The band comes onstage, the music starts, and the crowd erupts in cheers.
“I want you to join them,” I say, pointing to the small group. I noticed this the last time Louis and I drove by here: there are outdoor concerts here all summer long, and people dancing their hearts out in the middle of the square. It’s the exact opposite of the kind of dancing we do: these girls and guys just move their bodies however they feel like it, swaying along and making silly faces. They don’t care about how they look or who’s watching. It’s perfect.
“That’s not going to happen,” Audrey says, stepping back as if she’s scared that she might catch whatever disease they have.
“You,” I say in my most authoritative tone, “are going to dance right here, in front of all of these people, and you’re not allowed to even think about your steps.”
Her eyes open wider as she shakes her head. “No way.”
The ground vibrates with the bass of the speakers, and Audrey’s expression grows more worried as she looks around. “I’m not really a reggae kind of girl,” she says.
No kidding.
“You have to get out of your comfort zone.”
But she just folds her arms across her chest. “You need to find something else.”
“Fine,” I say with a shrug. “There are other bands playing tonight. So if not here, then you have to dance at the next one.”
Audrey takes in the extra large crowd around us and sighs. “Okay.”
“The next one,” I say, “no matter what kind of music it is.”
“I said okay!”
We keep walking along the banks of the Seine for a few minutes, until we come across another gathering. As soon as we can hear the tunes coming from a small patch by the water, Audrey grunts. I try not to smile as we make our way closer. This crowd is smaller, but they are all standing in a tight circle around a singer crooning into a microphone. A woman in a red flowing dress dances around him while a few couples show off their moves.
“Salsa it is,” I say, barely containing my laughter.
Audrey gasps. “It’s couples’ dancing. I’m not a couple.”
I shrug. “Should have thought of that a few minutes ago.”
I give her a little shove, which she resists. Right in front of us, a man and a woman our parents’ age rub their bodies together while casting each other hungry looks. It’s kinda gross, but they’re very good. When the song stops, he swings his partner back and plants a big wet kiss on her lips.
The look on Audrey’s face is worth the price of admission alone. I shove her once more, and she reluctantly takes two steps forward. She casts me yet another pleading glance, but I have no mercy. In fact, I cannot wait for this show.
That’s how a tall, graceful yet suddenly very awkward American teenager finds herself attempting hip shimmies, barely able to move in the tiny space she carved for herself among middle-aged couples. I’m not saying it’s funny, but several people around me try, and fail, to suppress giggles while whispering to each other. This isn’t an audience plunged in darkness underneath the stage; we’re standing right there. But Audrey soldiers on, focusing on the dancers’ feet as her face turns different shades of red. And, as much as she tries to shake that booty, I think it’s fair to say that salsa is not her calling.
I start to wonder if I should rescue her, but someone else beats me to it. The woman from the couple we were just observing points at Audrey and whispers something in her partner’s ear. Nodding, he steps out to the side as the woman takes Audrey’s hand.
Regarde-moi, she mouths to Audrey, pointing to her feet. Watch me.
Audrey does, and together they practice a few steps back and forth. Then, the woman points at her hips, shifting them from left to right, showing her how it’s done. Audrey’s French has room for improvement, but she understands the language of dance.
So she learns. The woman nods encouragingly, placing her hands on Audrey’s hips to guide her as they go. There’s still tension in her eyes as she focuses, but her shoulders relax, and she’s no longer clenching her jaw. The crowd, who has been studying them closely, starts clapping with a beat. The claps get louder as the woman lifts Audrey’s hand into the air, taking her for a spin. After another go-around, Audrey breaks out into a huge grin. Then she turns to me, beaming. “I’m having fun!” she screams over the music.
I laugh, and so do a few others around. I glance at the crowd, which is only getting thicker. Everyone cozies up together on the narrow sidewalk, young and old, couples or larger groups of friends. That’s when I see him, on the other side of the small circle. Black hair, loose shirt, holding another girl’s hand. I can’t breathe. I never wanted to see him again, but now my heart crunches as I pray he turns around and sees me. It’s been like that since the moment we met: everything I’ve felt about Louis has been completely contradictory. Simple and complicated. Impossible, yet natural. Another song ends, and people shuffle about, including Louis. I clench my fists, trying to figure out what to do.