Instructions for Dancing(25)

This one doesn’t start off slow or crooning. The song is rage set to music and still catchy somehow. I already know the chorus will stay with me:

You don’t get to say

Who I am

Who I can be

You don’t get to tell me

Nothing no more

Nothing no more

Nothing

They play two more songs, and I can’t take my eyes off him. Let’s just say I get why rock stars are a thing. I get why groupies are a thing. Because up there onstage with his guitar, X’s sexy is undeniable. But what really gets me is the way I can see he belongs up there. It’s the way he doesn’t hold anything back.

He pulls the mic in close. “Here’s a brand-new one we started working on last night. The lyrics aren’t all there yet, but it’s got potential. See what you guys think,” he says.

He unstraps his guitar and leans it up against the wall. “This song is called ‘Black Box,’?” he says, and grips the mic stand with both hands.



The bass and drums kick in before X does. His voice, when it comes, is low and sprawling and full of so much want that it doesn’t matter that he’s mumble-singing some of the lyrics. At the chorus, he grips the mic stand and tilts it forward like he needs more room for his voice to grow, like he needs more room for the feeling he’s trying to give us all to grow.

An idea of what his future will be like rises in my mind. Not a tiny club, but a stadium. Not fifty people, but fifty thousand. Not an unfinished song, but a catalog of hits. In this future, he gets everything he wants. But then I shake my head, because of course, it probably won’t happen that way. Over the last few weeks with the visions, I’ve seen enough heartbreak to know that life almost never turns out the way you think it will.

The song ends and X grips the mic again. “I know it’s weird for you seeing three Black guys up here playing rock and roll. But don’t forget, Black people invented rock and roll.” He winks and flashes the same grin he gave me when we first met, the one that gets him to the front of every line. It works, and people laugh all around me. He waits for the cheers to die down. “We’re X Machine. That was our set,” he says. “Thanks for coming out.”

The club lights go up from dark to slightly less dark.

It’s another twenty minutes of breaking down their equipment and high fives and great shows before he makes his way over to me. He brings Jamal and Kevin with him.

“You the one got our boy doing ballet?” Jamal asks. He’s taller than X, with a baby face and a Mohawk.



“That’s me,” I say.

“Man, I told you it’s not ballet. It’s ballroom,” X groans. I can tell this is a running gag between them.

Jamal gives me a quick hug. “Keep him busy with the dancing,” he says. “Before you, he was killing us with rehearsing all the time.”

“He’s a lot less grumpy now too,” Kevin says, also leaning in for a hug. He’s short, wide and completely bald. In a former life he was a boulder.

“Time for you fools to go,” X says.

Jamal laughs. “Nice to meet you finally, Evie,” he says.

“Keep up the good work,” Kevin adds.

After they leave, X turns back to me. “Hey,” he says. His eyes are glittering, and there’s a kind of energy coursing through him.

I grab my backpack and hug it tight to my chest. “Hey,” I say back. And even at the risk of seeming like a groupie, I have to tell him how great he was. “You were incredible. Better than you said you were. Thanks for inviting me. I’m glad I got to see you play.”

He beams. Which isn’t something I’ve seen him do before, but I like it. I like it so much that I want to make him do it again.



* * *



——

“This place isn’t usually like this,” I say to X when we’re settled into our booth at Surf City Waffle. I’ve never actually been here at night, and it’s…different. The tables are covered with lacey, pale-pink cloths. Rose petals float in small round vases at the center of each table. Actual candles in actual sconces line the walls. Candlelight twinkles. Romantically.



X makes a show of looking around. “So you didn’t bring me here to seduce me?” he asks.

I actually sputter. “What?! No!”

He leans back and belly-laughs with his giant hands resting on his stomach. “Got your goat,” he says.

“Leave my goat alone,” I grumble.

“Don’t make it so easy to catch, then,” he says. His dreads are half in his face.

“Also, you shouldn’t flirt with me. I’m not one of your groupies.”

He does the single-eyebrow-raise thing. “Who says I’m flirting?”

“My flirt-detection meter,” I say.

He leans forward. “Where do you get one of those?”

“Same place I got my bullshit-detection meter,” I say, leaning back into my seat.

Another belly laugh from him. “You’re funny,” he says.

“I bet you flirt with everyone,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Not everyone.”

I persist. “But you flirt a lot, right?”

“I like girls,” he says. He turns the vase centerpiece idly with his long fingers. “I especially like the smart, pretty, snarky, slightly confusing ones.”