whom I watched, the doll-sized blonde whose eyelashes were fat, black feathers above her gray eyes. Her partner looked nothing like dance except in the face, which beamed a kind of glory. The hair he had was pulled back into a floppy ponytail, and he wore a faded pink-and-yellow shirt. Theywere standing in front of one wall of mirrors, and she was doing all the talking.
“Don’t pull on me,” she was saying. “And don’t push. This is only rumba walking. I need room, but I also need tension…Knees,” she said, “and hips. Small steps. Straight legs. Use the inside of your foot. This is what I want. And not that. This.” They stepped back and faced each other, and she began to count, “Slow quickquick slow quickquick slow,” until he stepped forward and she stepped back and then to the side, and then something else happened, and they broke apart and she walked, like a pony on a tether.
I felt the air in the room change before I understood how it could have, a blast of heat through the conditioned cool. When I turned to see, I understood that the mirrored wall had split, revealing a panel that turned out to be a door. Through the door came the heat of the day and also a cloud of smoke and also, at last, that red-haired dancer. She was so muchsmaller than I’d taken her to be, even stacked on dangerous shoes. She could have been twenty or thirty, or Hungarian or Polish, or anything else that I wasn’t, and I knew her, and she didn’t know me, and I shrugged and said nothing.
Her eyes weren’t a color I knew—flecks of blue, flecks of green, flecks of gray, something tropical. She looked at the woman with the peony on her wrist, then came in my direction, bringing the heat of the day, the smell of that smoke.
“Are you here for a lesson?” she wanted to know.
I shrugged, then nodded yes.
“Who’s your instructor?” She said her s like a z . She both z -ed and purred her “instructor.”
“I saw the sign,” I said. “Downstairs. ‘First One on Us.’”
“You’re looking then to begin? You’re a beginner?” I couldn’t make myself say oneway or the other. I looked into her bright-bird eyes and forced myself to smile.
Now she was dancer-walking on her skyscraper heels back down the hall. Now I was turning to follow, my mother’s stolen sandals clanking against each other, my sneakers blowing air out of their side holes. Handing me an old clipboard she’d pulled from the reception desk, she told me to sit and fill in blanks, as if I’d traveled all this way in search of a doctor, in search of a cure.
“You answer these questions,” she said, “and I’ll book you.”
Well, this is crazy, I thought. But I sat down and obeyed her, because what she had said was true. I was looking to begin.
FIFTEEN
T HE CANDY-HAIRED dancer was Marissa. She studied the answers I’d scribbled onto the clipboard page and asked if I had the afternoon open.
I said, “Somewhat.”
She said, “Two hours, and there’s a lesson block free.”
I said that would work with my schedule.
The phone behind the check-in desk rang. She answered. I settled into the leather sofa. Crossed my legs, tugged at my skirt, took a good, long look at my mother’s shoes, undidthe straps, put the sandals on, kicked my sneakers under the couch, and glanced at the clock. Two hours are like a lifetime when you’re waiting for your very first ballroom dance lesson. But then again, there is so much to see.
The other dance students were coming up the steps, buzzing through the door, sitting down on the other end of the couch, and starting to change their shoes, because everyone who came to the House carried a drawstring pouch of special dancing shoes. Even the men had their own leather Cubans, shoes, from what I could tell, that were too tight at the toes and too high in the heels with the thinnest leather soles. I twined my legs to cover my feet, but my borrowed sandals were certifiable proof that I was a first timer.
The
“Don’t pull on me,” she was saying. “And don’t push. This is only rumba walking. I need room, but I also need tension…Knees,” she said, “and hips. Small steps. Straight legs. Use the inside of your foot. This is what I want. And not that. This.” They stepped back and faced each other, and she began to count, “Slow quickquick slow quickquick slow,” until he stepped forward and she stepped back and then to the side, and then something else happened, and they broke apart and she walked, like a pony on a tether.
I felt the air in the room change before I understood how it could have, a blast of heat through the conditioned cool. When I turned to see, I understood that the mirrored wall had split, revealing a panel that turned out to be a door. Through the door came the heat of the day and also a cloud of smoke and also, at last, that red-haired dancer. She was so muchsmaller than I’d taken her to be, even stacked on dangerous shoes. She could have been twenty or thirty, or Hungarian or Polish, or anything else that I wasn’t, and I knew her, and she didn’t know me, and I shrugged and said nothing.
Her eyes weren’t a color I knew—flecks of blue, flecks of green, flecks of gray, something tropical. She looked at the woman with the peony on her wrist, then came in my direction, bringing the heat of the day, the smell of that smoke.
“Are you here for a lesson?” she wanted to know.
I shrugged, then nodded yes.
“Who’s your instructor?” She said her s like a z . She both z -ed and purred her “instructor.”
“I saw the sign,” I said. “Downstairs. ‘First One on Us.’”
“You’re looking then to begin? You’re a beginner?” I couldn’t make myself say oneway or the other. I looked into her bright-bird eyes and forced myself to smile.
Now she was dancer-walking on her skyscraper heels back down the hall. Now I was turning to follow, my mother’s stolen sandals clanking against each other, my sneakers blowing air out of their side holes. Handing me an old clipboard she’d pulled from the reception desk, she told me to sit and fill in blanks, as if I’d traveled all this way in search of a doctor, in search of a cure.
“You answer these questions,” she said, “and I’ll book you.”
Well, this is crazy, I thought. But I sat down and obeyed her, because what she had said was true. I was looking to begin.
FIFTEEN
T HE CANDY-HAIRED dancer was Marissa. She studied the answers I’d scribbled onto the clipboard page and asked if I had the afternoon open.
I said, “Somewhat.”
She said, “Two hours, and there’s a lesson block free.”
I said that would work with my schedule.
The phone behind the check-in desk rang. She answered. I settled into the leather sofa. Crossed my legs, tugged at my skirt, took a good, long look at my mother’s shoes, undidthe straps, put the sandals on, kicked my sneakers under the couch, and glanced at the clock. Two hours are like a lifetime when you’re waiting for your very first ballroom dance lesson. But then again, there is so much to see.
The other dance students were coming up the steps, buzzing through the door, sitting down on the other end of the couch, and starting to change their shoes, because everyone who came to the House carried a drawstring pouch of special dancing shoes. Even the men had their own leather Cubans, shoes, from what I could tell, that were too tight at the toes and too high in the heels with the thinnest leather soles. I twined my legs to cover my feet, but my borrowed sandals were certifiable proof that I was a first timer.
The
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