Instructions for Dancing(28)

“I’m Martin. I guess I’m the sensitive one,” Martin says to X. “I got you a chair.” He points to the beach chair nestled in the sand next to mine.

“And I’m Sophie,” Sophie chimes in. “I’m the steady, boring one,” she says.

Cassidy takes a sip of wine. “You’re not boring,” she says.

“Thanks,” Sophie says, smiling. She turns back to X. “I brought you the most delicious sandwich in all of Los Angeles.”

X waves. “Thanks for letting me crash.”

“Evie says you’re incredible,” Cassidy says.

X’s eyebrows shoot up.

I rush to clarify. “Incredible at making music. What Cassidy means is that I said you’re an incredible musician.”

“Yes,” says Cassidy, looking back and forth between us with a gleeful smile on her face. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

I give her a look at says no one will find your dismembered, fish-gnawed body at the bottom of the sea.

She ignores me. “Anyway, you can play to thank us. Every good bonfire needs a hot guy playing guitar.”

“You don’t have to play,” I tell him.

“But you still have to be hot,” Cassidy says.

“I don’t mind doing both,” he says with a grin.

Martin tells him to sit.

Sophie tells him to eat.

Cassidy hands him an almost overflowing cup of wine.



Instead of sitting with everyone, I tend the fire. I’m the group fire starter because I’m the only one who’s good at it. I learned my technique—crumpled newspaper nestled under a shallow, three-log pyramid—from Dad. The four of us used to come here at least once a week every “winter.” The quotes around winter are Dad’s. He’s originally from Washington, DC, where winter is a real season, with snow and ice and weather-induced tears. Here in LA, the temperature rarely drops below fifty. When it does, it’s just an excuse for us to wear fashionable scarves and sheepskin boots and pretend to be cold for a few days. Dad loved our bonfires because the beach at night in winter is the coldest LA ever gets. It reminded him of home.

The last time the four of were together out here was a few months before Mom and Dad told us they were getting divorced. If I’d known it was going to be the last time, I’d have memorized all the details. All I remember now are probablys.

Probably Mom made a stew, oxtail or beef, and packed Tupperwares for each of us. Probably Dad poked at the fire obsessively. Probably we all laughed and called him a pyromaniac. At some point, he and Mom would’ve started drinking wine, and they’d have laughed more and touched each other more. Probably they told embarrassing stories about when Danica and I were toddlers. Probably Danica and I smiled at each other in the firelight and pretended to be embarrassed. The next day, we probably all smelled like smoke and stew and ocean. I’m sure we found sand in our clothes.

“Everything good?” X calls to me from his beach chair. He’s really more observant than he needs to be.



“Yeah,” I say, and just like Dad, I poke at the logs, which absolutely don’t need any poking.

“Pyromaniac,” X says.

It’s the perfect night for a bonfire. The temperature is just right—cold enough that you want to sit next to fire, but not so cold that you’d rather be in the fire. Even the wind is cooperating, swirling so gently that smoke drifts straight up into the air instead of gusting sideways into our faces.

I toss another log on and listen while the four of them chat a get-to-know-you chat. X tells them where he’s from and about his band and about dropping out of high school. Cassidy is really impressed with that last part.

I try not to watch X as he talks, but I can’t help myself. Firelight flickers across his face and lights him up. He does a lot of grinning and chuckling. I decide I like people who are generous with their laughter.

Once X realizes the three of us have been friends since middle school, he begs for funny—meaning embarrassing—stories about me. I threaten to douse the fire. Cassidy declares herself impervious to cold. She tells him the story of when I peed on myself while running up a very long staircase in first grade. X laughs and tells the story of how he peed on himself on the school bus in second grade and how he sat and waited until everyone was off the bus before getting off and running all the way back home.

Eventually we get to the Tipsy Philosophicals portion of the evening. This is when we’re all just tipsy enough to ask and answer pseudo-philosophical questions. We’re allowed at most once short sentence to explain ourselves. We can answer “I don’t know” only once.



Martin starts us off: Is seven years too long a time to be unrequitedly in love with someone?

Martin: No amount of time is too long for true love.

Me: Yes, especially if that someone is related to your best friend.

Cassidy: All my loves have always been requited.

Sophie: Yes, unfortunately.

X: Yeah, I don’t know, but I think I might be finding out soon.

I’m next: If you could find out when and how you were going to die, would you?

Martin: No.

Cassidy: Nooooooo.

Sophie: No.

X: No way. Imagine all the dread you’d feel waiting for it to happen. It’d take the fun out of being alive.