Across the Floor

by Natasha Deen

  I’m still trying to figure out what a showcase is. Mom loves game shows, and a couple of them have something called a showcase. Somehow I don’t think Peter’s talking about an elaborate setup where we get to guess the prices of cars and groceries, then keep them if we’re right.

  Peter overhears Brittney’s whispering and tosses a smile her way. “It won’t be a big or complex production, but I thought it might be fun. I’m covering a mat leave at Vanguard High in September. They’ve got a great auditorium and dance space. I talked to the principal, and she’s fine with us using it for the last day.”

  This is sounding like Peter wants us to do a performance.

  “We’ll invite your friends and family.”

  Yep, definitely a performance.

  “What do you think?”

  Everyone’s nodding. I’m doing the math and the scheduling in my head. I figure there’s probably a couple more steps to the choreography Peter was showing us on Tuesday.

  If I’m right, then we’ll spend a couple of weeks learning that, a couple of weeks learning part two, a couple of weeks for part three and a couple of weeks putting it together and polishing.

  When he looks my way, eyebrows raised in question, I drop my hands and give him a quick nod. I’m sure I can do this.

  “Great. I’m glad we’re all on board. Okay, folks, take your positions.” Peter claps his hands, and we fall into four rows.

  I’m in the middle of the last row. Jesse’s on the end, at the left. I brace myself for his attitude and walk over.

  His gaze cuts to me, then flicks away. Ignoring me, he shakes his hands loose and does some small kicks to ready himself for warm-up.

  “Uh, hey, listen, you mind if we swap spots?”

  His eyes narrow.

  I take a breath and opt for the hard truth. “I was a total disaster on Tuesday. I figure if I take an end spot, it’s one less person I might crash into, right? ’Cause of the wall.”

  Jesse takes a step back as he cocks his head to the right. Of all the reasons he thought I’d give for wanting to trade places, my concern for the other dancers obviously didn’t make his list. “Yeah, sure.”

  We switch spots, and I do a couple of head rolls. I may not be physically ready for class, but my brain’s engaged. I remember most of the warm-up and across-the-floor stuff, and I’m determined to show up today.

  “Let’s start with some gentle head movements,” says Peter as he cues the music, then sets down the remote.

  Yeah, buddy, let’s start this.

  From head rolls, we move on to stretching our hands to the sky. I’m trying so hard not to grin in triumph. They’re baby-easy moves, but I don’t care. I’m keeping up, and a glance in the mirror confirms I actually look like I’m part of the class.

  In the back of my mind, I’m readying for the demi-plié and grand plié, and I get a wickedly unpleasant shock when Peter says, “Great, let’s do some tendus from first position to second, back to first, to the side, back, then back.”

  I squint past the other dancers, staring through their legs to see what Peter’s doing. And it looks like some kind of gentle leg-kick, toe-point thing. Which is easy to say, hard to do.

  I try to copy what I see, but while everyone else looks like they’re doing a dance move, I look like I’m trying to kick at an invisible soccer ball. And the ball’s winning. Winning big-time. I have no balance, so I’m wobbling on my left foot, and when Peter tells us to switch feet, I’m wobbling on my right.

  “Luc, turn out your feet!”

  What does that even mean? I’m frantically looking at the other kids’ feet, trying to figure out Peter’s instruction. They’re all doing the gentle-kick thing. Is that turning out feet? Maybe I’m swinging, not kicking? I exaggerate the lifting of my foot and get a sharp, “This isn’t football, Luc! No kicking. Tendu!”

  I go back to watching feet, but looking at other people means one sure thing—I lose sight of my feet and my balance, trip myself and land on the floor.

  Peter keeps going.

  The kids ignore me.

  From that amazing start, Peter moves into something he calls isolations and I call an exercise in futility.

  It starts when he tells us to keep our hips in place and shift our chests left, then right. For my efforts, I get a bunch of “Luc, keep the hips immobile” and “Engage your core!” The only bright light is that the other kids are getting stuff like “Straighten your posture!” and “Elongate your spine!”

  I’m pathetically happy when he calls time for a break.

  The other kids break into little groups. I sit by myself and watch as they help each other practice certain steps. Some I know, most I don’t. It makes me wish I hadn’t been such an A1 jerk sauce to Brittney and Jesse when classes first began, ’cause right now I could use the help.

  Peter calls us back for across the floor, and things only get worse. “Chaîné jeté, chaîné back attitude jump—everyone channel their inner Baryshnikov—and end it with four barrel jumps.”

  Common sense reminds me there’s probably more than one way to warm up and do across the floor, but I was stoked about practicing last class’s stuff, and now I’m back to being the guy who knows nothing.

  Peter takes his position, then walks and talks us through the chain of movement. “Chaîné in plié on counts one, two. Really resist into the floor.”

  Resist into the floor? What the heck does that even mean?

  “Jeté on count three, making sure your hips are square to the direction you’re going, and arms are in a V. Turn out of the jump on four. Chaîné in plié again on five, six, and do a back attitude jump this time on count seven, land on eight. Left arm sweeping into a ballet fourth position.”

  Seriously, I want to curl into a ball somewhere or maybe pour sugar in Coach’s gas tank. I can’t believe he’s making me do this.

  “Make sure to press your shoulders down, and lengthen the attitude line of your back leg. Step through with your back leg, and then give me four—yes, four—barrel jumps in a row.”

  There’s a groan from the class.

  I suppress my moan.

  “Two counts each. Get your hips up, and don’t arch your back—you want to be horizontal to the floor! Push into the floor to get up.” Peter looks my way. “Luc, you’re with me. Let’s start off.”

  I stick my arms out. The first part I can do. It’s simple, crossing one leg behind the other, then crossing the leg in front of the other, followed by a low turn and a gentle side leap. The back attitude jump—man, that almost kills me.

  Peter’s all cool and flexible. He can touch the back of his head with his toes on the jump.

  “Cool!” I hear Brittney say. “He added a layout to it!”

  Peter’s impressing everyone with his skill. I, on the other hand, manage a stuttering baby back arch before my spine and muscles freak out and bring me back—sharply, rudely—to reality. My grunted “Ack!” when the pain hits doesn’t help either.

  I stumble through the barrel rolls. There’s no height, grace or control in my movement. Once again, I’m certain what I’ve done can’t be classified as dance. It might hit the standard for crimes against eyesight though. I ignore the muffled laughter, pretend I haven’t pulled another seventeen muscles and watch with a poker face as the other kids take their turns.

  In the deepest part of my brain, a little voice starts to whisper that Mom and Dad are right. There are other football teams; there are responsibilities at home. The little voice tells me to quit, and I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t right. I suck at this, I’m not getting any better—and the moves are getting harder. Why not quit?

  Seven

  I ’ve never been so glad to see the end of a class in my life. That includes the time Mrs. Hillaby made the guys in English class memorize and recite one of the love sonnets from Romeo and Juliet. I regret every stupid assumption I made about dance. It’s so much harder than I thought. If I’m going to last through the next two months, I have
to seriously up my game. Truth is, I’m not even sure I will last through the summer. That whispering voice has gotten louder and more convincing.

  Which means I definitely shouldn’t be listening to it. It’s only been two classes. Plus, I have four days to practice all the stuff. I can’t quit. Not this quickly. Not this soon.

  I leave the studio and head to the bus stop. While I wait for the bus, I chug my drink and look up tendu on my phone. After reviewing a couple of videos, I get what turn your feet out means. Instead of having my toes pointing in front, I need my right toes to point right, left toes to point left. Got it. I tuck my phone back in my pocket and make a mental note to ask Peter for a list of the warm-ups and across-the-floor moves he’s going to get us to do.

  Since I was too stupid to make friends at the studio, I’ll have to make Google my new buddy and search out video clips on anything Peter gives me. The bus arrives, and I get to my first job of the day, for the Allisters.

  They prefer me to use their push mower over anything gas-powered. I take it from their shed and start cutting the grass. Then it occurs to me that if I’m walking and pushing, maybe I could be doing other stuff too. I can’t exactly tendu and cut grass, but I can practice turning out my feet. Using the handles of the mower for balance, I twist my right foot to the right…and get a painful reminder of how not flexible I am. I can barely get my toes at a forty-five-degree angle. It takes a couple of tries, but eventually I get a rhythm going.

  Turn out foot.

  Push lawn mower.

  Turn out other foot.

  Push lawn mower.

  I’m not graceful, fast or worth looking at, but at least I’m practicing. Pas de bourrée as I head to grab a garbage bag, sauté back to where the lawn mower is sitting. I empty the clippings into the bag, then focus on a straight posture and pulled-in abs as I drop the bag at the end of the driveway.

  I keep going, using every moment to practice something Peter’s taught me. It adds time to my jobs, but since the buses I take to the day’s jobs are all on schedule, it’s not enough to get me in trouble with Dad. And by the time I’m finishing off my last job, I still can’t turn out my feet at a 90-degree angle, but I’ve got a little more rotation than the 45 I started out with. Okay, so maybe all I can do is a 47 or 50-degree angle, but it’s progress. I’m happy to take it.

  I do a little pirouette and find the home owner standing in his front doorway with a duffel bag in his hand.

  “Hoo, boy.” He takes the toothpick from his mouth and heads down the path to me. “I was in the middle of a conference call in my kitchen when I saw you leaping and twirling in the backyard. I had to end the call.”

  “Oh, uh, hey, Mr. Hughes.” I blush and stammer, “I’m taking dance to make myself a better football player.”

  He nods. “I heard Lynn Swan did the same thing.” He shrugs. “Not sure if it’s true or not, but that guy ended up in the Football Hall of Fame, so it can’t hurt, can it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Practice, son, it’ll make for perfect.” He nods at me, climbs into his Cadillac and drives off.

  That’s easy for him to say. He’s not the one tripping over his feet and making an idiot of himself in class. The part of me that wants to quit has gone from whispering to talking out loud, but I tell it to shut up. Give it a couple more classes, I tell myself. If I don’t get better by the end of the month, then I’ll quit and take the lecture from Coach.

  * * *

  Saturday morning comes, and I’m thrilled for a couple of reasons. No lawn mowing, and I’m meeting up with a bunch of guys from the team at the park. We’re set to hang, maybe play a game or two. I spend the morning practicing my dance stuff and googling every term I can remember from Peter’s classes.

  I try not to read the comments in the dance videos. The people doing the instruction look good to me. For sure they look a thousand times better than I do. It ticks me off that they are putting themselves out there and getting criticized for it. I think they’re really brave.

  In the afternoon I meet up with the football guys and a bunch of other kids from school at the fountain in the middle of the park.

  “What?” says Hasselman as he spots me. “No leaping and twirling at the sight of your buddies?”

  “Ha-ha.” I step into the group. “Funny as a dead frog on the highway.”

  “I know what the problem is.” He points at my jogging pants and shirt. “You’re not dressed for it.” From behind his back he pulls out a sequined pink tutu.

  Everyone laughs. They laugh even harder when Tim puts the rhinestone tiara on my head.

  “Wow,” I say as I take off the crown. “Did it take all your collective brainpower to come up with that one?”

  “Are you kidding?” Tim jerks his thumb in Hasselman’s direction. “Thought he was going to have a stroke trying to come up with a good prank.”

  “I wondered why he was drooling.” I set the tiara on Hasselman’s blond hair. “Are we going to play or stand around and figure out how to get Hasselman in the tutu?”

  We head to an empty field, and everyone takes their spots. I crouch low and realize I’ve got a little more flexibility in my stance. Hasselman calls the play, and Tim hikes the ball.

  I explode backward, pursue to the right and spin off an attempted block by Tim. There’s a quick second, a spark in my brain, when I notice there’s no twinge in my knee. Two dance classes, and I’m already seeing results.

  I speed right to cut Hasselman off.

  He drops farther back, looking for his receiver, but I’m on him so fast there’s no time for him to even throw the ball. I throw him to the turf. “Not on my watch.” There are no warning pings in my joints. Usually when I pull that move, I’m hoping I don’t hurt myself.

  “Ugh.” Hasselman rolls over. “Is it me, or are you faster than usual?”

  “You noticed it too, huh?” I stretch out my hand, grab his and haul him up.

  “Nice twirl on the tackle,” says Hasselman. “Those classes may not make you a better football player, but they sure make you a prettier one to look at. Try and memorize some good steps. Maybe we can do up a cool end-zone dance.”

  Tim snaps his fingers. “Yeah, and definitely a team one for when we win next year’s championship.”

  I can barely dance, and these lug nuts want me to choreograph them.

  I smile.

  It’s nice to be part of a team.

  Eight

  Tuesday morning comes. I’ve spent the last four days practicing, practicing, practicing. I don’t know how I look when I’m doing all the stretches and steps, but I know how I feel. Flexible. Today I was able to touch my toes and put my palms flat on the floor. I’ve never been able to do that before. Plus, all the practice is making me aware of muscle groups and connections I don’t normally use. If I keep going like this, the effect on my football is going to be phenomenal.

  But if I’m going to be 100 percent committed to dance, it means fixing the mistakes I’ve made. And that starts with figuring out a way to undo the stupid first impression I made with the kids. What I’d really like is to start from scratch. That’s impossible, so before class I head to the coffee shop for a takeout order of coffee for fifteen, plus donuts for the sugar fiends and bran muffins for the health freaks. I don’t think it’ll win me any friends or forgiveness, but if it gets some of them glaring at me a little less, I’ll take it. It’s hard enough to keep up. I don’t need the mirrored view of their disapproval too.

  The traffic elves must be in a good mood today, because it’s all green lights and clear roads to the studio. I get in early. Brittney, Jesse and Peter are the only ones in the room when I arrive.

  “Hey.” I hold up the food in my hands. “Uh, I thought I’d bring a mid-morning snack.” I wait as they do a once-over of the bag and cardboard thermos of coffee.

  They glance at each other, then back at me.

  Peter gives me a small half smile and takes a step back.

  One do
wn. Two to go.

  “The coffee will be cold by then,” says Jesse, “but I’ll take some stuff now.”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “For sure.”

  Peter clears a space on the table for me to set everything down. Brittney and Jesse help unload the creamers and sugar.

  “That was nice of you,” says Brittney.

  I’d say thanks, but her tone suggests complete surprise that I’m capable of human decency. So I nod and say, “Yeah, no prob.”

  A few minutes later the rest of the kids trickle in. Peter gives everyone a few minutes to grab a quick coffee and makes sure the class knows I’m the one who brought it. I get a few grudging nods. I’m happy to take them.

  “Okay, guys.” Peter claps his hands. “Take your last sips, and let’s get into formation.”

  I swallow the last of my coffee and take my spot at the back. My heart’s hammering. Four days of practice. I know I feel the difference, but will Peter see it?

  “Let’s start nice and easy.” He drops his head to his chest, then slowly raises it again.

  I follow along.

  “Great. Now add in the shoulders, relax to the floor, let your hands hang loose and free…”

  I know no one else is paying attention to me. No one else can feel the contraction and stretch in my hamstrings and quads as Peter instructs us to touch our toes, then bend our knees and press our palms to the floor. The tug of my muscles is a victory. The feel of the dust on the palm of my hand is as welcome as the cold metal of a trophy.

  We move through the half hour. My favorite move is when he gets us to lie on our backs, lift one leg into the air, cross it over our body and bring it back to the floor. A quick glance shows Brittney and Jesse doing their Jell-O-for-bones impression. My leg is bent, not straight, as I bring it into the air, and instead of keeping my back on the floor, my entire body twists with the rotation. Peter’s yelling, “Core, Luc!”, but I don’t care. All I know is, with practice I’m going to get better. And in getting better, I’m going to dominate the football field.