by Natasha Deen
That makes him crack a smile. “Touché. I’m not trying to be a jerk, but you saw these guys today. They may not know contemporary dance—”
“But they know dance.”
“They’re catching the choreography fast, which means I can increase the complexity…” He trails off.
“You don’t think I can keep up.”
“How do you think you did today?”
Ouch. I don’t say anything.
“Maybe you can take another class?”
“This is the only one being offered this summer,” I say. “I have to get it done or I don’t get to try out.”
Peter’s expression is part sympathy, part Not my problem, kid. “I’m not telling you to drop out, but I am telling you what’s going to happen in the next class. It’s not fair to hold the entire class back for you—”
“I’m not asking you to!”
“But it’s not fair to push you so far outside your abilities. You could really hurt yourself.”
Great. Coach says to take dance so I don’t hurt myself. Peter says to stop dancing before I hurt myself.
“I empathize with your situation, but I have fourteen other kids to think of. I’m not holding back for you.” Peter packs up his things and walks out the door.
I watch him walk away, knowing he’s not wrong. I’d be ticked if Coach started running baby plays for some rookie. I’ve never been the one who couldn’t keep up. I have a sudden empathy for all the guys who got cut from the team. And I’m ashamed for judging how hard they did—or didn’t—work to run the plays. I grab my bag and head out the door.
Five
It’s almost quarter to two by the time I’m back on the road, and I’m scrambling—again—to make up for lost time. I get to the first house on my schedule, the O’Connors. As soon as I pull the truck into the driveway and cut the engine, the O’Connors Three are out the door. Braden, Dale and Tom. Four-year-old triplets with awesome fire-red hair and brown eyes.
I climb out of the seat and feel every movement. All the sitting has made my muscles cramp up and tightened my back. The truck door creaks as I begin to close it. Then again, maybe that’s the sound my knees make as I try to straighten up.
“Luc! You’re here!” Dale does an excited lap around my legs as I slam the door shut.
“You’re late.” Tom holds up his left hand, a too-big watch dangling from his wrist.
“I am?” I give him a wide-eyed gaze. “How late am I?”
He looks at the watch. “You were supposed to be here at the three. Now it’s at the six.”
I stifle my laugh. Tom’s obviously learning how to tell time, and I don’t want to point out he’s mixing up his numbers. “Gee, what time does that mean?”
He glares at me. “I said. At the six!”
I hide my smile.
Their mom comes running out. “Luc, I’m so sorry! Guys! Back in the house, now!”
“But we have to help Luc,” says Dale. “He has to do all the bagging.” He gives his mom a stern look. “We always help him.”
Mrs. O’Connor herds them back inside. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s no problem. I like them.” I turn—slowing down as my back twinges—and carefully lift the lawn mower to the ground. Usually this isn’t a big deal, but thanks to my dance class, my biceps are shaking with the weight of the equipment.
“Was the traffic bad?”
I wince. “I’m sorry about being late.” I give her the lowdown on the dance classes.
“Wow, Coach is really laying it on the line with you, huh?”
“Yeah.” I make sure the lawn mower’s secure, then shut the truck’s tailgate. “But I’ll do anything he says to stay in football.”
“It’s nice he’s looking out for you and trying to prevent you from getting hurt.”
“Yeah, I’d rather get sturdier equipment.”
She laughs. “It won’t be so bad.” Looking over her shoulder, she notices the kids, pressed up against the living-room window. “I’ll keep the triple terrors out of your hair.”
That would help me with the schedule. I’m supposed to meet Dad and another crew at four o’clock to do the grounds at the museum. But the O’Connor boys always help me bag the cut grass, and I can imagine their faces if their mom tells them that they have to stay inside. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “They always help, and I don’t mind.”
“Well, if they’re with you…I could use the time to get some stuff done.”
I can almost see her weighing the pros and cons in her head.
“It’s not fair to you, Luc—”
“Honestly, I don’t mind.”
“Well, if you’re okay—”
“I’ll tap on the patio door when I’m ready.”
She smiles. “You’re a good kid, Luc. It makes the boys’ day when you come around.”
“Mine too,” I say, smiling.
She heads inside, and I push the mower toward the backyard. The gentle slope of their driveway feels like Mount Everest. By the time I get to the backyard, my upper arms are letting me know they’d like me to get a lighter mower. My legs would like me to get a lawn mower I can sit on to drive. Man. Who knew dance—even a beginner’s class—could be that hard on your muscles? I start the engine and take the mower to the lawn.
Usually, the O’Connors’ yard takes me a half hour to do. But I’m moving slower, and the workout from this morning is making it harder, and it’s adding time. I can’t welch on my promise to the boys, so I tap on the patio door when I’m finished mowing. They tumble out.
Tom directs the team. Braden and Dale hold open the garbage bag, and I shake in the clippings. I always keep a hand on the bag to help steady it. But today I’m the one who isn’t quite steady. It’s hard to balance the lawn-mower bag in one hand and the garbage bag in the other, but I finally get it all done.
I send the kids back inside so I can edge the lawn, and then I pack up. The boys race back out as I’m struggling to heft the lawn mower onto the truck bed.
“When are you coming back again?”
“Next time can I lift the bag?”
“Are you going to be late again?”
Now I’m struggling to stay patient with them, lift the lawn mower and do both in the blazing sun when I’m sore and tired. I corral the kids back to the house, get in the truck and check the clock. Time’s not on my side, which means no stopping for anything to eat before the next job. I do a quick check of my water bottle. Empty. Great.
I do my best to pick up my pace, but as the day drags on, I’m moving slower and everything is taking longer. The sun feels too hot. The grass pieces that fly out from the weed whacker hit me like knives. The traffic’s too slow. And I’m not fast enough. It’s almost five when I get to the museum grounds, and I arrive in time to see the guys loading up for the day.
One of the guys from Dad’s crew spots me. “Hey, thanks for showing up, princess. Did the servants not wake you in time?” He catches the look on my face, and his grin drops. “Whoa, sorry, Luc. I was joshin’. You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s been a bad day,” I say.
“Not just for you.” Dad strides up. “An hour late? You better not blame traffic, because I know for a fact there were no holdups on your routes.”
“I’m not blaming the traffic.”
“It was the class, wasn’t it?”
“It ran a little late this one time—”
“Luc, what did I tell you about the classes and your responsibility to this family?”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? The class was late, and then I had the O’Connors, and you know the kids like to help me—”
Dad’s eyebrows go up. “Are you blaming your tardiness on a bunch of toddlers?”
“No, it’s…” I take a breath. “I had my butt handed to me today in class, okay? I couldn’t keep up. It’s nothing like I thought it would be. Football, we do some warm-ups, then play. In three hours of dance, two and a half hours were warmups and exercises. Ha
rdly any dancing. Not that it would have mattered. I sucked at everything.”
Dad sighs. “You don’t need this. Let me talk to Coach in fall and—”
“I don’t want to quit.”
“But on your first day, you’re letting me down. You’re not only part of a football team, son, you’re part of my team and your mom’s. We have to be able to count on you.”
“I know. I was caught off guard today. But I know the warm-up now and the across-the-floor stuff, and I’m sure I’ll catch on to the choreo. Give me a month. If I can’t make it work, then I’ll quit and mow lawns.”
“I can’t afford to give you a month,” he says. “You’ve got two weeks to make this work or you cut out dance. Deal?”
What else can I say? “Deal.”
* * *
The next morning my alarm goes off forty-five minutes earlier than normal. That was on purpose. After yesterday’s dismal performance at dance class, I’m not about to get schooled again. I figure forty-five minutes of practice this morning, a half hour around lunch and an hour after dinner will help me remember the warmups and help me to look more like the studio kids and less like a guy trying to do the funky chicken.
The alarm’s still buzzing, and I start to roll over to shut it off. I get a millisecond into the roll before my body starts screaming. I’ve heard about being sore the day after, but this is sore on steroids. I stop moving, breathe and then try again. The pain slices through me. My back, my neck, my hips, my arms. I think it even hurts to blink. Groaning, I manage to sit up and shut off the alarm. But after that, all I can do is sit. And breathe. Shallowly breathe.
I’m moving like a ninety-year-old man. Check that. A 100-year-old would move faster than me. I drag myself through my morning routine. Forget about practicing anything today. I’ll be lucky to walk upright! And the only good thing I can say about getting up earlier is that it lets me get out the door on time.
The bright side of today is that on Wednesdays I do bigger jobs, like school fields and grounds on some of the factories around town, which means spending the day with Tim. And using riding mowers. I pick him up in front of his house, where he’s got a travel cup of coffee in each hand.
“Hey, bud.” He climbs in the cab and holds out one of the mugs.
I’m too sore to reach for it and too proud to tell him why, so I say, “Stick it in the cup holder for now.”
He does, and we head to our first job. I’m having trouble shoulder-checking because of my neck. Tim notices. “Whoa. What’s going on with you?”
“Oh, uh, just sore.”
“It’s a little early for football training. We got out of classes last week.”
“Uh, yeah, it’s good to stay in shape. You know, start ready instead of get ready.”
He nods. “So what’s the training you’re doing? Maybe I should tag along?” He pats his stomach. “With summer and ice cream, it won’t hurt me to stay in shape.”
I go silent.
Tim waits as I pull up to a stop sign, then waits some more as I go straight.
“So?” he finally asks. “What’s the training?”
“Uh—”
“You already said that.”
“It’s dance,” I blurt out.
There’s dead silence.
“Dance?” Tim repeats. “Like hip-hop aerobics?”
I wish. “More like contemporary dance.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s kind of like ballet.”
Tim lets out a whoop. “Ballet? Ballet? You’re lacing up with ribbons and tights? Yo, dude, tell me I can come and take photos.”
“Shut up.”
“For real? You’re doing dance? Dude, why?”
“’Cause Coach said.”
“Hey, for real?” The laughter’s gone. If Coach says something, we all take it seriously. “Dance? Why?”
I tell him about the injuries and Coach’s theory of dance helping to strengthen my muscles.
“A bunch of the pros do it,” says Tim. “And Coach isn’t wrong. You got what it takes to go to the NFL. No one wants to see that dream die out in freshman year because of a torn ACL.” He stops, watches me for a bit. “But are you messing with me? Did dance class really leave you in this sorry condition?”
“Man, it hurts to blink.”
That gets him laughing again.
The day isn’t so bad. With Tim helping out, I’m able to stay on schedule and get help lifting the mowers up and down. Sure, he makes me pay for it with a bunch of ballet jokes and questions about what size my tutu is, but he’s also the angel on my shoulder.
“Is it totally kicking your butt?” he asks when we break for lunch. We take a spot in the shade on the field of the elementary school we’ve just mowed.
I nod. Half-nod. I’m not as sore as I was this morning, but I’m nowhere near fighting shape. “I hate to admit it, but it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Even with the relays Coach makes us do?”
“That stuff’s cardio, and it’s brutal. But this dancing thing is cardio plus balance. And control.” I swallow my embarrassment and tell him about spinning into Brittney.
“Hold up.” He pulls out his phone. “I gotta text that to the guys.”
“Come on. Let this be between us.”
“No way. This is treasure. Like the King Tut of awesome stories. It’s my duty to share it with the team.”
A couple of minutes later my cell lights up with jokes. I hold it up so Tim can see the screen. “I’ll remember this if you ever need a kidney or a lung.”
He slaps me on the back, then laughs when I howl in pain.
“Man up,” he says. “Coach says it’ll help, then it’ll help. And do it right. You gonna practice when you get home?”
“I wanted to, but I’m sore.”
“If you don’t move, it’ll only get worse.” He jumps up from the ground, dusts the sandwich crumbs from his hands. “Come on. No one’s around—show me some of the choreography. I’ll do it with you.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, there’s no one around. It’s only us. But if you video me and post anything, I’m going to take one of those lungs, like, now.”
“I can’t really remember anything. Peter kept talking about staying fluid and in constant motion—”
“Are you a dancer or an ocean?”
“Right now, I’m neither.” The choreography was only fifteen minutes of the entire class, and I know there were some kicks and steps and bends, but the order and how to do them is beyond me. “I really can’t remember anything.”
“What about the warm-up?”
“Yeah, I remember some of it.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Okay, boss.” I get up and take him through what I can remember of the warm-up. It’s slow going, both trying to remember what the exercises were and how to do them, but it feels good to have Tim on my side. And when the end of the day comes, I’m glad I did my mini workout at lunch. It’s fresh in my mind, and after dinner I do another run-through. I’m sure I look like a headless chicken, but I don’t care. At least I have the warm-ups in my head. Let Peter try and mop anything with me tomorrow.
Six
Either the walking while mowing helped stretch and loosen my muscles or I can’t get any more sore, because when I wake up, I’m not at the same levels of “ow” as yesterday. And I’ve gotten up with enough time to get to the studio early. I’m going to go through the warm-up and floor work before the kids and Peter come in. No way am I going to be the first voted off the island today!
I jog-limp upstairs and spy a note taped to the coffeemaker.
LUC. WORK AT 1:30. YOU’RE LATE, YOU’RE DOCKED. LOVE YOU, DAD.
I snort at the LOVE YOU, DAD. Yeah. Totally feeling the fatherly affection. I down some coffee, grab some toast, then hop in the shower and finish getting ready. Ten minutes ahead of schedule, I head to the front door to grab the keys from the ring and get out of the house.
But the keys aren’t there.
Stupidly I stare at the line of key hooks, hoping the keys will magically reappear. They don’t. I’m not panicking. I’m ahead of schedule, right? I double back to check my bedroom. Still no keys. Bracing myself for a lecture on my lack of responsibility, I bite the Mom bullet and call her at the station.
“Mom,” I say when she picks up. “Do you know what I did with the car keys?”
“Luc, it’s Thursday.”
I need keys and she’s giving me a calendar lesson? “Uh, yeah, and tomorrow’s Friday.”
“Honey, it’s Thursday. I have the keys because—”
“You have the car on Thursdays.” I groan. “I totally forgot.” Yikes! I have to take the bus. I babble a quick goodbye, then hang up and open the transit app.
Oh man. I’ve got less than three minutes to get to the stop. I stumble out the door, lock it, sprint for the bus—and get there just as the driver’s pulling away from the curb. Lucky for me, he’s a nice guy and stops. I get in, pay and grab the first seat I see. My legs are aching from the sudden burst of exercise, my arms are throbbing. I think my back is going to do the physically impossible and break itself free of my body. I’m hoping that by the time I reach the studio, I’ll be okay and this won’t cost me when class time arrives. I pop in my earbuds, close my eyes and mentally go through the warm-up and across-the-floor stuff. Even if I’m not 100 percent physically speaking, I’m going to make sure I’m in the right head space.
I get to the studio with a couple of minutes to spare. The rest of the kids are already there, and a hush settles over the room when I walk in. They all look surprised to see me. I nod at a couple of them and hide my smile. Wait till they see how much better I do today.
Peter comes out of the office a minute later, slows as he sees me, then keeps walking to the front of the class. “Okay, folks, gather in a circle.”
I drop my bag and hang on the perimeter.
“Before we begin today, I want your input on something,” says Peter. “I know it’s summer sessions, but I wonder how you’d feel about a showcase on the last day of class.”
The kids murmur excitedly. Brittney claps her hands in excitement, grabs Jesse’s arm and starts whispering about props and costumes.
