At home with my family, I was confident. When my three brothers and I watched The Wiz on TV, we bounced along to the music, and I became the lead performer. The bright colors from the movie illuminated our living room, transforming it into a giant dance studio. I sang and danced and acted along; I became Michael Jackson’s long-lost twin brother, “easing on down” our raggedy yellow carpet. I was a good dancer, too, no doubt about that. But I wasn’t going to shake my booty anywhere other than in the comfort of my home—no way!
I couldn’t get out of it, though. I’d have to participate or bring home a bad grade, which would have gotten me into trouble with my parents. After school, Earlee, Zyvonne, and I gathered in the music room to choose parts and begin practicing the scene. Earlee would play the part of Dorothy, while Zyvonne would be the Tin Man. Earlee was a star athlete on the track team, and Zyvonne was active in the Glee Club and chorus. Both were the center of attention at any school gathering. I would play the Scarecrow, though the Cowardly Lion may have been more fitting.
Earlee popped in a cassette tape, and the boom box blasted the song. Earlee and Zyvonne bounced and stepped in sync to the rhythm.
“Come on, Donny,” Earlee said, “show us your moves!” But it was no use; that invisible straitjacket tightened its grip around my arms and even my legs. My body went stiff, while my feet were nailed to the floor. My heart beat so loudly, I feared the girls would hear it thump-thump-thumping over the music. One by one, other students showed up and joined our impromptu Wiz party, and everyone jammed to the funky dance music. Everyone except me. I didn’t dance at all that day. I just stood there watching everyone else having fun, wishing I could disappear.
Later that evening, I created a costume from an old pair of overall jeans. Over the knees I sewed on colorful patches of cloth. Under the hem of the pants, I attached dried leaves and brush collected from the gully across the street from our house. The leaves jutted out over my shoes, making a scritch-scratchy noise as I walked. A rumpled grocery bag became a hat that I cocked sideways over my mushrooming afro. If nothing else, I’d created an award-winning costume.
On the day of the performances, the school buzzed with excitement as most everyone came dressed in their costumes. Between classes, the hallways resembled the backstage of some great Broadway production. I really wanted to wear my costume like everyone else, but, of course, I didn’t want to draw extra attention to myself. I left it at home.
Earlee and Zyvonne were disappointed, but not too much. They knew I was uptight about the whole thing and were happy I didn’t stay home, struck with a sudden onset of the Macadamia Nut Flu . . . or something worse. Earlee went all out with her costume. She wore a frilly white dress and red patent leather shoes. She clutched a stuffed white dog that served as Toto. Zyvonne came wrapped from head to toe with aluminum foil—the perfect Tin Man.
• • •
When the performances began, a rock band dressed like Kiss took to the floor, the players’ faces painted crusty white with black eyeliner. Another group performed the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” On our turn, the three of us lined up in front of the class. Before the music began, Earlee recited her bit about the three of us seeking out the Wiz in hopes of going home, wanting a brain, and getting a heart, and about how we were easing our way on down the road, headed to the beautiful Emerald City. Then she clicked the button on the boom box, and the music began. Earlee and Zyvonne began to dance.
The air around me became as thick as jelly—impossible to breathe—while my legs, frozen stiff all morning, suddenly melted into butter. I tried to jiggle my butt a little, but nothing happened back there. I was so dizzy, I thought I would lose my balance and fall on my face.
That’s when I heard the words: “He’s so shy.” It came from somewhere in the audience. I had no idea who had said it, and it was amazing that I even heard the words over the blaring music.
I hated the word shy. I disliked the words bashful, quiet, timid, and self-conscious, too. They’d all been used to describe me at various points in my life. I felt vulnerable and hurt when others recognized that thing inside of me that I disliked, that thing I had no control over. I felt dumb standing there not doing anything. Then I got angry—at everyone, but mostly at myself. It was time to cut loose from that jacket of shyness. I would no longer be bound.
I looked up from the floor, directly into the audience. Then I imagined myself back home in the living room with my brothers. The music played on, and Dorothy and the Tin Man eased on down the road. But in this version, the Scarecrow led the way—grooving like never before. I danced the Robot, the Watergate, the Poplock. It was nothing like what we had practiced, but it didn’t even matter to me.
The song was all of three minutes long, but it could have gone on forever. That was how confident I felt at that moment. Earlee was all smiles.
“I had no idea you could dance like that,” she said over the thunderous applause.
“It’s the quiet ones you have to look out for!” Zyvonne said. The three of us laughed and slapped high fives.
On that day and during that one skit, I experienced a whole new kind of freedom—the freedom to just be myself. It was a coat of confidence that felt darn good, and I wore it for years to come.
Don Tate
THE STORY
DANCE LIKE YOU DRAW
Oh, please don’t get sick, I beg myself. My stomach tightens like a vice. It’s dinnertime when Moms announces her plan to sign me up for cotillion class.
“AKA a frilly charm school for uppity folks,” Dad says. Moms glares at him, annoyed.
“It’s not a charm school; it’s an etiquette program. It’ll be good for Silas,” Moms says. “He’ll learn social skills, and it may help him to overcome his shy ways.”
Shy ways. I hate it whenever Moms say that about me. My brain races for a response, but nothing. I pick over my food, plunging my finger deep into my salad. I fish out a grape.
“Only babies eat with their fingers,” Moms says. “Perfect example of how a cotillion program will help you with manners.” Then Moms smiles so wide, her face almost splits. “Think about it like this, Silas. On the last day, you’ll get to dance with a pretty girl in a lavish dress at some swanky ballroom party.”
I almost puke my brains out right there.
• • •
On the first day of cotillion class, I drag myself out of the car, lugging two bottles of soda. Then I trudge across the parking lot toward the church, where the seventh-grade classes are held. It’s warm outside for early January in Austin, Texas, and I feel myself sweating around the collar. Hot air and frazzled nerves are not a good mix.
Moms whips past in a swift breeze, balancing a tower of donut boxes in her arms. She glances back at me before disappearing into the church. Moms is a volunteer chaperone, of course—aka a spy. She’ll gather intelligence information on my use of good manners. But most of all, she’ll watch to see if I’m acting shy—which makes me want to crawl under a rock and hide. Inside the church, the fellowship hall, which doubles as a basketball court, is dim and reeks of bread mold and Windex. Kids mill around quietly; no one seems excited to be here—well, except for the parent chaperones, of course.
I feel uncomfortable and self-conscious in this too-tight dress shirt and suffocating tie. Not to mention the wedgie-inducing khaki pants Moms made me wear. My favorite hoodie and jeans are not allowed at cotillion class. Uppity folks—Dad was right.
An elderly man in a dark suit clutches a microphone and asks everyone to sit. I find a chair in a corner of the room and slink down into it. I pull out my phone and Instagram a selfie. “Charm school is lame,” I write below the pic. When the man notices me tapping at my phone, he comes over.
“Good morning, Mr., uh”—he stops, examines my name tag—“Mr. Silas Taylor. Would you mind joining everyone else at the tables?” His large hand points toward a group of about thirty k
ids, who are now staring at me. My heart races, my face is hot. Moms watches with worry. I pick up my things and sit across the table from a group of boys.
That’s when I see her at a table on the far side of the room—Andi Burke. At school, they call her Loud Andi, because she speaks thirty decibels louder than everyone else. Loud Andi’s voice is like a jackhammer. She’s confident, taller than most boys, which, I guess, most girls are in middle school. But Loud Andi has bigger biceps than any boy I know. One time at lunch, Loud Andi challenged Johnny Morris, captain of the wrestling team, by demanding he give over his lunch. When he refused, he ended up wearing meatballs and noodles all over his face (after he picked his face up off the floor). Quickly, I avert my eyes away from Andi. But not in time. She catches my gaze and returns a sour glare. I don’t know why, but Loud Andi has never liked me—or anyone, for that matter.
From a podium, the man in the dark suit speaks again. Says his name is Mr. Oxley, founder of the cotillion program—the Hill Country School of Etiquette. He’s a short man with a swayback posture. Carries his nose high in the air like an old-time radio antenna. He’s plump with a round face and white beard. If his suit were red, he might get mistaken for a remote control Santa Claus.
“Youth of today,” Mr. Oxley begins his speech, his nose seeming to transmit an electromagnetic wave, “with your duck-face selfies. You think everything is all about you.” He looks directly at me. I jam my phone deeper into my pocket. “Over the course of this program,” he says, “you will learn to consider others.”
After a long lecture where he outlines his plans to torture us over the next few weeks, we break into small groups. Girls are on one side of the room, boys on the other. The girls learn about things like sitting, standing, walking, pivoting. Boys work on things like making proper introductions and hand shaking. Mr. Oxley demonstrates the proper hand-shaking protocol: Stand tall. Look the other person in the eye. Smile. Don’t shake any more than three pumps (from the elbow). When Mr. Oxley asks me to demonstrate a handshake, I look at the floor. Then I slowly raise my hand. We shake. “You’re not looking at me,” he says, “and your hand is as lifeless as a dead fish.”
I’m embarrassed again. To redeem myself, I reach my hand out for another shake. This time, I squeeze so hard, the veins in my thumb pop out.
“Squeezing too hard is disrespectful,” Mr. Oxley says, snatching his hand away abruptly. Who’d’ve thought that shaking hands could require so much brainpower?
Next, Mr. Oxley and a lady from the school prepare to dance. She faces him, and they join hands in an awkward and boxy embrace. The music begins, and they demonstrate some kind of stiff-as-a-tree dance Mr. Oxley calls the waltz—“One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three,” they count rather loudly, stepping to and fro in a square pattern. Apparently, Mr. Oxley has never seen the YouTube Hip-Hop channel, because this waltz seems less like dancing and more like counting.
Everyone watches. Some even giggle. The counting dance ends, and then Mr. Oxley directs us to form two lines, side by side—boys in one line, girls in the other. I’m tired and ready to go home. But the day is not over yet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Oxley says, “it’s time for you to dance. Whoever stands next to you will be your dance partner for this next session.” My body turns to stone; I’m afraid to look and see who’s standing next to me.
“Oh, great,” a gruff voice says, “I gotta dance with Silas Taylor?” I recognize that voice.
Loud Andi Burke.
I almost puke my brains out.
Loud Andi and I shake hands and introduce ourselves the way we were instructed. The music begins. The chaperones keep watch. Other couples begin the counting dance: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three . . . But Loud Andi and I just stand there. Her hands are balled up on her hips, and her laser eyes are boring a hole through my head. My legs are pillars of ice, and my face is on fire. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I definitely can’t dance. Loud Andi howls with laughter, and everyone looks.
And that’s when I do it. I get sick. Right then and there. All over the floor. All over Andi’s dress.
“You big—ah!” She charges into the restroom.
• • •
At home I plow my head under my pillow. I try to think about good things, like fishing or camping on the weekends with Dad, or the time I won the poster contest in art class. Good memories blot out the bad. What happened earlier today was definitely not good. After puking all over Loud Andi, she promised to snap my skinny body into two pieces if I ever came within spitting distance of her again. And she’ll do it, too! I don’t doubt that for a second.
A whiff of Moms’s homemade pizza blurs the image of Loud Andi beating me like drumsticks. It’s pizza night, when Moms and Dad and I normally chow down on my favorite pineapple-bacon-sausage pie and watch America’s Best Dance Crew on TV. But after what happened at cotillion class, I’m not in the mood for anything to do with dancing.
I drag myself out of bed and over to my desk. In my sketch pad, I begin drawing another comic. Sly Jamma—my alter ego—is a masked superhero I created in art class. With his mighty Sword of Doom, Sly can do just about anything. He’s big and brave, a smooth talker. Everything I am not. Today Sly faces off with the scariest of villains anyone could ever think of: Loud Andi Burke and Mean Mr. Oxley. Zow! Zing! Kaboom!—Sly annihilates them with one mighty zap. All of my problems seem to dissolve when Sly Jamma jumps into action.
“Silas?” Moms asks, knocking at my door. “Are you okay?
“I’m fine,” I say, putting the last touches on my comic. Moms pushes the door open.
“You’re missing the show,” she says, all giddy. “Tonight they’re deciding who will advance to—”
My comic grabs her attention. She stops talking and picks up my sketch pad.
“Wow,” she says. “With talent like this, you can do anything—draw, dance, whatever you set your mind to.”
I stuff my sketch pad and pencils back into my desk and tramp downstairs for pizza.
Cotillion classes drudge on for a couple more weeks. At the next session, we learn how a formal dinner is served. Each place setting has enough bowls and silverware to feed an entire family of nine. Then Mr. Oxley teaches us how to tie a double Windsor knot, an overly complicated way of tying a necktie. Then he discusses the importance of speaking clearly on the phone, instructing us to silence them while at the symphony or museum. “Definitely no selfies,” he says, glancing my way.
Once again, Mr. Oxley asks us to form two lines. Remembering what happened last time, my stomach knots into one of those double Windsors.
We line up, but this time I’m standing next to a girl I haven’t seen here before: Livi Anderson. She’s new to this program, but not new to me. Livi is in my art class at school. She often compliments my artwork. Sometimes I create special drawings just for her.
The problem is, whenever I open my mouth to speak to Livi, the words clog like a hairball in a bathroom sink. Nothing sensible comes out. Regardless, Livi is probably my only friend. I like her, and I think she likes me, too. Today I feel more at ease knowing she’ll be my dance partner.
“Watch out for Puke Face,” Loud Andi barks. Several other kids in line snicker, but Livi does not.
She whispers to me: “If you dance like you draw, you will shut Ms. Megamouth up.” I laugh out loud for the first time since cotillion classes began.
The music starts—one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three—and we dance. My legs are stiff, but I manage to move them. Livi and I are a full arm’s-length apart, but at this moment, I feel closer to her than anyone else in the world.
On the next beat, Mr. Oxley raises his hand. It’s time to rotate partners. I turn, face another girl—Taryn. We dance—one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Then it’s time to rotate partners again—Alysha. We dance—one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. It’s not the same da
ncing with the other two girls, though. When I dance with Livi, rockets launch inside of me.
• • •
After class, I want to ask Livi to be my partner at the cotillion—the formal dance party at the end of the program. As she and her dad prepare to leave the fellowship hall, I yell, “Wait . . . Livi!” Words so clear I surprise even myself. I zoom across the room.
“Silas?” she asks, standing there with her dad.
My hands wander through my pockets for something that isn’t there. I try to speak, but my lips are paralyzed. A few blurry words manage to tumble out and tangle with one another.
“I need . . . would you . . . the dance . . . you know . . . but . . .” My mind is empty; no more words come out. If this was a drawing, I would erase this entire image.
Livi touches my hand. Her dad looks away. “I would be happy to be your dance partner at the ball,” she says. Livi understands my babble. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.
• • •
The ballroom is amazing at cotillion! It’s much bigger than the fellowship hall at the church. Large wooden doors and gold-painted columns sweep high toward the ornate ceiling. White-covered tables span the room as far as I can see. The chairs are wrapped in white cloth and tied in the back with a bow. And the napkins are something else, too—they are folded intricately to look like black swans. A large, bowl-shaped chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It is covered with crystals and ringed with bright lights. It looks like an alien spaceship policing the event. One misstep and—zap!—someone is dead.
I scan the room looking for Livi and see my reflection in a mirror. Black tuxedo. Dark, shiny shoes. Afro blown out so long over my thin body, I look like a walking umbrella. And then I see Livi.
She is wearing her hair down. It’s long and frames her perfect face like a classic painting in a museum. Her arms are covered with white gloves that stretch to her elbows. Her white dress is tied at the waist with a silky blue ribbon and falls softly in layers just below her knees. But beneath her knees—or at least her right knee—her leg is in a plaster cast covered with mesh the color of a tangerine.
Been There, Done That Page 12
