forehead.

  He didn’t need for his father to see he had the beginnings of acne.

  They’d be at the Proactiv kiosk in the mall in two seconds flat. Acne was a natural ailment for a teenager. His father overreacted to everything where he was concerned.

  Drew beeped the truck and climbed in, waiting until Nate was settled in the passenger seat to ask, “So how’d you feel about ballroom dancing?”

  “Wow. What’s that about, Dad?”