Page 43 of Wish I Were Here
“Unfortunately, no.” I laugh. “Not unless you need someone to solve forx.” Just a little math humor. Dad would be proud.
Mrs. Goodwin shakes her head. “No, but thanks for theoffer.” She gives me an up-and-down look. “But you know what you could do? Help me practice these steps.”
“Oh, no.” I hold the dry cleaning in front of me as if it will offer some protection. “I really couldn’t. I don’t dance.”
But Mrs. Goodwin waves a dismissive hand. “You’ll be fine. I just need a warm body. Put that thing down.”
“Really,” I say nervously. “I shouldn’t. I’ll just throw off your rhythm.”
Mrs. Goodwin points a not-taking-no-for-an-answer finger at the couch. With a sigh, I drop the bag there. Shedidtake off her pants for me, so maybe I owe her this.
“I’ll lead,” she says, reaching out to take my shoulders and position me in the center of the living room. Her phone is on the kitchen counter, so she leaves me to press play on the music. Then she scurries back over to where I’m standing and takes my hand just in time to catch the last notes of the song’s intro.
“Two, three, four…” Mrs. Goodwin tugs me sideways, crossing her left foot over her right and then giving me a gentle shove backward, stepping away from me in the opposite direction. Her hips swish in time with the beat, feet moving in an elaborate kick step before she pulls me back in toward her, repeating the kick step.
I watch her orthopedic shoes flying across the floor and do my best to mirror her movements. Back, kick step, to the center, kick step, back, kick step. I’m concentrating hard, counting to myself, and hoping I don’t step forward when Mrs. Goodwin steps back, or trip over my own feet and take us both down. But by the end of the second verse,I’ve gotten the hang of the rhythm, and my feet are moving automatically.
When the chorus picks up again, Mrs. Goodwin grabs me by the waist, pulling us both around in a circle, and then with a gentle shove to my hip, she sends me spinning out on my own. I follow the beat of the song, turning once, twice, and then I take hold of Mrs. Goodwin’s outstretched hand. We settle back into our kick steps, spins, kick steps, and as the notes of the song build, Mrs. Goodwin pulls me toward her. Without even having to think about it now, I twirl under her arm, we both kick backward, hop forward, and stop abruptly in the middle of the room, jazz hands flying for the final piano chords. An exhilarated laugh builds in my throat as I bend to catch my breath and shove my sweaty hair off my forehead.
And then, “Bravo!” calls a voice from across the room.
I jump and look up to find Luca leaning against Mrs. Goodwin’s doorframe, clapping wildly. I’m certain my face is turning about ten shades of red, so I spin abruptly and hit pause on the next song that’s kicked in through the phone speaker.
“You told me you don’t dance,” Mrs. Goodwin says, her voice accusing.
“I really don’t.”
“Well, you could have fooled me. Right, Luca?”
I’m still out of breath, and sweating now, but I don’t think it’s entirely related to the exercise. I pull my long blond hair off my neck, twisting it into a bun. I usually secure it with a pencil, but since I don’t have one, I let it fall down my back. When I look up again, Luca is watching me. Even from allthe way across the room, I can feel the heat of his gaze, and something stirs in my chest.
“You looked great to me.” His voice is low, with a little rasp at the end. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”
I pick up the dry cleaning bag from the couch, shake it out, and cross the room. “Mrs. Goodwin must be a good teacher.”
“Uh-huh,” Luca murmurs, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
The truth is, I actuallycandance. As a little girl, I was fascinated by the burlesque dancers Dad used to hang around with at ArtSpace. The glittering costumes, the glamorous makeup, the grace of their matching kick steps across the floor. I used to sit at my homework table in the corner and watch them practice their routines, memorizing the way their feathered hips shook and their high-heeled feet tapped in time with the music. Later, I’d sneak off to the dressing room and practice in front of the mirror when nobody was looking. One of the dancers, Lola Von Crumpet, found me there, shimmying in a too-large pair of Ginger Ale’s vintage patent leather pumps.
Lola took me by the hand and marched me into ArtSpace’s rehearsal room. I was sure she was going to report everything to Ginger, and I’d get in trouble. Maybe Ginger wouldn’t let Dad and me stay at her house anymore when we got kicked out of our apartment. But instead, she took one look at me teetering in her high heels and declared that she was going to buy me a pair that fit so I could practice the steps properly.
“If you want to learn to dance, we’ll teach you,” Lola added, pushing a lock of hair off my cheek and tucking itbehind my ear. I remember how my heart used to constrict at that maternal gesture. “You’ve got natural talent. Don’t hide away in the corner.”
The dancers taught me their kicks and spins, shuffles and hip swings. And I learned all kinds of other things from them, too. How to braid my hair and put on lipstick. How to deal with a man who got too handsy. How to hold my head up high and keep moving, even if I miss a step.
Eventually, though, my homework began piling up from all the school days I’d missed while crisscrossing the country going to music festivals and fairs with Dad. We got kicked out of another apartment, and the reality sank in that someone needed to pay attention to whether the rent was paid. That quiet hum of anxiety—the one that’s been with me for decades now—began around that time. I hated to give up dancing with Lola and Ginger and all the others to go back to that homework table in the corner. It was so lonely being the one who had to worry about holding everything together. But I didn’t have time to perfect my peacock prance if I ever wanted to go to college, land a good job, and finally find some stability for once in my life.
I haven’t danced in years, and I certainly didn’t intend to start up again today. Especially with Luca watching.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I focus my attention on hanging the dry cleaning bag on Mrs. Goodwin’s closet door.
“I was just strolling by, and I heard the music.”
I look through the doorway, past Luca, at the other apartments along the hallway. It’s not lost on me that Mrs. Goodwin lives on the eleventh floor. The same one as Luca’slate-night friend. Is he coming from her apartment? My gaze skates to his feet and back up to his face. He’s in his doorman uniform, so if he’s coming from there, at least he’s not doing the walk of shame in that tight T-shirt he wore last night.
Maybe she tore it off him. Maybe it’s still on her floor.
I press my hands to my eyes.For God’s sake, Catherine, get a grip. Who cares where Luca’s T-shirt is?
