Instructions for Dancing(52)

It’s a testament to Fifi’s relentless training that I don’t stumble, because X right now is my own personal earthquake. He belongs on the cover of a romance novel about bad-boy rockers with hearts of gold. He’s wearing black suspenders with smoothly tailored black pants. It turns out I really like suspenders.

I drag my eyes up to his face and realize he’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him.

“Jesus God, Evie, you look fucking—”

Maggie cuts him off before he can finish. “Xavier Darius Woods, watch your language,” she scolds.

In her entire life, no one has ever dared to shush Maggie, but I almost do it. I look fucking what?!

X rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, Grams,” he says, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“You look nice too,” I say.

Fifi claps. “Positions!”

X and I take our places, and Fifi hits play.

Five dances and twenty minutes later, we’re done. Archibald and Maggie marvel at how much we’ve improved.

“Westside Dance won’t know what hit them,” Maggie chuckles.

In her mind, she’s already making room for the Top Studio Amateur trophy.

Since she’s “just audience member” today, Fifi will only say she enjoyed our performance. She tells us to go home and get rest.



X is getting his guitar from the closet when I break down and ask him. “What word were you going to use before?”

He knows exactly what I’m talking about. He turns around, giving me his full attention. “Astonishing,” he says.

Then he puts the whole sentence together. “Jesus God, Evie, you look fucking astonishing.”

It’s because I’m thinking about looking “fucking astonishing” that I don’t notice Archibald and Maggie are still in the studio. It’s why I don’t notice the way they’re leaning into each other.

Why I don’t notice they’re about kiss until it’s too late.

And I see.





CHAPTER 44





Archibald and Maggie



BRIGHT MIDDAY SUNSHINE on a studio lot. A line of dancers, all of them Black men and women, holding portfolios and waiting for something. They’re dressed head to toe in fluorescent spandex, with neon sneakers.

One of the dancers is Maggie, but a much younger version of her. Her face is clear and open, no wrinkles along her forehead, no gray at her temples. Instead of dreadlocks, her hair is braided and laced through with silver threads.

“This is the third audition we’ve been at together,” says a voice from somewhere behind her.

Maggie turns to the voice. “Is that so?” she says to the young man she finds smiling at her. She raises a cool eyebrow. “I don’t remember you.”

A young Archibald falters and looks down at his feet, unsure what to say next.

Some of the women surrounding Maggie snicker.

A man wearing neon-purple spandex says, “Brother man, you have to come better than that.”

Archibald straightens, recovers himself. “Listen, I just don’t want you to be the one that got away.”



Maggie unarches her brow, considers him for a long moment. “Best not let me get away, then,” she says as her name is called to audition.



* * *



—

Television-blue light splashed across a group of smiling brown faces crowded into a small living room. Maggie is sitting in Archibald’s lap. His arms circle her waist. Her arms rest on top of his.

“There! There he is!” Maggie screams, pointing at the screen.

The friends lean in closer, picking out Archibald from the group of background dancers in the music video.

Archibald doesn’t bother looking at the TV. Instead, he holds Maggie even tighter. “I love you,” he says.

Maggie twists, throws her arms around his neck. “I love you too,” she says, and they topple over backward onto the ground.



* * *



—

Nighttime in a silver-tinseled ballroom. Archibald and Maggie are dancing the Viennese waltz.

Archibald is wearing a tuxedo.

Maggie’s wedding dress is chiffon and lace.

They spin again and again into each other’s arms.

They are made of joy.



* * *



—

A pale-green hospital room in the not-quite morning. Archibald and Maggie are lying together on the bed.

Maggie is holding a small swaddled bundle in her arms. “Look what we made,” she whispers to Archibald. “Look at this beautiful thing we made.”



* * *



—



A small kitchen with fading yellow sunlight leaking in through the blinds. Archibald and Maggie are sitting at a table, a worry of bills between them.

“I’m going to take that substitute teaching job,” Archibald says.

Maggie shakes her head. “I don’t want you giving up your dreams.”

Archibald pushes the bills to one side, clears a path for his hand to take hers. “I already have my dreams, Mags.”



* * *



—

Almost midnight in another pale-green hospital room. Maggie is sitting upright in her bed. On her face is a mixture of exhaustion and elation.