Instructions for Dancing(54)

I don’t remember when we stopped playing or why.

“Can you save me, Doc?” I make my voice low and gravelly and clutch at my face, pretending to be sick.

She laughs and bounces out of bed to inspect my face. “It’ll be close,” she says, touching the dark circles under my eyes. “You’re pretty far gone.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” I protest.

“I’m sorry, but are you the doctor?”

“No,” I grumble.

“All right, I think I can save you,” she says.

She leads me to her vanity and goes to work on me.

Forty-five minutes later, she spins me around to face the mirror. “What do you think?” She dabs at my cheek with one of her sponges.

I lean close to the mirror and gawk at myself. “Dani, it’s incredible.”

Her eyes fly to mine, and I can see she’s relieved that I like it.



I lean closer. Somehow Dani made me look bold but not garish. Also, I look like I’ve slept for as long as Sleeping Beauty.

When and why did I stop thinking it was cool that she’s good at this? I stand up and throw my arms around her, glad my lack of sleep forced me to ask her for help.

“Oh my God, don’t mess up your face,” she squeals, surprised by my attack. She hesitates for a few seconds, but then she hugs me back.

“Thanks, Doc,” I say. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she says.



* * *



——

Danceball is in the grand ballroom of the Seasons hotel. The theme is “Hollywood Glamour,” which apparently means gold. Because there is gold everywhere. Gold streamers, towers of gold balloons, gold confetti on the ground. All the signage is written in gold cursive, including a huge banner that reads Welcome to the 17th Annual Los Angeles Danceball Championships.

My stomach does a nervous two-step and I squeeze Mom’s hand. We make our way to the registration desk.

“A lot of you amateurs dancing today,” says the lady checking me in.

“How many?”

“Twenty-three.” She hands me my envelope and wishes me luck.

Twenty-three couples means there’ll be two quarterfinal heats to determine who gets into the semis. I open my packet and check to make sure all our details are right. Age group: Under 21. Partnership Type: Am-Am. Category: Bronze Newcomer. Style: Nightclub.



As (bad) luck would have it, our couple number is also twenty-three. Since we have the highest number, X and I will be always the last ones called when the judges announce which dancers are moving on. If we get called.

X and I agreed to meet downstairs at the designated practice floor.

I spot him right away, leaning against the wall next to the practice room. He looks the opposite of how I feel. Relaxed. Confident.

I wave at him. He pushes off the wall and walks over to us.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Thomas,” he says to Mom.

“Well, don’t you look wonderful,” she says. “You boys should have to wear this sort of thing all the time.”

He hooks his thumbs into his suspenders. “Not sure these are the next big thing for eighteen-year-olds, Ms. T,” he says, grinning.

While they chitchat, I let my eyes travel all over him. He looks the same as he did in rehearsal yesterday, but somehow better. His black patent-leather shoes are shined to glistening. His shirt is perfectly pressed. But it’s the top two buttons that snag my attention. They’re unbuttoned, and for a second I see my fingers unbuttoning a third and a fourth, until—

“Evie, you ready for this?” he asks just as I’m getting to the fifth button.

Yes.



So, so ready.

“Yes,” I say at a completely unnecessary volume.

Mom rubs my shoulder and leans in close. “I don’t remember him being this cute,” she whispers.

I shush her and sneak a glance at X’s face, hoping he didn’t hear her.

Mom gives me a hug and a kiss and wishes us luck before taking off to meet Archibald and Maggie and Fifi upstairs.

“Let’s scope out the competition,” I say.

Since the pros don’t compete until nighttime, the practice room is packed with mostly young amateurs. Per capita, the only other place you can find more sequins or bow ties on teenagers is prom. X and I shuffle along the perimeter until we find a free spot.

“This is wild,” X says as we watch our competition. I look for the couple from Westside Dance that Maggie said would be our main adversary. They’re about our age and very, very obviously in love, given the way they can’t keep their hands off each other. They’ll have no trouble with the “give yourself to each other” part of the Argentine tango.

Finally, one of the organizers gives us the five-minute warning. Dancers for the first heat start heading out.

“We should go up to on-deck,” I tell X, even though we’re in the second of the two heats.

He nods but then doesn’t move. Instead, he cups the back of his head with both hands.

“You’re nervous,” I tease.

“I’m not,” he says.



I reach up and touch his elbow and gently tug his arm back down.

He captures my hand in his and threads his fingers through mine.