The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(83)
The ringing metal as I clacked the taps together decided it. Dancing had always helped clear my mind, focus me. Hopefully, it’d provide much needed answers now.
I slipped downstairs, shoes in hand. Flipping on the light in the basement, I felt a nostalgic pang seeing the special wooden tap floor that had been installed in the corner of our rec room so that I could practice. While the floor was worn with black scuff marks from my metal taps, it was clean and polished. Mom may not have been a fan but she wasn’t going to let anything get dirty on her watch.
After checking the soles for loose screws and finding the taps tight, I put my shoes on. My feet instantly molded to the worn contouring. I let out a sigh I didn’t know had so badly needed to be exhaled.
I grabbed a homemade CD from the tower that had been relegated to the basement about five years ago, starting with a slow swing version of “Caravan” to warm up. Flaps, shuffles, paddle rolls–nothing fancy. I let my body fall into the muscle memory of balance and movement. A small smile crept across my face hearing how clean my moves still sounded.
Next up was the Verve remix of “Sing Sing Sing.” I threw myself into it, choosing to improvise to the melody line, playing my own variation of the tune through my feet. A twinge in my left Achilles tendon–literally my own Achilles heel where my dance career had been concerned–had me slow down, testing my foot for further signs of pain.
Tap involved most of my weight being on my toes, with heel stomps aggravating my tendency to swollen tendons. But the pain really was just a twinge. I was good to keep dancing.
It was as if a dam inside me broke. I needed to go hard. To pound the rhythm. Pound out my roller coaster of emotions and stress. I threw on “How You Like Me Now” by The Heavy, craving that driving beat to quell the edge inside me. One-footed wings, syncopated pullbacks, over-the-tops–I pulled out all my moves in addition to the flurry of basic steps rendered at breakneck speed.
Fuck, how I’d missed this.
Barely winded, soaring on adrenaline and happiness, I thumbed through the other CDs in search of what to play next, my hand stilling over the copy of Fugue State Five’s first album that Leo had forced on me all those years ago. I smiled when I saw her “Listen to it or I’ll kill you, dummy!!!!” written in gold marker on the CD.
Pressing play, I counted down the end of the eight-beat opening of “Toccata and Fugue.” In contrast to the raspy growl of Rohan’s voice, my steps were lightness themselves. The floatiest soft shoe to counterpoint all the emo feels pouring out of the song.
I’d never danced to this before, but it was the perfect fit. I lost myself in the joy of taking this beautiful piece of music and putting my own stamp on it. While Rohan singing to me in the park had freaked me out, now the song soothed me. My feet twined with his voice to create something altogether new.
I matched the crescendoed ending of the song with a series of turns that propelled me across the floor, my hip bumping into the wall because I ran out of room. I laughed at my spatial miscalculation, the sound ringing clear in the silence.
Then I saw Rohan’s face. He stood stock still in the doorway, staring at me like I was an alien. I wrapped my arms around my chest, my gaze sliding away from his. People could be extremely judgmental about tap’s place in the dance pantheon. Weirdo might have been offended by my dancing to his song.
“I always thought tap dance was like–”
“Shirley Temple,” I interjected dryly. “So, you’ve said.” I crossed the room, cutting off his next song with a push of the button. “What are you doing here?”
I bent over to untie my shoe but he stopped me, stepping forward with one hand up.
“Don’t. I mean, don’t let me interrupt. I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving. I have to go back to L.A.”
A rush of panicky adrenaline speared through me. I clacked over to him, my shoelace trailing on the floor. “You can’t go.”
“Why not? I haven’t been back to my apartment in weeks and Mom wants to take me for pizza at Highland Park Bowl.” Rohan pushed me back a couple of steps. “You’re all pale. What, don’t want to be without your main babysitter?”
Apparently his memory return had come with the return of his anger over our hook-up.
Discussing the theme song right now would only add fuel to that particular fire. I knelt down to take off my shoe. “Have a good trip.”
He didn’t say goodbye.
I leaned on Leo’s buzzer, muttering a steady stream of curses.
She let me in, waiting bleary-eyed in her doorway. My friend appeared crazed: no jewelry, greasy snarled hair, a coffee stain on her denim miniskirt.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
“Huge exam.”
“You want me to leave?”
She grabbed my arm, pulling me inside. “No! It’s my Ethics course and–”
“Having none, it pains you to understand the concept?” I tossed my bag on her couch, flopping down on the lumpy cushions.
“Something like that.” She padded into her kitchen in heavy wool socks with enormous holes in the toes and heels. “Coffee?” She sniffed the pot and recoiled. “Diet coke?”
“Sure, if you have rum. Hold the coke.”
Leo took two mismatched mugs out of her cupboard and reaching up on tiptoe, grabbed the bottle of booze sitting on top of her fridge. A generous sloshing of rum into each one and she joined me on the couch. “Ari is doing okay?” she asked. I’d called her once he’d been rescued.