Instructions for Dancing(48)



We drink more and dance more and we’re loud and tipsy and silly and all so in love with each other it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.



Happiness is tricky. Sometimes you have to fight for it. Sometimes, though—the best times—it sneaks up behind you, wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close.





CHAPTER 41





Joy Emoji



<Thursday, 9:47 AM>

Me: Hey Dad

Dad: Hi, honey. Is something wrong?

Me: Everything’s fine

Me: I have something to say

Me: But I just want to say it over text

Me: If I talk I’ll cry and I don’t want to cry

Dad: Okay.

Me: I decided to come to your wedding

Dad: That’s wonderful. You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear that.

Me: Yeah ok

Dad: Are you sure I can’t call you? Texting is a poor medium for conveying joy.

Me: God you’re such a nerd dad professor

Me: Please don’t call. I get how happy you are

Dad: Okay, sweetheart.

Dad: You know Shirley’s shower is next Sunday. Would I be pushing it to ask you to go to that too?

Me: Yes that’s definitely pushing it



Me: But I’ll go

Dad: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Me: That’s a lot of exclamation points dad

Dad: It really is such a poor medium for communication.

Me: You gotta get some emojis in there

Dad: Not in a million years.

Dad: I love you very much, Evie.

Me:





CHAPTER 42





Uncomfortable Silences



SHIRLEY’S WEDDING SHOWER is “themed,” which is a fancy way of saying it’s a costume party. We’re supposed to dress like we’re going to afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace.

For the occasion, Danica’s wearing some sort of vintage, sleeveless, pink-and-white-flower-patterned silk dress. She’s also wearing an elaborate hat sculpture. I see a hummingbird and hibiscus flowers nestled in her Afro. It sounds ridiculous but looks incredible. Choosing the perfect outfit for every occasion is her superpower.

My outfit is nothing special, just a beige skirt and a gauzy pale-yellow blouse. I (briefly, very briefly) considered wearing funeral black. I’ve talked myself out of going to this thing at least two times in the past week. Both times, X talked me back into it.

Mom’s at the kitchen table, drinking tea and flipping through yet another recipe book when we get downstairs. She closes the book and presses one hand over her heart when she sees us. I’m not sure I understand the look she’s giving us. There’s pride there, and something else too.



“When did you girls get so big?”

“Big and beautiful,” Danica says with a little curtsy.

“You were always beautiful,” she says. “But I just don’t know when you got so big.” She sounds genuinely surprised—astonished, even—like we grew two feet overnight.

“You okay, Mom?” I ask.

“Yes, man. I’m fine,” she says, waving me off. She walks over to Danica and adjusts the hibiscus on her hat. She dusts something I can’t see off my shoulder.

“Time really flies, you know,” she says. “And the older you get, the faster it flies.”

I don’t think the slight Jamaican accent I hear in her voice is my imagination. I scour her face for a sign that she’s feeling less than fine, but I can’t find one. But how can she be okay when she’s sending us off to Dad’s soon-to-be bride’s wedding shower? How can she be so over it, when I’m not at all?

“You girls have a good time,” she says, and sends us out the door.



* * *



——

The shower is forty-five minutes away at a hotel in Pasadena. When we get there, the other guests are easy to spot. Flower-patterned dresses and enormous hats abound. We get a few stares and even some double-takes from the staff and hotel guests. I suppose they don’t see large groups of mostly Black women dressed for a garden party every day. That, or they’re flabbergasted by our tremendous beauty.



The hostess leads us out to a courtyard patio, and it feels like we’ve stepped into a wild English garden. I see bougainvillea on trellises and climbing vines on the walls. Lavender, rosemary and jasmine bushes are everywhere. I see hibiscus, poppies and marigolds and other bright flowers I don’t know the names of.

It’s all very beautiful, like a fairy tale.

Shirley is the evil stepmother.

Obviously.

It’s not hard to spot Shirley. She’s the only one wearing a white veil instead of a hat. Danica makes a beeline for her. I watch them hug. Danica twirls to show off her outfit and Shirley claps her hands together, delighted. They look more like sisters than future stepmom and daughter. I try not to stare, but I can’t help myself. The last (and only) time I saw her was when I caught her with Dad.

At least physically, she’s nothing like Mom. Mom is tall and straight. Shirley is short and curvy. Mom has a short Afro. Shirley has a big wild one. I wonder if their personalities are different too. And if they are, then how did Dad manage to fall for both of them in one lifetime?

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