The way Charlie saw it, timing was everything. If you asked too early, the pretty girls would be waiting to see if they might get any better offers. They would tell you they wanted to think about it, and then you would be in limbo. You might be lucky, and no one they liked more might ask them, in which case they would come back to you with a halfhearted yes. On the other hand, they might keep you in suspense for a few weeks and end up saying no, during which time your third and even fourth choice might have been snapped up. In this regard, the efficiency of the school grapevine was both a blessing and a curse. If you were rejected, you would rather it wasn’t common knowledge. But it was helpful in keeping abreast of who had asked whom, who had accepted or declined in order to assess the market, to judge the best time to make your move.
x x x
Though there was a student committee for the school prom, the teachers, as always, had the last word, and it was the teachers who had decided that in order to set the right tone and avoid too much bumping and grinding later in the evening, as Mrs. Gill apparently put it at the meeting, there would be an hour of ballroom dancing before the DJ arrived to play the music the students wanted to hear. Of course, none of the students knew how to ballroom dance, so it was arranged that twice a week, throughout first term, they would learn ballroom dancing instead of their usual phys ed activities.
It was widely known that Mr. Baxter had represented the state in ballroom dancing, but the teachers were apparently smart enough to realize that the students would not have taken one of their own teachers seriously. So outside instructors were brought in, a young guy who was introduced to them as Mr. Randall, and a very beautiful, voluptuous woman who was not introduced. Charlie did not know about the girls, but none of his friends wanted to learn ballroom dancing. They thought ballroom dancing was for sissies and would rather have been playing sport. Mr. Randall seemed to sense this and took control as soon as their phys ed teacher had left the room.
“You can call me Mr. Randall, if you want,” he said. “But I would rather you called me Mr. Bond…James Bond.” He said this with just the right amount of drama, and there was laughter all around.
“Of course, if you’re going to call me a ridiculous name, you’ll want to know the reason why. So I’ll tell you. How many of you think ballroom dancing is only for gay men?”
There was snickering and muttering through the gym, though no one spoke.
“How many of you boys think that by taking part in a ballroom dancing class you’re in danger of becoming gay?” He paused knowingly. “Last question: How many of you are wondering if I’m gay?”
Surprised laughter followed this question.
Mr. Randall smiled. “If you want to know that, the best person to ask would be my wife, Carmel.” Here he gestured toward the woman he had arrived with. She gave a curtsy and a small twirl, just enough to show a bit of leg and reassure all present that Mr. Randall, or Mr. Bond, or whatever you wanted to call him, was most definitely not gay. There was laughter, applause, a wolf whistle from the back of the gym.
“‘That’s all well and good, but why James Bond?’ I hear you asking. Well, let me ask you this. Who else but James Bond can wrestle a giant on top of a train and charm a lady without appearing to even try? Does anyone look better in a tuxedo? Do you think James Bond knows how to dance? You bet he does. So, for the purposes of these classes, not only am I James Bond, but I encourage each of you gentlemen to think of yourselves as James Bond also. Ladies, if you wish, you may call your partner Mr. Bond. Or, if you feel daring, you may like to call him James. I’ll leave that up to you. Now on your feet; let’s dance.”
Everyone stood up, considerably more enthusiastic than they had been when they arrived at the gym. The James Bond speech had won them all over. Charlie could see he wasn’t the only one who had benefited from imagining himself as sharply dressed and debonair, even if, in reality, they were all sweaty and pimply with two left feet. He hoped his partner would call him Mr. Bond.
Week one was the jive. The boys stood on one side of the room behind James Bond, the girls behind Carmel on the other.
Rock step, triple step, triple step
Rock step, triple step, triple step
Over and over again they repeated the movements, girls on one side, boys on the other. Once they had gotten the hang of it by themselves, it was time to have a go with a partner. Partners were assigned by height, with no consideration whatsoever given to social status. Which meant that in some cases, the prettiest girls were paired up with nerds from the chess club, weirdos who stayed after school to play Dungeons & Dragons; the good-looking boys with girls who had braces and the wrong hairstyles, who spent their lunchtimes in the library. In these oddly matched pairs, neither partner felt comfortable. One inevitably felt embarrassed and unworthy, the other simply embarrassed. They did not know how to talk to each other. In some cases, they had never even said hello.
Charlie’s assigned partner was Anneliese Spellman. Anneliese was widely acknowledged to be one of the prettiest girls at school; the year before, she had been a finalist in the Seventeen Covergirl competition. She had been photographed at the beach in a low-cut top and short shorts, and Charlie, who considered himself a legs man, had torn her photograph out of a copy of the magazine he had found in the dentist’s waiting room. Anneliese also happened to be the girl Whiskey had been hanging around with that term and who was to become, if you listened to gossip, the latest notch on Whiskey’s proverbial bedpost.
Two places down the line from Charlie, Whiskey’s assigned partner was Karen Sand, the deputy library prefect. Charlie tried not to notice, but Whiskey caught his eye, gestured to himself and Karen, and then to Charlie and Anneliese, raising his eyebrows as if to say Clearly there’s been a mistake here. Whiskey gave the universal gesture for let’s swap partners. Karen looked at the floor. Charlie nodded his assent. What else could he do?
“You’re only a bit shorter,” Whiskey said as he came over. Charlie hated it when Whiskey made reference to their height difference. He found it a particularly annoying quirk that they were identical in every way, except for Whiskey being slightly taller. Charlie told himself he must still be growing, that eventually he would catch up with Whiskey.
“James Bond won’t notice,” Whiskey said, taking Anneliese’s hand. “He hasn’t got X-ray vision.”
But apparently James Bond did have X-ray vision. Because when the music began, he was suddenly beside them. Without a word, he took Anneliese’s hand out of Whiskey’s and replaced it in Charlie’s. Then he took Karen’s hand in his own.
“May I have this dance?” he asked her, bowing graciously.
“You may sit and reflect on your ill manners,” he said to Whiskey, gesturing toward the bench that ran along the side of the gym.
Whiskey’s face colored. Charlie looked away from him and away from Anneliese too. He concentrated on his feet and hoped his palms weren’t too sweaty. He could not think of a word to say.
At home that night, Whiskey said he’d rather be doing algebra than ballroom dancing, that Randall was the biggest turkey he’d ever met and must have paid a minx like Carmel to marry him. Neither he nor Charlie mentioned the failed partner swap.
x x x
In week two, they waltzed. One two three, one two three, rise and fall, rise and fall. Charlie spent most of the lesson counting under his breath. He felt awkward about the strange triangle he and Anneliese were part of, which made it difficult to concentrate on the steps they were learning. Charlie didn’t know if Anneliese was counting the beats in her own head, but she made no attempt at conversation either. He found himself wishing Whiskey’s scheme had been successful, thought how much more comfortable he would have felt dancing with Karen.
In week three, they learned the cha-cha. Their first Latin dance. According to Mr. Randall, it was all in the hips.
One, two, cha cha cha
One, tw
o, cha cha cha
Charlie noticed that Anneliese seemed to pick up the steps more quickly than he did, that when it came to dancing, she seemed to be something of a natural. Though Charlie did not consider himself anything more than average when it came to sport, at least when he was playing soccer or cricket, his arms and legs seemed to go mostly where he needed them to be, without him having to think about it too much. Ballroom dancing was a different proposition entirely. Suddenly none of his limbs seemed willing to do what he asked of them, and certainly not all at the same time. Often Charlie found himself stepping left when he had meant to step right, back when he wanted to go forward, turning in the wrong direction, moving too late or too early. And on the rare occasions when he managed to get control over his feet, inevitably his arms were all wrong—his elbows too slack or too rigid, his grip on Anneliese too tight or too loose.
“Are you wrestling a bear?” Mr. Randall asked him once, adjusting Charlie’s arms.
“She’s not your prisoner!” he said on another occasion, loosening Charlie’s grip on Anneliese’s shoulder.
The week of the samba, Anneliese came home from school with Whiskey for the first time. She was sitting on the couch watching Full House with Whiskey when Charlie got home from Marco’s.
“You know Anneliese,” Whiskey said dryly, without looking up from the television.
“Hey, Anneliese,” Charlie said uncertainly.
“Hey, Charlie.” She smiled at him for the first time. She was still in her school uniform, her hair in a ponytail, and Charlie thought she looked about as pretty as a girl could get. Lucky Whiskey, he thought to himself as he dragged his bag down the hallway to start on his homework.
x x x
The fourth dance they learned was the fox-trot.
“Who knows the story of Fantastic Mr. Fox?” Randall asked them before he showed them the steps.
Charlie raised his hand. When he was younger, it had been one of his favorite books.
“What about Chicken Little?” Randall asked. More hands went up.
“What’s the fox always trying to do in these stories?”
“Eat the chickens?” one of the girls suggested.
“Exactly! And that’s what this dance is all about—stealing chickens. We’ve got to be cunning as foxes, quick and fast and light on our feet. Otherwise we won’t be getting any dinner.”
Charlie didn’t know what it was about the fox-trot, but it was during that class that he began to feel he was at last getting the hang of ballroom dancing, gaining control of his elbows and hips, hands and feet, finally beginning to lead Anneliese instead of the other way around.
That same week, Anneliese started saying hello to him when she saw him around the school, although Charlie did not know if this was because of the dancing or because of whatever was going on between her and Whiskey. The week of the fox-trot was also the week when some of the guys started asking girls to the prom. As expected, Sasha Piper got snapped up pretty sharpish, by the student body president no less, and Charlie’s second choice, Shantelle Simpson, wasn’t far behind, also poached by a twelfth grader. So much for Charlie’s list. Still, there was plenty of time left, and Charlie thought it would be a few weeks yet before most of the guys made their moves.
x x x
In week five, after they had learned the salsa, Mr. Randall announced that since they were progressing so well, it had been decided—by the teachers, presumably—that there would be a demonstration at the prom, for which couples would be chosen to perform one of the five dances they had learned. Charlie was surprised to find he was thinking more about the ballroom dancing demonstration than about how and when he might invite Melissa to the prom. Once he and Anneliese had gotten over their initial awkwardness, Charlie had started to enjoy dancing with her. Now, instead of embarrassed apologies, they laughed together when they made a mistake, sometimes shared a joke with each other or a bit of gossip they had heard around the school.
The couples chosen for the demonstration were announced in week six. Charlie and Anneliese were selected as one of the couples for the fox-trot. Anneliese gave Charlie a hug when the announcement was made.
“We did it, Charlie!” she said excitedly, giving him one of her beautiful smiles. Charlie felt himself redden. He was pleased that he and Anneliese had been chosen. He thought they had earned it. He did not know why he felt guilty about it, as though he had done something underhanded by dancing to the best of his ability, by wanting to be chosen.
x x x
Later that week, Charlie was lying on his bed, underlining key quotes from one of his English literature books, when Anneliese poked her head into his room.
“Hey,” she said. “Have you got a minute?”
Charlie sat up.
“Hey, Anneliese.”
Anneliese had been to their house a few times by then, but she had never been into Charlie’s room before. He looked around to see if there was anything he might be embarrassed for her to see, kicked a pair of boxer shorts—cleanliness unknown—under his bed.
“Sure, come in,” he said.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
“Heart of Darkness,” Charlie said, holding it up. “Have you read it?”
“‘The horror, the horror!’” she said, clutching her throat.
They laughed.
“Where’s Whiskey?”
“He’s downstairs. I wanted to see if maybe we could…if you wanted to…if you didn’t mind, we could maybe…you know…practice the dance.”
Charlie couldn’t believe it. Anneliese Spellman was in his bedroom, asking him to dance. Sure, it wasn’t slow dancing to “Never Tear Us Apart” in a darkened room, but it was probably as close to that as Charlie was ever going to get. So why was he hesitating?
“I got the music from Mr. Randall,” she said uncertainly, showing him a tape. “But if you’re busy, that’s okay…”
Charlie made up his mind. “No, no, you’re right,” he said, virtually jumping off the bed. “It’s a good idea to practice. Mr. Kurtz isn’t going anywhere.” They laughed again. “Do you think there’s enough room in here?” he asked, shoving his schoolbag into the wardrobe. He hoped she would say yes. He didn’t want to go downstairs and practice in the family room, where they ran the risk of his mum or dad coming home from work and wanting to watch, not to mention Whiskey.
“Plenty of room,” Anneliese said. She put the tape in his stereo and pressed Play.
Dancing with Anneliese alone in his bedroom was completely different from dancing with her in the gym, along with forty other students and Mr. Randall, with his adjustments and wisecracks. Undistracted by anyone else, Charlie was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was to Anneliese, the places where his body met hers. He could smell her hair. They bumped and shuffled around the room, and he couldn’t concentrate on the steps at all.
“That was our worst time ever!” Anneliese said when the music finally stopped.
“Maybe there’s not enough room,” Charlie suggested apologetically.
Anneliese looked around. “It’s not that. It just feels different here. We’ll get used to it. Do you want to try again?” She rewound the tape.
The second time, Charlie pretended he was dancing with someone else. He did not allow himself to look at Anneliese’s face or to think about his hand on her shoulder; he thought instead about his feet, his posture, his elbows and wrists, tried to remember everything Mr. Randall had ever told them. They were doing brilliantly until Charlie looked up and saw Whiskey standing in the doorway, smirking at them.
“Gold medal, guys,” he said sarcastically. “Lovely.”
Charlie and Anneliese broke apart. Nat King Cole carried on singing “The Lady’s in Love with You.” Charlie wondered how long Whiskey had been watching them. He had an urge to apologize. But Anneliese beat him to it.
“Go
away, Whiskey. It’s embarrassing,” she said coyly. And then she shut the door in his face.
“Shall we try again?” she asked Charlie, unruffled.
Charlie thought she might be the most wonderful girl he’d ever known.
The second time Anneliese came into his room to ask him to practice, she shut the door before they began. “Rehearsals are closed to the public,” she said, and Charlie laughed conspiratorially.
The following week she didn’t come over to their house at all. Charlie missed her. Dancing with her at school was not the same as having her all to himself at home, however brief and illusory it might be. In their Friday class, he asked her hesitantly if they might have a chance to practice the following week.
Anneliese looked uncomfortable. “I can’t come over next week,” she said. “I’ve got too many assignments.”
Charlie thought she and Whiskey must have had a fight. Whiskey hadn’t mentioned it, but he never talked to Charlie about those kinds of things. Usually Charlie heard them from someone else, most often Marco, who had a keen ear for gossip. If they had fought, Whiskey didn’t seem bothered by it. He had been his usual self that week. But then, he always was. Girls were around for a while, and then they were not, but it never seemed to be Whiskey who was left crying. Charlie wasn’t sorry things hadn’t worked out between Whiskey and Anneliese. But he hoped Anneliese wasn’t wasting any tears over Whiskey.
x x x
Later that week, Charlie heard from Marco that Whiskey had asked Anneliese to the prom and she’d turned him down, saying she was going with someone else.
“Who?” Charlie asked Marco, trying to keep his voice casual.
“I thought you might know that,” Marco said pointedly.
“How would I know? Whiskey never tells me anything.”
“Don’t come the raw prawn with me, mate,” Marco said. “I’m in your phys ed class, remember? I’ve seen you two dancing together. I thought you might have beaten Whiskey to the punch.”
Whiskey & Charlie Page 6
