Instructions for Dancing(18)

“Begin,” she says with a stomp of her heel.

X starts, but on the wrong foot. We go in opposite directions.

“Left foot!” says Fifi.

“Shit, sorry!” says X.

He gives me a rueful smile. A smile full of rue.

We start again with Fifi calling the count. Bachata is all about small steps, but X’s are too big.

Fifi corrects him, but then he overcompensates by making them too small.

He steps on my left foot four times in a row. He says “Shit, sorry” after each foot stomp. I decide it’s his favorite expression. It’s possible I should wear steel-toed boots to our next practice.

Fifi moves us on to the forward basic and then to turns.

“For spot turn, lead is very important,” she tells him. “You have to steer her a little bit. Let her know what you want her to do.”

The first time we try it, I end up in his armpit.

“Maybe steer a little less,” Fifi says, laughing. “She is not large construction vehicle.”

I end up in his armpit again.

We practice without the turn for the next twenty minutes until we’re both sloppy from tiredness.



“Okay, is enough for one day,” says Fifi. As soon as she says it, I drop X’s hands and put a few feet between us.

He frowns at me but turns to Fifi. “So you think we can win this thing?”

She scoffs. “What is expression about cart and horse?” she asks him.

“Don’t put the cart before the horse,” says X.

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “In this case, don’t bother with cart, because horse might be dead.”

X catches my eye and laughs so big and deep that I can’t help but laugh too.

“What is funny?” asks Fifi. “The only way to win is practice, practice, practice. I see you tomorrow. We work on other dances. Do not wear little hobo clothes again.”

With her gone, the studio feels small. It gets smaller with every second that passes.

“Okay, see you,” I say to X, and all but run to the closet to get my backpack.

He’s right behind me when I turn around.

“My guitar’s in there,” he says.

I move out of his way and then move myself out of the studio and into the hall closet to get my bike. I’m just starting down the stairs when I hear him behind me.

“So how’d you get roped into this?” he asks.

I can’t tell him the real truth, so I tell him the half version of it that I told Archibald and Maggie. “It sounds like fun,” I say.

“You still think that even though I’m your partner?”

I stop in the middle of the staircase and turn to look up at him. He’s three steps above me, so he’s even taller than normal. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”



“Just got the feeling you hate me a little bit.”

I stumble and almost miss the final step into the outside world but manage to steady myself against my bike.

“Who said I hated you?” I say as soon as he’s out on the sidewalk. The sunlight is so bright, I have to squint against it to frown at him properly.

He notices my squinting and takes a couple of steps to the right to block the sun with his head.

Thoughtful. Now I can frown at him without squinting.

“Your entire body language says you hate me,” he says.

“Leave my body out of it. Look at my mouth instead.”

He focuses on my mouth.

Because I just told him to.

Some days I just shouldn’t speak.

I clear my throat. “What I’m saying is I don’t hate you.”

He holds on to his guitar straps with both hands. “Sure you do,” he says.

I swing onto my bike. “I’m not going to stand here arguing with you about how much I don’t hate you.”

“Okay, what do you want to argue with me about, then?”

“I— What?”

He gives me that enormous brain-cell-destroying grin, and I realize he’s just been teasing me this whole time.

“You’re right,” I say. “I do hate you.”

“You don’t even know me,” he says.

“Yes, but once I do, I’ll probably hate you.”



He tilts his head to the right again. It’s his thinking pose. “Oh, you can predict the future?” he asks.

I stare at him for a little too long. What would happen if I told him Yes, I am able to predict a kind of future?

I stand up on my pedals, getting ready to go. “Why are you doing this?”

“Gramps asked me to. It’s a big deal for them if we win. Also, I have a just say yes philosophy.”

“What does that mean?”

“I say yes to anything anyone asks me.” At the disbelieving look on my face, he clarifies, “Nothing immoral or illegal.”

“But why?”

“Life’s short. Seize the day. Live in the moment,” he says, smiling. “You have any philosophies I should know about?”

Does don’t banter with extremely hot and possibly smart and interesting guys who are very definitely players count as a philosophy?

“I don’t have any philosophies,” I say.