Page 8 of Night Fever
I close my eyes and feel the warm sun beat against my back. I am going to be grateful today, I am going to say thank you, and I am going to make the best ofthis.
“Sweetheart,” my dad says, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder, “is everythingokay?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking up at him as we continue into a small hallway off to the right of the lobby, “everything’s good. Thank you for...well, what are we doing here,exactly?”
“You’ll see,” dad says. We get to an elevator bank tucked off to the left, behind the hallway and the lobby, where the paint is peeling from the corners of the walls and a small window with bars over it overlooks a set of steps that look like they lead to a basement. The view is narrow, and looks out to the other side of the building, a big, red brick wall coveringit.
“What is this place?” I ask, peering out the window. I wave to a squirrel outside the window and it scampersaway.
“I’m sorry,” dad says with a strained tone, “I know it isn’t verypretty.”
“I don’t care about pretty,” I reply as the elevatorarrives.
We step inside and the elevator quickly, though a little bit shakily, takes us up to the top floor of thebuilding.
I try hard to get my heartbeat to slow down, utilizing one of the exercises my therapist instructed me in. One big, deep breath in, hold it, and then exhale slowly. I repeat the process a few times while waiting for the slow, heavy elevator doors to open. I don’t think dad notices me breathing like this, or if he does, he is polite enough to not leton.
“Here,” dad says impatiently as the doors finally open, pushing one hand against the frame and guiding me out with a soft hand at the small of my back. “Maybe I should have checked the place outbeforehand.”
“No,” I look up at him, “it’sokay.”
A soft smile spreads across my face, even though my heart is still beating a million miles asecond.
We step into a big, open space - light bamboo flooring with narrow slats, scuffed up and dented from years of wear; mirrors on two walls - the one right in front of us and off to the right where there’s a small DJ booth set up; on the left, floor-to-ceiling windows with the warm sun streaming in. There are ballet barres bolted to the mirrored walls and the ceiling is high and unfinished, showing all of the pipes andwiring.
I was right; it’s a dance studio, just like the one I used toattend.
“Dad,” I say, turning to him after taking it all in, “thisis…”
“I know,” he replies, taking a few steps away from me, his eyes searching every corner of the big room. “I hope you like it. I thought it might be fun for you to give it atry.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding as I walk forward carefully, regarding my reflection in themirror.
I almost don’t recognize myself. I haven’t seen myself in a mirror like this in a long time. I feel myself stand up just a little bit straighter, push my shoulders back just a little bit farther, hold my chin up a little bithigher.
I toss my purse to the floor gently and move my feet into fifthposition.
“You like it?” dad says, standing next tome.
I haven’t danced in a long time - in what feels like forever. It was a different life of mine entirely, or maybe that life belonged to a different person. I don’t know. And even though my belly has a mixture of nerves and butterflies inside it right now, I don’t want my dad to feelbad.
I don’t want him to think I don’t appreciate theeffort.
“I love it,” I say, putting my arms around him. “Thankyou.”
“Happy birthday,” he says, looking at me softly, his hands on my shoulders. “You deserve the world, love. And wait until you meet your instructor. You’re going to lovehim.”
I look past my dad to see a man coming out of a door beside the DJ booth. I don’t see his face by the time I spot him, and he turns away from us to look down at a laptop on a small table next to thebooth.
And I feel the strange glow of nostalgia inside my chest as I look past my dad at who I assume is my new danceinstructor.
The man has thick, dark salt-and-pepper hair and smooth, big shoulders and powerful arms. His skin is fair but tanned and his black t-shirt is stretched tightly against hisback.
I watch as he turns some music on - I think this guy mightactuallybe putting on the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, which is crazy because I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who adores disco as much as I do. I cock my head to the side slightly and bite my bottom lip, unable to stifle a small laugh as this man bumps his hips to the left and the right, making his tight, firm ass wiggle to the music in those black pants ofhis.
He puts a strong, masculine, yet graceful hand into the air and snaps his fingers to themusic.
This dude’s got moves and rhythm, and I feel my body heat and my stomach flip over as I watch him turn around to faceme.
