Weather Girl(31)

“Okay then,” she says, cherry lips curving into a grin. “Go ahead. Send out an all-staff email.”



* * *



? ? ?

“I DON’T THINK they’re coming,” Russell says, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

We’re standing outside Century Ballroom in Capitol Hill, next to an ice cream shop with lines down the block even on cold winter nights. It’s been in the low-to-mid-forties all week, dropping into the upper thirties in the evening.

“Torrance seemed . . . moderately excited,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “She’ll show up any minute. And if Seth is as in love with her as he said he was, hopefully he will, too.”

“Ari!” someone calls, and while I brighten at the sight of Hannah and Nate, I’m also disappointed it’s not either Hale. A few other people from the station are already inside. “Thanks so much for organizing this. We’ve always wanted to try this place, and this was exactly the nudge we needed.”

“Hannah’s going to make us all look bad, though,” Nate says. “She danced for twelve years as a kid.” He turns to Russell, holds out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Nate, Hannah’s less talented half.”

“Russell.”

Hannah lifts her brows at me regarding Russell, and I give her a swift shake of my head. No need to fuel the office rumor mill, especially when there’s nothing going on.

“We’ll see you inside,” I say with a wave.

A few minutes later, a petite woman in a polka dot dress appears at the door. “We’re about to start,” she says. “If you’re waiting for someone, I’m afraid they’ll have to join us during the social dance afterward.”

Glumly, I follow Russell inside, hand over ten dollars, and check my coat. The first hour of the dance is a lesson. Since Torrance and Seth already know how to dance, they’re probably skipping it. That has to be it.

I tuck my necklace into the T-shirt I’ve paired with a flared skirt and blue Keds, along with tiny sun studs I picked so they wouldn’t get in the way while dancing. With a little more pep in my step, I take my place in the group of a couple dozen that’s gathered around our instructors, the woman in the polka dot dress, who can’t be more than five feet tall, and a beanpole of a guy in shiny Oxfords and a newsboy cap. They’ve kicked off the class by dancing to a Ray Charles song with so much energy it looks as though the guy is tossing the girl around. She never loses control, swiveling her legs, throwing out her arms, and at one point stealing the guy’s cap and putting it on her own head.

When the song ends, everyone claps.

“Good evening, everyone!” the girl says in a bright and booming voice. “Welcome to Lindy Hop 101. I’m Zara, and this is Theo. We’ll be your instructors.”

“We’re pretty fond of swing dancing, so we’re jazzed you’re all here to learn.” At his pun, Theo gives us an impish grin. “The amazing thing about swing dancing is that it’s all improvised. None of it is choreographed. So if you were watching us just now—all of that, I was making it up as I went along.”

“And I was following based on the cues he was giving me,” Zara says. “The first thing we’re going to do is split you into two groups: people who want to lead, and people who want to follow. The lead has been the more traditionally male role, but that’s super outdated and I kind of hate it. I actually prefer leading to following. So for now, if you’re a more experienced dancer, whatever that experience happens to be, I’d recommend leading. But you can also feel free to pick whichever one speaks to you, and we’ll even them out if we have to!”

“I don’t have any rhythm,” I whisper to Russell as I pick the follow group with Nate, and he and Hannah, the experienced dancer, head to the lead side.

Zara and Theo talk us through the most basic step, the one that will be the foundation of everything we do: the rock step, where weight is transferred from one foot and then to the other. Then we add on two triple steps—“Quick, quick, slow,” Zara chants as we do it with her—and string the whole thing together.

“Perfect,” Theo says once we’ve danced it a few times with music. “Now it’s time to pair up! Find someone on the opposite side, and once you’re partnered up, let’s form a circle.”

Somehow, it isn’t until that moment that it hits me: I’m not just in a dance class. I’m in a dance class with Russell, and that means I’m going to be dancing with him.

That realization temporarily freezes me in place, so when Russell reaches me, I’ve barely moved. He’s in a gray striped button-up and dark jeans, paired with Adidas. Casual Russell.

“Do you want to be my partner?” he asks with this shy half smile.

“Yes. Save me from the traumatic middle school flashbacks.”

“I refuse to believe that Ari Abrams was ever picked last for anything.”

My brain runs wild with that sentence—I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or not. “I’m fairly certain it’s a rite of passage,” I say, which sounds safe enough.

We find a place in the circle next to Hannah and Nate, David Wong and morning producer Deandra Fuller on our opposite side. Zara and Theo demonstrate how to hold hands, elbows loose and at our waists, Russell’s hands open, palms up, my fingers curled gently over the tops of his.