Instructions for Dancing(7)

He straightens. Martin’s had a crush on Danica since the fourth grade, when he imprinted on her baby-goose style.

“When?” he asks.

“Last night.”

He does a tiny, happy fist pump with himself. “What happened?”

“He cheated on her with his ex.”

“Jesus, what an asshole,” he says.

I wait for him to pull himself together. It takes a few seconds.



“So you’re losing your mind because they broke up?” he asks.

“No. I mean, yes.”

“I’m confused.”

“I knew they were going to break up.”

“Of course. They had to. We’re destined to be,” he says, smiling.

“Okay, but let’s put destiny aside for a second,” I say. “What I mean is I knew when they were going to break up. And where. And why.” I take a very long breath. “I knew it all before they broke up.”

He slow-blinks at me, which is what he does when he’s contemplating something he doesn’t understand. “Are you saying you can predict the future now?”

“Of course not.” I take a sip of chocolate milk. “What I’m saying is I think maybe I can predict the future now.”

Another slow blink from him. “This is where you say ‘Once up on a time’ and don’t stop talking until you come to the end,” he says.

I tell him exactly what happened yesterday. How I’d just ridden home from giving my books away to the old woman at the Little Free Library and how Ben and Danica—oblivious to the world—were kissing on the stoop. He winces at that detail, but there’s nothing I can do about Danica’s propensity to kiss people who are not Martin.

I tell him how the vision was like watching a movie. The first scene was Ben asking Danica out. Next was them kissing in front of me on the stoop. The third was them at the bonfire, and the fourth was Danica alone in her room.



I stop talking to gauge his reaction so far.

He’s not looking at me as if he thinks I’ve finally lost my sanity, so I keep going. “But the craziest part is that when I got home, she told me they really did break up because she caught him kissing his ex on the beach.”

“Was she really upset?” he asks quietly.

“She was fine,” I say with a sigh. “But I need you to focus. I feel like you’re maybe missing my very enormous point.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “So you saw the whole history of their relationship from beginning to end? Past and present and future?”

“I don’t understand why you’re not telling me that I’m losing it.” I lean forward and whisper, “I think I might be losing it.”

“I’m not ruling it out, but I like to keep an open mind.”

Martin’s open-mindedness is actually one of my favorite things about him. I still remember the first time I needed to tell him to check his (white) privilege. He wasn’t defensive. He just listened and learned.

If I told Cassidy (other best friend forever) about the vision, she would try to have me committed to a very expensive and upscale mental institution. Sophie (my other other best friend forever) would explain to me all the scientific reasons why what I’m saying is not possible. But for Martin, no idea is too outlandish to consider.

“Has it happened with anyone else?”

“No.”

“So you’re not seeing my romantic past and future right now?” he asks with an eyebrow waggle.



“Not possible, seeing as how you have neither,” I say, grinning at him.

He smiles at me and flips me off at the same time.

“How about we do an experiment,” he says after a while. “Maybe it only works on couples.”

“What are you saying? I should stare at people?”

“How else are we going to figure out what’s happening with you?”

“Fine,” I say.

I scan the room. Shelley and Sheldon are sitting two tables over. Their coupledom is legendary. At first it was because of their ridiculously similar names. But now it’s because of their longevity. They’ve been together for three years, since Shelley was a sophomore and Sheldon was a freshman. Every year, they get voted Couple Most Likely to Get Married.

I watch them for a good thirty seconds before looking back at Martin. “Nothing,” I say.

He points to Dwight and Joel sitting by the windows. “How about them?”

I creepy-stare at them before turning back to Martin. “Nope,” I say.

I try a few more times with other couples, but nothing happens. I look down at my mashed potatoes and carve little gravy rivulets with my fork. “I really am losing it,” I say without looking up.

“My mom would say you have a lot going on. Your parents got divorced, and you found out your dad cheated, and you moved away from the house you grew up in, and it’s second semester senior year. She’d say stress is a killer.”



Martin’s mom is a psychiatrist. She’d definitely say all that before launching into her speech about how weekly therapy sessions should be required for everyone, but most especially for middle and high school students.

“And your mom still won’t talk about anything?” he asks.