“Now face each other and hold hands at waist level,” she says.
X takes my hands in his.
I immediately take them back. His hands are giant blocks of ice.
“Holy crap,” I say. “Are you actually a corpse? Why are your hands freezing?”
“Shit, sorry!” he says. “I get cold when I’m nervous.” He breathes on his hands and then rubs them together like he’s trying to start a fire.
He holds out his hands again and I take them. They’re not any less cold.
“Okay, now relax your shoulders. They do not belong next to ears,” says Fifi, pressing on X’s collarbone. “You have nice strong neck. Let the people see it.”
Who are these people clamoring to see his neck? I wonder.
She turns to me, and I adjust myself under her scrutiny. My stance is perfect. But I’m holding my body so far away from his, I’m practically in another room.
“What is matter with you?” she asks me. “Is his breath stinky?”
She turns to X. “Open your mouth and breathe for me,” she says.
“No way I’m doing that,” he says to her without taking his eyes off me. “My breath is just fine.”
I can’t decide if it’s basic self-respect or supreme arrogance to assert that your breath is not foul.
Fifi pokes my rib cage until I get closer to him. She adjusts us some more while explaining to X that he needs to be a strong lead.
Now that we’re standing so close, he seems even taller. Which is fine. At least I don’t have to look directly into his eyes. Instead, I look directly into his clavicle. It’s a good word. Clavicle.
Fifi jerks my chin up. “Look at him,” she says. “This is sexy dance, and sexy is in the eyes.”
I groan, but on the inside.
“Begin,” she says with a stomp of her heel.
X starts, but on the wrong foot. We go in opposite directions.
“Left foot!” says Fifi.
“Shit, sorry!” says X.
He gives me a rueful smile. A smile full of rue.
We start again with Fifi calling the count. Bachata is all about small steps, but X’s are too big.
Fifi corrects him, but then he overcompensates by making them too small.
He steps on my left foot four times in a row. He says “Shit, sorry” after each foot stomp. I decide it’s his favorite expression. It’s possible I should wear steel-toed boots to our next practice.
Fifi moves us on to the forward basic and then to turns.
“For spot turn, lead is very important,” she tells him. “You have to steer her a little bit. Let her know what you want her to do.”
The first time we try it, I end up in his armpit.
“Maybe steer a little less,” Fifi says, laughing. “She is not large construction vehicle.”
I end up in his armpit again.
We practice without the turn for the next twenty minutes until we’re both sloppy from tiredness.
“Okay, is enough for one day,” says Fifi. As soon as she says it, I drop X’s hands and put a few feet between us.
He frowns at me but turns to Fifi. “So you think we can win this thing?”
She scoffs. “What is expression about cart and horse?” she asks him.
“Don’t put the cart before the horse,” says X.
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “In this case, don’t bother with cart, because horse might be dead.”
X catches my eye and laughs so big and deep that I can’t help but laugh too.
“What is funny?” asks Fifi. “The only way to win is practice, practice, practice. I see you tomorrow. We work on other dances. Do not wear little hobo clothes again.”
With her gone, the studio feels small. It gets smaller with every second that passes.
“Okay, see you,” I say to X, and all but run to the closet to get my backpack.
He’s right behind me when I turn around.
“My guitar’s in there,” he says.
I move out of his way and then move myself out of the studio and into the hall closet to get my bike. I’m just starting down the stairs when I hear him behind me.
“So how’d you get roped into this?” he asks.
I can’t tell him the real truth, so I tell him the half version of it that I told Archibald and Maggie. “It sounds like fun,” I say.
“You still think that even though I’m your partner?”
I stop in the middle of the staircase and turn to look up at him. He’s three steps above me, so he’s even taller than normal. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”