Page 20 of Between Then and Now
“You don’t have to dance, just at least stand there. You look like a loser at a keg party,” I say, still pushing him to no avail.
“I don’t go to keg parties,” he retorts bluntly.
“Exactly what losers who don’t get invited say,” I counter, using my back to push him this time, but my feet just skid on the floor. “Come on, dude.”
Suddenly, he makes a move to walk forward, causing me to lose balance and fall on my butt. I squeal as I hit the ground, looking up to see Ryan standing there, smirking.
“Oh, you aresogonna dance now,” I say, reaching for his hands to help me up. He obliges, his grip firm as he pulls me to my feet.
Once I’m up, I don’t let go of his hands. “You’re not getting out of this,” I warn, pulling him closer to the crowd. His reluctance is evident, but he follows me anyway.
The music swells around us, the rhythm infectious. I can hear the instruments—wooden percussion, bamboo flutes, and hand drums. A few locals make their way to us, handing us traditional clothes. I’m handed a giant headgear made of dried palm leaves, while Ryan receives a vest made of the same material. When I ask, the locals explain the headgear is called avakul, used by women to protect against the sun and rain, while the vest is akanayi, used by men when they go to the field to work. Ryan looks absurd wearing it over his gray button-down and khaki pants.
Alexa, Mia, John, and Maybe-Tom make their way over to us, wearing similar traditionalIvatanensembles. We continue dancing (horribly) to the rhythm, my feet barely keeping up with the beat. As the dance progresses, the pace quickens. The dancers form a circle, holding hands and moving in unison, their steps flowing effortlessly. They pull us into the circle, and we copy their hand gestures, trying our best not to mess up the rhythm. The dancer beside me, a friendly local with a wide smile, explains that the gestures tell stories of the sea, the land, and the skies. I nod enthusiastically, even though I probably look like a confused tourist trying to follow along.
We follow their steps until we’re paired off in a dance calledSabadung. This is another type of native dance that showcases the traditional waysIvatanmen and women express affection and admiration. I face Ryan and again emulate the movementsof the dancers around us. I spin, I dip, I twirl, feeling like a clumsy yet enthusiastic marionette. Ryan rolls his eyes but eventually starts to mimic my movements, albeit awkwardly. It’s endearing to see him step out of his comfort zone. But it’s also hilarious because, bless his heart, he can’t dance to save his life.
“There you go,” I cheer, beaming at him. “You’re dancing!”
“I wouldn’t call this dancing,” he grumbles, but his tone lacks conviction. There’s a lightness to his steps now, a looseness in his shoulders. “I feel like I’m in a nightmare where my feet are made of lead,” he mutters, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He takes my hand and twirls me, and I can’t help but laugh at how serious his face looks–brows furrowed, mouth frowning–while trying to coordinate his steps.
“Lighten up, Grump,” I say, placing my fingers on his cheeks to pull the corners of his mouth into a smile.
He snorts and catches both of my wrists in his hands, holding them gently. “Easy for you to say. Your feet actually move where you want them to,” he says, still frowning.
He twirls me again, a little too fast, and my hair whips across his face. I laugh as he steps back and sputters.
“Dramatic much?” I say, still giggling.
“Your hair is short now, but it’s still a weapon of mass destruction,” he says, glaring at me. I’m instantly reminded of that time, three or four years ago, when my long hair got tangled in his noodles while he was slurping.
“Well, maybe you should learn to keep your distance from me,” I say.
“Believe me, Bon, I try,” he replies, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
He takes my hands again and we continue dancing terribly. “You're doing great, for someone who claims to have lead feet,” I say.
Ryan shakes his head but can't hide his smile. “Thanks, I think?”
I nod. “Definitely a compliment. Besides, you’re not stepping on my toes, so that’s a win.”
He chuckles, his serious expression finally breaking into a full smile. “Well, I guess that’s something.”
We continue to dance, our movements becoming more fluid and synchronized as we get into the groove. The music changes tempo, and we adjust, laughing as we stumble through the faster parts. Toward the end, we completely give up on copying the dancers and just move embarrassingly to our own rhythm. When the song finally ends, we’re both breathless and laughing. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
“Edward Cullen is a better dancer; he even lifts Bella off her feet,” I joke, nudging him playfully as we walk toward the benches.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I bet Bella doesn’t let him eat her hair.”
“For the record, Edward is obsessed with her hair. It carries the scent,” I say, making a whiffing motion with my hands.
“That’s disgusting,” Ryan says.
“It’s romantic,” I retort with a chuckle.
“Your idea of romance is twisted,” he replies, looking at me with disgust.
“Your take on romance doesn’t count because you can’t even talk to the girl you like.”
