Instructions for Dancing(42)

He looks at me. “He would’ve liked you. Would’ve liked how snarky you are.”

“I’ve never been snarky a day in my life.”

He laughs. “Says the snarky girl snarkily.”



Across the way, Mrs. Chabra starts playing music. The song starts off slow but gets faster almost immediately.

He taps his feet to the rhythm. “You ever dance to Bollywood music?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“One of my buddies back home is Indian American. Man, his parents know how to throw a party. The music is loud and the dancing is wild.” He’s grinning now, and I’ve never been happier for Mrs. Chabra’s music. “None of this closed-position ballroom stuff,” he says.

“Show me,” I say.

He springs up and suddenly he’s all movement—neck popping, wrists twisting, hips circling. He even does some knee slapping. He looks like an enthusiastically malfunctioning robot.

I’m sure he’s not doing any Indian dance any actual justice, but it’s so nice to see him smiling instead of crying that I forgive him.

I join him, dancing the moves I’ve “learned” from the handful of Bollywood movies I’ve seen. Pretty soon we’re trying to one-up each other with more and more elaborate neck and wrist action. Somehow my dance morphs into the Robot. He stops dancing to laugh at me and I (robotically) flip him off. He laughs even more, and then he’s looking at me the same way he did on the beach right before we kissed. His hands are on my waist and my palms are flat against his chest.

A light flashes in my periphery. I know I should pay attention to it, but all my concentration is on precisely how close X’s lips are to mine.



X is the one that stops us. “I think someone’s home,” he says.

I step back just in time for Mom to turn the corner into the living room.

She slides the patio door open. “What exactly is happening out here?” she asks.

We aren’t doing any of the things parents worry about—sex, drugs, experimental body piercings—but I still feel caught.

Mom scrutinizes my state of dress. Once she’s satisfied I’m wearing all my clothes, and in the way they’re supposed to be worn, she downgrades her face from scowl to frown. “Who’s this?” she asks.

“This is X,” I say.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Thomas.”

“Oh yes. You’re the dancing boy. The grandson,” she says. “How’s the practicing coming along?”

“Good, good. Our instructor hasn’t killed us yet,” X says.

“Funnily enough, I didn’t realize I was in danger of losing my firstborn,” Mom says, deadpan.

X laughs. “Ballroom is deadlier than most people realize, Ms. Thomas.”

Mom tilts her head to the side, considering. “You’re funny,” she says. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. Hopefully both you and my daughter will survive the dancing.”

She’s halfway inside when it occurs to me why she’s in such a good mood. “Mom, how was your date?”

“It was…really good,” she says with a happy little smile. “We’re seeing each other again next weekend. We’re going hiking.”

“But you hate nature,” I remind her. “And you don’t hike.”



“I do now,” she says back with another smile. “Your curfew is in five minutes.”

X turns to me once the sliding glass door is all the way closed. “Man, that was close,” he says. “Can’t have your mom’s first impression of me be bad. I need for her to like me.”

“She likes you,” I say, so earnestly I’m sure he knows I’m talking about myself. “My dad likes you too.”

“That’s good,” he says.

We stare at each other for another few seconds. If only Mom had come home a minute later.

“Well, I guess I should get going,” he says. He picks up his guitar and straps it across his back. “I didn’t get to play the song for you.”

“Next time,” I say. I walk him back through the apartment and out the front door.

“Think your friends would be up for a bonfire tomorrow night?” he asks.

I almost agree before I remember the state of things with Sophie and Cassidy.

“That’s not such a good idea,” I say.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, I know you said you wanted to go slow.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” I say, rushing to reassure him. I tell him what happened with Sophie and Cassidy.

When I get to the end, he tilts his head at me, confused. “Wait. You broke up with them because they started dating each other?”

“Not because they started. Because they’ll eventually stop dating. They’re going to break each other’s hearts. It’s too painful to watch.”



“So you’re not friends with them?”

“We’re friends. We just don’t hang out anymore.” I know how nonsensical this sounds. I try for a smile to lighten the mood and move us on from here, but it doesn’t work.

“Evie, you ditched the friends you’ve had since middle school.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “I can’t explain.”