Across the Floor

by Natasha Deen

  She flinches and shoots Jesse a What now? look.

  “Come on, bro,” says Jesse. “She’s just trying to welcome you.”

  “I feel real welcomed, okay? Like we’ve been friends forever.” Wow. That really sounds rude, but for real, I don’t want friends, I don’t want life histories. I’m like a prisoner. I want to keep my head down, do my time and get out when my sentence is over.

  Jesse tosses a frown my way, then shrugs at Brittney and waves her over.

  I take another look at the clock. Ten after. Great. Just great. I head back to my bag and sit down. I’m fuming. Either it shows on my face or my run-in with Brittney and Jesse has gone viral, because the rest of the kids aren’t coming near me.

  I pull my knees to my chest and half listen, half watch what’s going on. From what I gather, they all seem to know each other, either from school or other dance classes. None of them have a contemporary-dance background, but all of them have done some kind of dance: Afro-jazz, ballet, tap. I’d figured the class would be newbies like me.

  Still, I’m not super worried. Dance may have different steps and moves, but at its core, it’s movement. I’m an athlete. I’m in a bunch of organized sports, plus gym, street hockey and stuff. I’m positive I’ll be able to pick up contemporary with no problem. If the instructor would show up. I watch the minute hand move toward the number five on the clock face and get madder with every passing second.

  * * *

  “I see familiar faces,” the instructor says when he finally shows up. He’s tall and slim, with dark hair pulled into a ponytail.

  Brittney was right—he was caught in traffic. It’s hypocritical for me to be ticked off that he’s late, considering my own mad rush to get here on time. But I can’t help the irritation that keeps swimming to the surface.

  The instructor focuses on me. “And I see some unfamiliar faces. I’m Peter—”

  The kids gather around him in a semicircle. I hang back. Way back.

  “—and I’ll be your instructor.” The way he says it sounds more like he’s threatening us than introducing himself.

  “This is a beginner contemporary class, so don’t worry.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I won’t work you too hard.”

  The nervous laughter among the kids says they know Peter is a tough instructor.

  That’s fine by me. I’m up for the challenge. Peter’s gaze hasn’t left me. It’s like he’s doing a combination CT scan, X-ray and MRI, gauging my athleticism and ability.

  I get the distinct feeling I’ve failed his first assessment.

  He looks away. “Most of you have worked with me before.” His gaze flicks back to me. “And those who are new to the program will learn to be fast learners.”

  When he’s done taking attendance, he tells us to get into formation.

  I watch for a second and realize he’s asking us to form three lines of five in a row. I grab a spot in the middle row, in the middle of the line.

  We lock gazes, and he gives me a small nod.

  I’ve moved from an F grade to a D-minus.

  Maybe this won’t be so bad.

  Three

  “Okay, folks.” Peter claps his hands. “We’ll do a warm-up to get your blood flowing, your body stretched, and then we’ll move across the floor.”

  Move across the floor? Man, I know he’s using English words, but he may as well be speaking ancient Egyptian.

  He heads to the sound dock and punches a button. Coldplay’s “A Sky Full of Stars” begins. At first I’m sort of keeping up. Shoulder rolls, torso twists. I feel a rush of pride when he moves to hip rolls and I can actually, sort of, kind of do them. But five minutes in, I don’t know what’s going on or how to keep up.

  Peter’s saying things like, “Let’s move through demi-plié.”

  My brain scrolls for what a demi-plié might be, but the darn thing sounds like dessert. Waiter, I’ll have a demi-plié and an Earl Grey tea. Thanks.

  A quick glance at Brittney says that whatever I’m doing, it’s not a plié. I’m not even sure what I’m doing can be classified as a dance move. I rush to catch up, to do what she’s doing, but Peter says, “Great. Now grand plié…”

  Oh man. I’m so lost. I stand there for a minute, watching so I can copy.

  Jesse looks over at me, then keeps going.

  I do what he does. Sort of.

  “Demi-plié, left, swing up and down, then drop down into a right lunge.”

  It’s getting harder to keep up, and ten minutes in, when he says, “Battement with the left,” I’m lost.

  I have no clue what’s going on. The only reason I figure out it’s some kind of kick is ’cause when I almost get a heel to the shin, courtesy of the kid next to me.

  “Luc, watch your space!”

  I get the gist of the command and skitter out of the way. Then I do my best to battement. And almost pull a muscle.

  Peter’s not helping. “Luc! Push your range of motion.”

  Man, is he kidding? Tossing out foreign words, thinking I’m going to catch on and do it perfectly? This guy could make Genghis Khan’s kid cry.

  Coldplay’s given way to Marvin Gaye. Around me, the kids are moving in sync with Peter’s commands. They’re like human versions of a flock of starlings. Everyone’s swaying and moving in sync with each other and the music. They bend in unison, rise as one. This may be basic stuff to them, stretching and warm-up, but it looks like dance to me.

  Worst of all, with mirrors on three walls, I have an almost 360-degree view of myself. If they’re starlings, then I’m a turkey in the flock.

  Half an hour in, Peter tells us to grab some water and take five. My muscles are shaking, and I can barely stand. I stifle a groan when he says, “After the break, we’ll really move across the floor.”

  “What were we doing for the last hour?” I grumble to myself.

  “I don’t know what you were doing,” says Jesse as he walks by, “but it looked like Peter was mopping the floor with you.”

  Brittney jerks her thumb toward the door, ignores me and talks to Jesse. “You wanna grab some water and sit outside for a bit?”

  He nods, and they walk off.

  I go to my bag, grab my water bottle and take three big gulps before coming up for air. I want to sit down. Correction. I want to collapse on the floor, but my brain says that if I do, I may never stand again.

  * * *

  “Thanks for coming back so quickly,” says Peter when he calls us back from break. “We’ll work on a few different sets of choreography over the next few weeks. Because you’re beginners, we’ll do an easy routine.”

  Easy for them, maybe. But I’m starting to feel like a six-year-old doing university math.

  “First, I’m going to show you what you can accomplish if you train hard and practice even harder.” He steps away from us, cues the music and takes a stance.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. Classical music, maybe, and a lot of leaping and jumping. Instead, Sam Smith’s “Not in That Way” pours through the speakers. Peter puts his hands to his chest, then lets them drop as he sinks to his knees.

  Peter’s not a big guy. But he seems to take over the studio…seems bigger than the studio, and he seems to grow with every breath he takes. He stretches toward the group, and I swear, his hands lengthen, his fingers grow longer, until I’m sure he could touch us even though we are at least two feet away.

  I may not like dance, but I’ll admit, he’s got my attention. And I’m not the only one. A bunch of kids, Jesse and Brittney included, have their phones out and are videoing him.

  “Look at his extensions,” murmurs Jesse.

  “Forget the extension,” replies Brittney. “Look at the height in his jumps.”

  “What about the control in his turns?”

  I zone out as they continue to talk about Peter’s fluidity of movement and expression. I’m too busy watching and trying to figure out what he’s doing and how I can mimic it. I don’t know what this �
�across the floor” thing is, but my competitive edge kicks in.

  Jesse was right. Peter mopped the floor with me during the first half of the class.

  No way am I letting him do it to me for the rest of these sessions.

  * * *

  When the last note of the music fades away, Peter moves from his spot in the center of the dance floor and claps his hands. “Okay, people, let’s keep going.”

  The kids take spots around the room, their backs to the wall. I do the same.

  “Let’s do some side falls and triplets,” says Peter. He crosses the length of the studio and comes to a stop by me. “Luc, I’m going to break this down for you step by step, okay?”

  I feel the heat creeping into my cheeks at him singling me out, but I keep eye contact with him and nod.

  “Good. Okay. For the rest of you, it won’t hurt to pay attention to the breakdown too. We’ll start with one of the foundational moves in contemporary dance. Triplets are a core step when you’re traveling across the floor space.” He straightens, moves his arms out so they’re thirty degrees from his body. “Start with your right foot back, spiral your body left. Rotate to the right, relevé right, relevé left, plié right, relevé left, relevé right, plié left, then step right, step left into preparation for ballet fourth position, prep for a double pirouette—yes, double; challenge yourself—and back to start.”

  He looks around. “Any questions?”

  Everyone seems to understand, including me. I may not understand the terms, but I get the movement. Face left, turn right, go on my tiptoes with my right foot, then my left, bend my knees, do another tiptoe walk, turn a couple of times. Yeah, I got this.

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  I’m not sure why, but instead of doing the formation from this morning, the class forms two lines at the side of the room. Since there’s an uneven number, there’s no one across from me in the second line. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. And I doubly don’t know what’s going on, so I’m glad I’m the last to go.

  “Okay.” Peter cues the music. “Five, six, five, six, seven, eight.”

  The two kids at the front of the lines move into the open dance space and repeat what Peter did with the triple-step thing. Only they’re doing it way faster than he did. Faster than I think I can do.

  Then it hits me.

  They’re doing it two by two.

  I’ll be alone on the dance floor in front of everyone when my turn comes.

  Oh man.

  Four

  The class does the triple-step thing in twos, and even though they’re not as polished as Peter—except maybe Jesse and Brittney—they’re decent.

  Peter looks my way.

  My mouth goes dry.

  “Five, six,” he counts.

  And my brain goes blank. I can’t remember what the steps were.

  “Five, six—”

  Something about a plié and a reveler. Maybe. No, wait, a reveler is some kind of a partygoer. Oh man. I’m in trouble.

  “—seven, eight.”

  My feet won’t move. And I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

  “Try again, Luc. Five, six—”

  “I can’t remember the steps,” I blurt out and feel my face go hot.

  Jesse ducks his head and hides his laughter behind his hand.

  “Start with your right foot back, spiral your body left,” Peter says. “Rotate to the right, relevé right, relevé left, plié right, relevé left, relevé right, plié left. Then step right, step left into preparation for ballet fourth position, prep for a double pirouette and back to start.”

  “Uh—”

  “Okay, no problem.” Peter takes a spot opposite me. “Follow me, okay?”

  I nod and hope I don’t throw up. This has never happened to me before. I’ve always been able to get the play.

  “Five, six, five, six, seven, eight…”

  Peter leaps into motion, and I follow. He’s smooth, graceful. In the mirror, I see my reflection. Smooth and graceful doesn’t describe me. I look more like a lumbering caveman wondering what happened to my cave.

  Peter makes the group run through the steps a couple more times, then says, “Let’s move on to chaînés.”

  He shows us what it is—and this time I know I can nail it. It’s just spinning from one end of the room to the other. I’ve been doing that since I was four.

  We all take our spots. Peter pairs me with Brittney, and Jesse is on his own. I watch as the others take their turn. In my head, I keep repeating what I’m supposed to do: spin, spin, spin.

  Peter gives the count, and I’m set. “Five, six, seven, eight.”

  I’m spinning in time with the music, smooth, effortless, easy—until I smack into something soft. There’s a tangle of legs and arms, and I find myself on the floor with Brittney.

  She shoves me away. “Learn how to spot, dude!”

  I don’t know what that is and there’s no time to ask. Peter is telling us to clear the floor so we can move on with the class. I’d say this day can’t get any worse, but somehow I think I’m about to be proven wrong.

  “Great work, guys! I thought I would take it slow with you, but it looks like everyone’s keeping up.” He doesn’t look at me when he says this. “Let’s really start having some fun with across the floor.”

  Why do I feel like fun is code for “I’m about to make this harder?” The class moves to the walls while Peter takes a position at one end of the room. “Our next across the floor will be ball-change fan kick, chaîné, chaîné, roll to the ground—do it with a hip roll—to standing position, then repeat.” He straightens up, shoulders back. “So ball-change right to left in plié on one, and fan-kick your right leg on count two.” He does a class-wide glance and makes eye contact with each of us. “Make sure to really pull up in your thigh on the supporting leg, and be on a nice strong relevé. Step onto the fanning leg—make sure to step onto a straight leg—and chaîné on three and four.”

  I’m trying to match his movement with his words, but my brain’s spinning and most of me is freaking out over the fan kick. Peter’s got wicked extension and flexibility. I think I’m going to pull something in my thigh and hips if I try to kick that high and then spin my leg like a fan.

  “Let me see a nice tight first position with your feet on your turns, and a strong, round first position with your arms. On count five, make sure your hips are square to the front, and step out with your right leg. Then spiral to the floor as you put your left hip down on six, roll around on your bum to stand up on your left leg on seven, and keep turning around to face the front on eight, and you’re ready to start again.” He claps his hands. “First two, get ready to go.”

  Jesse and Brittney step up.

  Peter counts them in. “Five, six, five, six, seven, eight…”

  By the time it’s my turn, I’m sure I’ve sweated through my antiperspirant now, and the thought of lifting my stinky arms isn’t thrilling. Even less exciting is knowing I have to perform in front of a bunch of kids I don’t know and do a set of dance steps I can’t remember.

  “I’ll go with you,” says Peter.

  I croak out something that sounds like, “Okay.”

  He counts us in, and then he steps onto the dance floor.

  I stare at his feet.

  “Hands up, Luc!”

  My hands shoot into the air like I’m in a stickup. The class laughs, and I drop and extend them outward instead of upward. I try to do the ball change, shift my weight to my right leg, then the left, then cross my right leg in front. The worst part is catching my reflection in the mirror. I look like a bear that’s had too many overripe berries and is trying to find a warm place to nap.

  “Next time, Luc,” says Peter as we reach the other side, “you need to be on the ball of your left foot, then cross your right leg over with the foot of your supporting leg turned out.”

  I nod, fake like I understand what he says and make a mental note to watch the kids’ feet when we d
o it again. Jesse and Brittney begin the second run-through, and I stand in the back, catching my breath and pretending I didn’t pull something in my thigh trying to do the fan kick. But the muscle’s pinging, and so is the toe I stubbed when I tried to do the ball change.

  Peter continues, but it only gets worse. My entire knowledge of dance is the funky chicken and some lame thing my mom taught me called the Macarena. I’m so far behind the rest of the kids it’s not even funny. And the worst part is that all the sports I’ve done aren’t doing anything to help me keep up. I’ve never been this lost in anything involving physical movement. I can’t help but wonder, If this is the first—and probably the easiest—class, how am I supposed to survive the rest of the sessions?

  * * *

  After the class ends, Peter calls out my name. “Luc, hang back.” He wipes his face with a black towel, then tosses it on his bag.

  He waits until the studio’s clear, then asks, “Why are you here?”

  I tell him my story.

  “Football player,” he grunts. “That explains the body movements.”

  I’m not sure if he’s making an observation or taking a shot, so I stay quiet. But something must show on my face, because he says, “No foul intended. You’re like my mom.”

  Okay, how is that not a slam?

  “She wanted to play piano after she retired from working as an executive assistant. Lots of typing in her work.” He mimes the action. “She’d spent years holding her hands a certain way, but to play a piano, your hand positions are completely different. It was really hard for her to learn how to hold her hands.”

  I don’t understand. “Is there something wrong with my hands?”

  “Kid, there’s something wrong with everything you’re doing. You don’t even stand correctly. You’re clunky and awkward and you’re a menace to the other dancers.”

  That makes me wince.

  “I’m not trying to be mean, but I’m asking if this is really something you need to do.”

  “If I want to stay on the football team, I do.”

  “What about yoga?”

  “Coach said dance.”

  “Flexibility training?”

  “Isn’t that dancing?”