by Nia Stephens
“No joke,” Sutton snorted. “When was the last time you stayed home on a Friday night to practice?”
“I would love to have so much work that I had to stay in on Fridays,” Bree insisted.
“That’s what you say now,” Sutton said. “We’ll see how Matt feels about it.”
Bree had such a long time to wait before meeting Matt, she’d already exhausted all her pre-date jitters long before he turned up ten minutes later at the coffee shop next door to the Atlantic Theater in jeans and a Dance Theater of Harlem T-shirt.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, dashing into the coffee shop like a whirlwind of energy. “I had an emergency rehearsal. Our show opens on Friday. You look even better than you did in your picture,” he said breathlessly.
“So do you,” she grinned. It was true, too—he looked fantastic, flushed from racing around, green eyes bright against his caramel skin. Bree felt a bit self-conscious in her gold satin jeans and rose-gold sweater—apparently she had overdressed. But Matt didn’t seem to care, complimenting her outfit even before he sat down.
“These days I’m spending so much time in the studio I feel lucky to be wearing anything but Lycra. Can I get you another cup of coffee?”
“We should probably be getting in line,” Bree said, glancing at her watch.
“I’ve got to get some coffee, or there’s no way I’ll stay awake.” He bounced out of his seat and up to the barista. “Are you sure you’re fine?”
“Sure I’m sure,” Bree promised, a little breathless just from watching him run around. She was almost relieved when they settled into their seats at the theater.
He squeezed her hand and said, “I’m so glad it’s finally Wednesday. How was your week?”
“Fine. Kind of boring, I guess,” Bree admitted.
“What did you do?” Matt seemed genuinely curious. It was clear that although rehearsal took up a lot of his time, he didn’t find it boring.
“Well, you know. Went to school, went running, went out with my friends. Went to a couple of auditions.”
“TV? Movies?”
“Both TV, both legal dramas. I was trying out for a client in one and victim in the other. I probably look too young for both of them, but I might get a callback. What about you? What kind of show are you in?”
“Broadway,” he grinned. “My very first. I’m one of the men at the ball in Cinderella. Onstage for all of thirty minutes, but man, have we been rehearsing.”
“So you love it?” Bree asked.
“I love it. There’s nothing I’d rather do than dance on stage. Do you feel the same about acting?”
“Not on stage,” she answered. “But when a movie camera is following your every move, that’s just magic. It amazes me how all these parts come together, how much work goes into a three-minute scene.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Bree could tell he meant it: he really did understand exactly what she felt about the magic of performing art, which Kylian and Sutton didn’t get at all. His smile was lit only by the screen—Top Hat was about to begin. Bree had seen it a dozen times, so she spent almost as much time watching Matt as she did watching the screen. He grinned the whole time, gently squeezing her hand whenever things got romantic. Bree didn’t know anyone as happy as Matt seemed to be. It made her realize how blah her everyday life was. She liked what she did every day, but she didn’t have half the passion that Matt did. She didn’t engage the way he did, throwing himself one-hundred percent into everything he did, whether dancing or just watching a movie. Bree hoped it was contagious.
“Check that out,” he said after the movie as he led her toward the exit, pointing to a poster advertising a Fred and Ginger dance contest the next night. “Are you game?”
“I don’t know,” Bree said. “I’ve taken ballroom, but I’m not a real dancer.”
“If you dance, you’re a real dancer,” he said. “And I know you dance.”
He swept Bree into his arms and waltzed a few steps around the crowded lobby. Startled as she was, it didn’t feel awkward. Being in Matt’s embrace felt as natural to Bree as walking. She half expected him to smell sweaty, but all she smelled was a spicy cologne, one that hinted at far away places and tall, dark strangers.
“I’ll do it,” Bree decided. “But don’t expect to win or anything.”
“Who cares about winning?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I just want to dance with you.”
“It’s a date,” Bree said, a little breathless. Her heart was banging around her chest almost painfully. This, she thought, must be what “smitten” means. At that moment, Bree would have gone anywhere with Matt. Unfortunately for her, he was heading straight home to get some sleep.
“Do you live nearby?” he asked, still dancing her across the lobby.
“Nope. I’ll just get a cab.”
If the night wasn’t magical enough, there actually was an empty cab idling outside. “I’ll call you tomorrow to work out the details,” Matt promised. He kissed her again, this time on the lips.
“Can’t wait!” Bree said, waving as the cab rolled away.
Chapter 6
Dance Fever
“I don’t get it,” Sutton complained the next morning, halfway through their run. “You watched a movie, danced for three minutes, and now you’re a smitten kitten?”
“What’s to get? I just like him. A lot.”
“You didn’t even make out with him. You don’t know his middle name. But you’re sighing and moaning like he’s got you for life.”
“I am not.”
“Oh yes, you are. Bree, you are wearing a Nike sneaker on your left foot and an Adidas one on your right. You’re out of your mind!”
Bree glanced down, completely shocked to see Sutton was right. But she felt so wonderful, she just laughed it off.
“Well, we’re going to work on our routine at my place tonight,” Bree pointed out. “Maybe I’ll decide I hate him after talking to him a little longer.”
“Probably,” Sutton decided. “Race ya!”
She pounded up the trail, and Bree took off after her. Soon they were so out of breath that conversation was impossible, which was just as well. Bree really couldn’t explain why Matt fascinated her so much. He was cute, yes. He was sweet. He was energetic. But being around him made Bree feel great in a way that she didn’t quite understand, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Matt showed up at her apartment that night in a white tuxedo that could have been made for him. This was a great relief for Bree, who had put on a dress that screamed nineteen thirties—red silk halter top, which fell into a million little pleats beneath the empire waistline. She was afraid that she would be overdressed again, but she knew that it looked great on her and she wanted to impress him.
“Wow,” he said, kissing her cheek as she let him into the apartment. Again, her heart was bouncing around her chest. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. Bree was beginning to understand the meaning of the word heartsick. “You look amazing. And so does this place. It’s unbelievable!”
“Thanks,” Bree said shyly, leading him into the living room. She and Soledad, their cleaning lady, had rolled up the rug and pushed back the furniture so they would have plenty of room. “Can I get you something to drink?” Bree asked.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, surveying the room. “I had a Gatorade on the way. You know, this may be the nicest apartment I’ve ever seen. This room is huge!”
“Thanks. My father lives out west, where everything is bigger. I always feel a little claustrophobic when I come back from visiting him, but I love this apartment,” she admitted. “So, about our routine. Did you have a song in mind?”
“‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance,’” he said. “It’s my favorite, except for ‘Cheek to Cheek,’ and I’m sure everybody’s going to do that one.”
“Both good songs,” Bree agreed, putting her iPod in the stereo dock. She had downloaded most of Fred Astaire’s songs that afternoon. It took her few momen
ts to queue up “Let’s Face the Music and Dance.”
“All right,” she said, holding out her arms. “Show me how it’s done.”
“It’s done like this,” he said, stepping close to her. His left hand was on the small of her back, pressing her close, the other holding her left hand so gently he might have been cradling a flower. He didn’t move, though. He just stood there, smiling down at her, staring into her eyes.
“I thought ballroom dance involved a little motion,” she said.
“Snap! Ginger would be proud, Bree.” He started waltzing them around the room, still staring into her eyes, though he seemed to sense the location of every occasional table and ottoman, moving around them with perfect grace. “It’s not my fault that it’s hard to think and look at you at the same time.”
“It’s hard to maintain eye contact and dance backwards in heels,” Bree pointed out.
“You want to lead?” Suddenly he was dancing backwards, letting Bree direct him. It felt a bit odd to Bree, but he was a phenomenally good dancer. It was as if he responded to her thoughts as they glided across the room.
“My turn,” he said, spinning Bree once and gently dipping her so far her hair brushed the floor.
“Is this our routine?” Bree asked, beginning to feel a bit dizzy from staring into the glittering green pools of his eyes.
“Oh, no,” he said, spinning her again. “This is just playing around.”
“I take it you’ve done this before?”
“Not much. I mostly study ballet, since that’s where the jobs are for men. Have you studied ballet?”
“Not seriously,” Bree said. “I went through a sugarplum fairy phase when I was about six. I quit as soon as it started getting hard.”
“You move like someone who has taken a lot of dance.”
“I have. Lots of hip-hop, a little modern. Are you one of those dancers who think hip-hop isn’t the real thing?”
“I know it’s real dancing. I’ll even do videos once in a while—it’s decent money, for the time it takes. But modern dance is my passion. It’s so abstract. So expressive. It’s all about the possibilities of the human form.”
“What’s ballroom dancing about?”
“Ballroom dancing is about getting two people so close to each other that they can’t see any flaws,” he said, dipping Bree again.
“I thought that quote was about kissing,” Bree said once she was upright.
“Same difference,” he said.
“Kissing and ballroom dancing?”
“Sure.” He kissed her, lightly but lingeringly. Like ballroom dancing, it hinted at other things people did when they wrapped their arms around one another, but it was chaste enough that you could do it in public. One of Bree’s ballroom teachers had told her that the last two hundred years of dance was a line pointing toward sex. The waltz was considered obscene when it was first performed because couples danced close together, face to face. And looking at hip-hop these days, it made her wonder what her children would call dancing someday.
“So now I have to ask,” Bree said, letting Matt spin her again. “What is modern dancing like?”
“I think you know,” he whispered.
The look in his eyes made Bree blush. Nope, not gay, she decided. Definitely not.
“Before I get distracted, let me show you what I had in mind,” he said, putting a bit more room between them. “Basic four-four time, and we’ll call it a modified foxtrot. And one and two and three and four.”
Bree soon realized that all she really had to do was follow his lead and they would be fine. She had no doubt that they would win the prize, whatever the prize was. On the other hand, she had no particular desire to go anywhere. She loved the feel of his arms around her, loved the way her head was spinning, loved the way he could fire off witty repartee while executing clever little traveling steps across the room.
Bree was beginning to think that he wouldn’t mind missing the movie either. It began at eight, the dance contest at ten, and it was already seven-forty according to the enormous black clock Ameera had hung on the north wall of the living room. Still, he made no move to drag her off. When her iPod progressed from Fred Astaire to Gotan Project, a tango nuevo band she had gotten into in LA, he tangoed her around the room.
“What’s next?” he asked, spinning her into a tight embrace.
“I don’t know,” she said dizzily. “Gorillaz, maybe?”
“Can’t wait,” he said, nuzzling her throat.
At that moment the front door opened and Ameera came inside, talking to someone in Italian on her cell phone. She said a quick ciao when she saw what she had interrupted.
“Hello, Bree,” she said evenly. “I did not realize you would be entertaining.”
“Mom, this is Matt,” Bree said, equally startled. She was fairly certain that Ameera had a morning meeting in Paris that day. Could she have come back that fast? Or was that last Wednesday? “Matt, this is my mother, Ameera.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Matt,” Ameera said, gliding over to shake his hand.
“No, the pleasure’s all mine.” From the awed tone of his voice, Bree thought that he meant just that. “I was just teaching Bree a ballroom routine.”
“Indeed?” Ameera nodded absently. “I love to watch the tango.”
“To watch it?” Now he sounded confused. “You don’t like to dance?”
“I don’t know how to dance,” Ameera said. “I always meant to learn, but I’m so busy. But Bree is a lovely dancer.”
“I’d be happy to teach you,” Matt said.
I’ll bet you would, Bree thought darkly, but she didn’t say anything.
“Oh, no,” Ameera said. “I’m sure you have other plans.”
“Actually, we do,” Bree began, though Matt said, much louder, “We’re already too late for our movie. Let me teach you how to waltz. Just a box step. It’s so easy.”
“No, thank you. I must go to bed. But stay as long as you like,” Ameera said, drifting towards her rooms.
“Your mother . . . !”
“Yes, I know,” Bree said.
“But she’s . . . !”
“Yep.”
“Like a model!”
“She is a model.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.” Bree frowned at the giant clock. “So, we’ve missed the movie, but maybe we could still make the contest.”
That seemed to snap him out of the spell cast by Ameera’s unearthly beauty. “Right! Let’s go!”
Bree was a bit sullen as they walked to the nearest subway station, but it was hard to stay annoyed at Matt. He tangoed with her on the platform, earning applause from the three homeless guys huddled in one corner, and waltzed with her on the train, singing “They Can’t Take That Away from Me” for accompaniment.
They discovered when they arrived at the theater that they were disqualified from the dance contest because they had both received payment for dancing, but they were still allowed to perform—just not win.
“Shall we dance?” Matt asked her.
“Absolutely,” Bree agreed. “Let’s face the music and dance.” Matt nodded at the music director and twirled Bree across the rather dingy stage of the historical Atlantic Theatre, tucked into a side street off of Broadway. It wasn’t the kind of stage on which Bree usually appeared, but she couldn’t imagine a better way to end a night that had begun with dancing around her living room. Well, she had a few ideas, but this was as good as a second date could get.
The fifty couples watching them applauded wildly while they took their bows. Rather than going back down to their seats Matt whisked Bree into the wings and kissed her again amongst the dusty velvet curtains.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling away. “I had to do that.”
“Fine by me,” she said, a little breathless. “You can do it again if you like.”
“Oh, no,” he said, heading for the coat check. “I should get you home. I’m sure your mom is waiting up for you, and I
need to get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow.”
Bree let him hustle her back onto the subway and escort her to the doors of the Edwardian.
“Thanks for a delightful evening,” he said, bowing over her hand.
“Anytime,” Bree winked, her cheeks burning. He tipped an imaginary top hat at Bree and dashed off into the night.
“Is he gay?” Calvin, the night doorman, asked her.
“Nope. He likes my mother.”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind my saying that he probably isn’t the first man she converted.”
“Heh. I’ll pass on your compliments to Mom. ‘Night, Calvin.”
“Goodnight, Bree.”
For the next week, Bree didn’t see Matt, though he called her every night to chat. He complained about sore tendons and indecisive choreographers while Bree complained about school, Sutton, and auditions. It was a strange relationship—Bree didn’t mind talking to him, but it was nothing like the delight of actually being with him. Even watching him on stage in Cinderella didn’t compare.
Then, over the next few weeks, everything changed. Matt still had to perform on Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights, but he only rehearsed one night a week. Matt and Bree went out dancing every night he wasn’t onstage, a schedule that left Bree breathless in every way. This was it: the real thing. Bree loved every minute she spent in Matt’s arms. They talked constantly, text-messaging during the day and on the phone at night while Matt was stuck backstage.
At first, Bree couldn’t have been happier. She was in love with someone who loved her back: perfect bliss. But she couldn’t match Matt’s energy level. For the first time in her life, she was missing runs with Sutton—and Sutton was not pleased. And at a time when Bree should be concentrating on college applications, she could barely stay awake in her regular classes, much less the after-school essay-writing workshop.
“Wake up, hon,” Sutton said, nudging her with a toe. “School is out.”
“What?” Bree screeched, jumping to her feet. She had fallen asleep in a quiet corner of the library during study hall, an hour before school was dismissed.
