Across the Floor

by Natasha Deen

I know it’s immature to be annoyed that I’m losing the car for a day, but it feels like a giant inconvenience. “Uh, sure, but how is that going to work for Tuesday? Tim and I team up on Wednesdays, but—”

  “Come to work with me,” says Dad. “I’ve got a big job and need your help anyway.”

  “I can’t miss class.”

  “One class isn’t going to kill you.”

  I snort. Considering how fast the classes go and how hard I’m struggling to keep up, missing class might not kill me, but it could definitely give me serious injury. “No, Dad, I can’t skip a class. Coach is expecting—”

  “I don’t care what your coach is expecting, Luc.” Dad puts down his fork, steeples his fingers and gives me a death glare. “This family is your number-one priority.”

  “I thought getting an education was my number-one priority.”

  “Don’t be a smart aleck. Your education is a priority—”

  “And a football scholarship is pretty big on the list.”

  “Yes,” Dad concedes. “But it’s not on the top of the list. Will a scholarship help the family with your university tuition? Sure, but why do you have to play for Marshall to get it?”

  “Because Coach is the best in the city.”

  “There are a lot of great coaches in town. If this one can’t understand you missing one silly class—”

  My ears turn hot at the word silly.

  “—then he’s not the coach for you. Miss the Tuesday class and come to work with me. We’ll do your route and mine.” I’m barely keeping up at dance, and now I’m missing a class. I eat the rest of my dinner even though it tastes like cardboard.

  * * *

  The next morning I email the studio to tell Peter I won’t be at the class. Then I climb into the truck and head with Dad to our first job. It’s at a factory that produces frozen food. The bosses must like their employees, because there’s a ton of lawn space, with picnic tables, trees and flower gardens.

  “They have a John Deere in the shed,” says Dad as he hands me the key. “Go ahead and start while I get started on the gardens.”

  I don’t answer him as I take the key and walk to the shed. The nice thing about the mower is that I don’t have to bag anything. The downside is that I’ll be sitting for the next two hours.

  I start it up, hop on and head to the part of the grounds farthest from my dad. I wonder what the class will be doing today and worry that Peter may have changed the choreography. The noise of the mower is too loud for me to use my earbuds and listen to the music from the showcase, but I hum the tune in my head and walk through the steps in my imagination.

  Of course, in my imagination I’m a lot more coordinated and graceful than in real life. I figure it’s because I don’t have the movements fully memorized. Practice, I remind myself. I’ll get there.

  It takes every bit of the two hours to mow the lawn, and in the meantime the sun has gotten higher and hotter. The unending chug of the mower’s engine comes to a blissful stop as I bring the vehicle in and park it in the shed. For a moment, I sit. It’s musty in here. Between the dust, the lack of insulation and the heat, the place smells like a combination of oil and hay and dirt. But it’s shady, and even if it’s just a few degrees cooler in here than outside, I’m happy to take it.

  “You contemplating life or the futility of cutting grass only to have it grow again?”

  I swing off the lawn mower and ignore Dad’s question. “Are you done?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  My shoulder brushes his as I push past. “Then let’s get to the next job,” I say. “Time’s money, right?”

  He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The thin line of his mouth speaks his anger, but I don’t care. I’m mad too. I head across the grass, barely acknowledging how good the wind feels on my skin. I get to the car, climb in and slam the door.

  “You slam that door again and you lose all access to the family vehicles.” Dad climbs inside and shuts his door. “You can be as mad as you want to be, but that doesn’t give you the right to disrespect property. Especially property you don’t own. Are we clear?”

  I give him a sharp nod of my head and stop myself from saluting.

  Dad exhales an angry breath. “You know, I was going to see if you wanted a shake before our next job, but if this is your attitude, then forget it.”

  “I’m not thirsty anyway.” Not true. I would’ve loved a milkshake.

  The rest of the day is like this. Us barely talking. When the final bag of clippings is dropped at the end of the driveway of the last client, we climb back into the truck. I wait for Dad to start the vehicle. The day’s been a scorcher, and even with the windows down, the interior is furnace hot.

  “Dad, are we going to go?”

  He’s still sitting, staring out the front windshield.

  “Do you need me to drive?”

  “No,” he says, “I need you to grow up.”

  His words sting.

  “Do you have any idea how selfish you’ve been this summer?”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Neither are you.” He scowls. “Your mom and I have been really good about giving you time to pursue this dance thing, and look how you’ve shown your gratitude. You’re late getting to work for me and late finishing work. You’re missing out on family activities. Worst of all, I found out this morning that you’re nagging your mom for the car on Thursdays.”

  “I asked one time!”

  “You shouldn’t have asked at all! Your mom shares her car with you. And all she asks is that you step off for one day. You can’t give her that?”

  “You don’t understand!”

  Dad shakes his head, disgusted. “The fact you’re even arguing with me says how selfish you’re being.”

  My mouth snaps shut, and I cross my arms, fuming.

  “You’re always talking about team effort, but you can’t seem to get it through your head that this family is a team.” Dad starts the truck. “Frankly, if this were a sports team, I’d have cut you a long time ago for your bad attitude.” He puts the vehicle in gear and pulls onto the road.

  And, of course, we hit some kind of traffic jam or accident, so we’re totally stuck in the hot silence together. In my mind, the argument continues. I may be selfish, I tell him, but at least I help out in the house. What about you? It’s not like you’ve got an extra set of work that eats up three hours of your day. And it’s not like you’re working for two bosses. But I am. You and Coach. And how am I supposed to get by when the two of you give me instructions that conflict with each other?

  Miss class, says Dad.

  I better not hear about you missing class, says Coach.

  I slouch down in the seat and stare at the cars idling beside us. My big plan to out-silence my dad crumbles under the weight of my righteous indignation. “You’re not being fair,” I tell him. “It’s not like you’re trying to juggle work and sports and family.”

  Dad’s laugh surprises me. “Boy, kid, you are full of something. You think what? I work, then come home and sit around watching TV?”

  “Well—”

  “You think the groceries buy themselves and the cars get tuned up by themselves and we have a laundry fairy that—”

  “Okay, okay. Geez.”

  “Your mom and I may not play sports when the day’s done, but we have responsibilities too.” He turns to me, and he’s got that look on his face like he’s annoyed with me but also loves me. “When’s the last time you went to the fridge and there wasn’t milk?”

  I shrug.

  “And last week when you asked me to come outside and throw the ball around with you, what did I do?”

  My indignation is a lot less righteous as it morphs into embarrassment. “You helped me.”

  “Right away, or was I doing stuff?”

  “You were doing stuff, but you said in fifteen minutes—”

  “And?”

  “And you were in the backyard in fifteen minutes.�
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  “You may not understand or even agree with me and your mom when we tell you to take out the garbage right away. And you may not like it when I tell you that clients’ lawns have to be done by a certain time. But it’s not up to you to understand or agree.” He pauses for breath. “It’s up to you to respect it.”

  Man, if I get any smaller, I’m going to drown in my clothes.

  “All summer I’ve watched you go the extra mile for your coach and your dance instructor, and I can’t figure out why you don’t do the same thing for your mom and me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. I clear my throat and try again, louder. “I’m sorry.”

  “I appreciate it, son, but I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to do your part to make this summer work, okay?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  The silence is back, but it’s a warm silence.

  “Your mom said you wanted the car tonight. Something about running an errand?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Given our conversation, I’ll feel kind of stupid telling him what it is.

  “What do you need to do?”

  “Oh. I wanted a mirror for downstairs, so I could watch myself when I practice.” I wait for a long sigh or another conversation about my being over-focused on myself.

  Instead, Dad says, “You want to do it now? Get it over and done with so you don’t have to go back out again?”

  He’s offering, but I can tell by his tone that he’s not thrilled about my reason for needing the car. Still, he’s trying to be nice, and I don’t want to be a jerk. “Yeah, sure. Uh, maybe I can buy you a shake as thanks?”

  Dad smiles. “You know what you need to do to show me you’re grateful, but I’ll take the shake. A double shake.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “I’ll invent it.”

  I laugh and roll my eyes.

  The traffic inches forward. “I want to listen to the sports news for a bit,” he says. “Why don’t you text your friends and see what you missed today?”

  The tone’s still there, but I’m willing to do what he says. Partly ’cause I need to know what I missed, but partly so we have a reason to stop talking. “Okay.”

  I text Jesse. When he responds, I’m not happy to read that Peter has changed around the choreography.

  How much?

  We should meet up. Brittney and I can catch you up.

  Is it hard?

  Only if you don’t practice.

  I read his text, then read it again. That’s code for yes. I’m sure of it. Man. I’ve just had it out with Dad about not letting him and Mom down with chores and work, and now Jesse’s telling me I’ll have to practice even harder. Where am I going to find the time?

  Ten

  After dinner I head to Jesse’s house. I park on the street, then head up the sidewalk and ring the bell. A few seconds later I see his figure through the beveled-glass inset in the door.

  “Hey,” he says, letting me in. “Brittney’s downstairs. We have the house to ourselves, so feel free to shout in pain and frustration when you see what Peter’s added.”

  Oh man.

  He closes the door and walks across the tile into the kitchen. “Help me bring down the water, okay?”

  “No problem.” I grab a set of glasses as he takes the pitcher. We head down a spiral staircase into a walkout basement. At the bottom of the steps, on the left, is a family room with couches and a TV. It’s the space on the right, though, that has my attention.

  Hardwood floors, a barre that runs the length of one wall, mirrors on two sides, windows on the third.

  “Whoa. You take your dancing seriously.”

  Brittney rises from where she’s sitting in the middle of the space. “I know, right? I’ve tried to convince my dads to do the same thing, but they’re all about the pool table.”

  “Perks of being an only kid,” says Jesse. “And having a mom who used to dance professionally. It’s really her space. Well, ours now.”

  “No wonder you’re so good,” I say.

  “Are you crediting my genetics over my work ethic?” Jesse asks.

  “What? No!”

  He laughs and slaps me on the back. “I’m messing with you.”

  Whew. “So how hard is the new choreography?”

  “Worry about that later,” says Brittney. “We think part of your problem is that you’re so caught up in the routine, you’re forgetting about having fun with the movement. Let’s just move, have some fun and play around. We’ll do some warm-up, maybe isolations, and across the floor.” She gives me a cheeky smile. “And maybe some improv so we can see that awesome crane kick again.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  We stand in a line.

  “Inhale and lift your arms up,” Brittney says, taking the lead. “Exhale down. And again.”

  From there, she moves us through shoulder rotations, then chest circles and into undulations.

  “I wish you did warm-up,” I tell her as she gets us to shift our hips left and then right. “I can actually keep up with you.” From the corner of my eye, I take a quick glance at my reflection. “And I don’t look like a total dope doing it.”

  She laughs. “This isn’t the warm-up. This is just for you, to get your muscles a little loose so we can really warm up.”

  My anxiety shows in my reflection in the mirror.

  Jesse cackles. “Maybe I should have brought some heating pads too.”

  That’s the last thing we get to say before Brittney takes us through a warm-up that would leave Peter crying for mercy. Her ballet training shows—she has us doing advanced work. Développé. Frappé. And all this time, I thought frappé was a kind of drink.

  “Let’s use the barre,” she says, and waves us over.

  I’ve never done work with a barre. “Am I going to have to put my heels on this? ’Cause I saw it in a movie once, and I’m telling you, I’m not that bendable.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she assures me. “Keep a little distance between you and the barre. Now bring your heels into your body, do a small plié up and lift your right foot so your toes are above your left knee.”

  Even after weeks of practice, first position still hurts my knees.

  Brittney catches the flicker of discomfort that crosses my face. Frowning, she looks down at my feet. “You need to follow the natural turnout of your feet, or else you’ll stress your knees.” She drops into a sitting position and stares at my feet with the intensity of a foot doctor about to diagnose a fungus. “Turn out for me. It should come from pulling up in the thighs and rotating them back.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “That part is pretty integral.”

  I bring my heels together and swivel my toes out.

  “There! Stop! That’s your natural position.”

  “But my feet don’t look as turned out as yours or Jesse’s.”

  “Don’t compare,” she says. “You have to do what’s comfortable for your body or you’ll risk injury.”

  Point taken.

  “Hmm, can you center your weight on your toes? Don’t roll into the inside or outside.”

  I close my eyes, shift my weight to my toes and feel the difference in the way my pelvis shifts. My body seems to lengthen.

  “Okay. Good.” She rises and stands beside me. “Let’s try it again. Hold the barre for balance, plié up, lift your foot…”

  I spring on my toes, lift the other foot and hold the position.

  “Great! Now let go of the barre and balance.”

  Oh boy. My grip releases from the barre, one finger at a time, then hovers a few inches off the wood. I last a split second before my body starts wobbling.

  “Come on, Luc! Get those stabilizing muscles to kick in!”

  “Easy for you to say!” I grab for the barre and shoot her an envious look. It’s like her toes are glued to the floor.

  Jesse’s not as balanced as she is, but he’s more balanced than I am.

  “Let me try again.” This time I don’t try for the move lik
e she says. Instead, I go on tiptoe with my right foot, then slowly lift my left foot so the toes are above my knee. Once I’m sure I’m in position, I let go. I crunch my abs, push my shoulders back. And wobble a little less.

  From there Brittney takes us through a bunch of stretches and positions that involve the barre. Most of the terms go over my head, but I get—and appreciate—what she’s doing. She’s getting me to stretch to increase my flexibility and balance.

  After a half hour we take a quick break to grab some water, and then it’s Jesse’s turn. “For across-the-floor work,” he says, “I’m going to mix up a bunch of styles.”

  “Okay.” I stand by the wall and watch.

  “Start with your left foot, then step. Look at what I’m doing. Step forward and swing your leg in a half circle, dragging the toes a little on the floor. Then do the same with the next foot and make sure you finish with your foot directly in front of your body.”

  “Kind of like the walk models do on the runway,” says Britney, “but keep your hips silent.” I follow along and pretend there’s a steel rod in my spine so my torso stays straight.

  “Right hand to the sky, bend forward, sweep your hand across the floor…”

  My fingers trail against the floor. I feel a surge of pride as I realize my hands can do more than sweep. They can drag against the wood. A few weeks ago, I could barely touch my toes. I grin at my progress, then tune back in to Jesse.

  “Come back to standing, bring the right hand across the body and touch your left hip.”

  “What’s this move called?” I ask.

  Jesse stops and drops his hands. “No, no terminology today. I think that might be part of your problem.”

  “One of your many, many problems,” Brittney adds, giggling.

  “You’re so focused on the vocabulary,” says Jesse, “that you’re forgetting there’s a movement behind it. Maybe if we get you moving without talking steps, choreo or routine it might free you up to dance.”

  It’s a fair argument. “Like in football, instead of saying we’ll do a stutter-step drill, it’s pound your feet, then move where Coach points the ball.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay. It’s not like it’ll hurt my progress.” I point my finger at Brittney and give her a fake glare. “No comments.”