Instructions for Dancing(11)

Firecracker woman ushers me out of the studio as soon as the actual lesson begins.

She turns to me once we’re back in the hallway. “What is word you Americans are always using? Amazing. They are amazing, no?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say, and I don’t just mean their dancing.



Once we’re back at the reception office, she sits in front of the computer.

“What is name?” she asks, wiggling her fingers over the keyboard.

“Evie,” I say, before rushing to add that I’m not ready to sign up for lessons yet.

“But if not now, then when?” she asks. “You could do it even without special friend.”

“I just need some time to think about it,” I say, backing away.

She sighs and stares at the screen, disappointed. “Well, it was nice to meet you anyway.” She leaves the office and heads back down the hallway.

I walk toward the studio where I left my bike and hear the distinct trill of the bell coming from inside. I slow down. The lights are not on. Which means someone who is not me is riding my bike around a dark dance studio.

The door is just slightly open. I move closer to it.

“I’m sorry, Jess. No, don’t cry. Please don’t cry,” pleads a guy’s voice.

Holy crap. I’m pretty sure I’m overhearing a breakup. I wait, expecting to hear a sniffled response, until I realize the guy must be talking to someone on the phone.

“I didn’t mean to break— Yeah, no, you’re right, I’m a jerk….I’m sorry, Jess….No, I didn’t know you bought…Wait, when did you buy a dress?…Yesterday?”

Overhearing this conversation reminds me of the visions. Why am I being subjected to knowing the secret lives of other people?



There are lot of things I’d rather do than have to turn on the lights and interrupt this emotional cataclysm. But I also need my bike so I can go home and forget about this disappointing trip.

“But, Jess, we broke up like ten months ago,” says the voice. “I don’t even go to school there anymore. Why would you buy a prom dress? Okay, okay…yeah, I’ll talk to you later. Okay, don’t cry. Okay. I’m sorry.”

My bike bell trills again and the studio lights flicker on. I take it as my signal that the conversation is over, and push open the door. Just like the other studio, this one has floor-to-ceiling mirrors, so instead of seeing just one guy riding my bike slowly around the room, I see many of them.

The first thing I notice is his face—all brown skin, dark eyes and cheekbones. The second thing I notice is that he’s very tall. Gratuitously tall, really. He looks ridiculous on my short bike. The third thing is his hair—long, skinny dreads dipped in blue and piled high on top of his head. So maybe not quite as tall as I thought, since his hair is responsible for at least three inches. The fourth thing is his hands, which are giant and completely dwarf my handlebars. The fifth thing I notice is I’m noticing a lot of things about him. So I stop.

“Umm,” I say.

He swings one absurdly long leg over the bike and hops off.

He tilts the bike toward me. “I’m guessing this is yours,” he says.

I step into the studio. “Did you adjust my seat?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says. “Long legs.” He lifts one leg and wiggles it. To demonstrate how tall he is.



I notice him some more.

He’s wearing ripped jeans, black canvas shoes and a teal-blue T-shirt with a line drawing of a unicorn. It says Not the Only One in cursive. Could he be any more hipster? Dyed dreads, torn jeans, old-school shoes and ironic T-shirt. Any three of those things would’ve been enough. Four is too much. He’s a hipster overachiever.

“Nice bike, by the way,” he says when I take the handlebars. “Never seen one of those. What kind is it?”

“Beach cruiser,” I say, wondering how he’s never seen one. These things are all over every beach in Southern California. It’s true, though, that mine’s really nice. Tasseled handlebars, wide wicker basket, fenders and a step-through frame so I can ride it with a skirt on and not show my goods to the world. Dad got it for me for my birthday before everything fell apart.

I flip down the kickstand so I can adjust the seat from tall-hipster-guy height to not-tall-non-hipster-girl height.

“I was gonna change it back right after I got done—”

“Breaking Jess’s heart,” I say, finishing his sentence for him with the thing he was probably not going to say.

He looks away from me, embarrassed, and then palms the entire back of his neck with a single enormous hand. There’s a tattoo on the back of his biceps. It’s either an X or a plus sign. Hipster-trait tally at five.

“My name’s X, by the way,” he says.

I look up. “Ex? Like an e followed by an x?”

“Short for Xavier. Everyone calls me X.”

“So that’s an X tattooed on your arm? Aren’t you supposed to tattoo someone else’s name?”



He lifts his arm and frowns at his own biceps. “That’s not me. I’m in a band. X Machine.”

“Oh. So the band is named after you?” I don’t know why I’m giving him such a hard time. Maybe for the sake of this Jess girl.