Across the Floor

by Natasha Deen

  She raises her hands and shakes her head.

  “Let’s try it.”

  We start again. Strut, hand to heaven, back to hip, spin down into something like a reverse-warrior pose, into a wide second position. I stop dancing.

  So do Brittney and Jesse.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Brittney.

  “It’s in my head,” I say. “I can’t help but name the steps in my head.”

  “I get you,” says Jesse. “It’s like when I was learning French. I’d think of the English sentence, translate it to French and then reverse it when the other person answered. I had to get to the point where I was thinking in French and listening in French.”

  “Maybe we’re going about this all wrong,” says Brittney.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, teaching you to dance. Maybe what we should do is just put on the music and let you dance.”

  That stops my heart. “But I can’t dance.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Maybe we should put on some music and let you move to music.”

  “Uh…”

  Jesse snaps his fingers. “You have warm-up for football, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about football drills to music?” Jesse suggests. “You do those all the time, right?”

  “You mean, like, strike and shed, or reroute and react?”

  He blinks, then laughs. “Okay, I understand your pain when we throw down dance terms. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Show us,” says Brittney.

  “Here?”

  Jesse nods. “Yeah.”

  “I need a tackling sled and a tackling dummy for one, and a ball for the other.”

  “I would forgive you for calling me a dummy and step in,” says Brittney, “but the tackling part is putting me off.”

  “Just pretend.” Jesse waves at me like I’m a stubborn baby bird refusing to fly. “Go ahead and show us.”

  I shrug and nod. First up, the strike and shed. I get into ready stance, pretend I hear the whistle and explode forward. Run. Hard stop. Pretend I hit the sled, then run laterally left, another hard stop, then speed forward and go for the invisible dummy.

  Without stopping for a breath, I run back to the center of the room and get into position again.

  “Wait, wait! That’s perfect—let’s do that move,” Jesse says.

  I stand still. “Okay.”

  Jesse heads over to the dock. “I want you to do what you just did but in slow motion.”

  “What?”

  “Slow motion.”

  “Because…?”

  “Uh-uh! Remember the deal! No questions, and no more crane kicks.”

  “I’m never living down the Karate Kid, am I?” I groan.

  “Not while either one of us or our descendants is alive,” Jesse says with a cackle. “C’mon, bro. Do what you gotta do. Except slow.”

  He turns on the music, and it’s super slow.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “It’s Sade, ‘No Ordinary Love.’ It’ll help you remember to go slow.”

  “It’ll put me to sleep.”

  “Stop wasting time. Football slow.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  It’s crazy hard to run in slow motion, but it’s even harder to ignore the music. I keep time with the slow beats, run, lift my hand to the imaginary tackle. Sidestep, sidestep, again and again, then run forward.

  “Okay, good.” Brittney shuts off the music. “Now this time when you run, drag your feet like someone’s holding your ankles.”

  I do it again, even though it hurts to have the top of my foot slide across the floor.

  “Nice,” says Jesse. “Now, when you do your imaginary push, you’re pushing from your chest out.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, push from the chest up, then hold your hands for a beat or two, reach skyward, then bring it back down…”

  “Oh!” I catch what they’re trying to do. “How about a spin before the lateral runs? Then, instead of high steps for the lateral, I can do—” I cross my right foot over my left, then drag my left foot, kick my right foot behind and drag my left foot again.

  “Nice! Go for it!”

  The Sade music starts again, and I slow my movement, slow my breath. Enjoy the stretch of my hands reaching up. I go on my toes for the spin, then bend my knees and purposely stumble into the horizontal steps.

  Brittney and Jesse clap.

  “One final thing,” says Brittney.

  “Okay, what?”

  “I heard that the song is Sade’s interpretation of ‘The Little Mermaid.’ That in the song, the mermaid gives up everything to be with the prince, but in the end he doesn’t love her back, and she’s forever stuck on land, alone.”

  “Wow, that’s depressing.”

  “I know, right?” Brittney’s eyes are bright with excitement.

  I laugh. “Psycho. Look how gleeful you are about it!”

  She punches my arm. “Focus. What I’m saying is that it’s a great song to play around with emotionally speaking. So do that dance again, but this time pretend you’re the main character in the song. You’ve given up everything for someone who’ll never love you back.”

  I don’t have to pretend. That’s basically what happened to me and my ex-girlfriend. Six months later, it still stings to think of her.

  “I’m going to let the song play all the way through,” says Jesse. “Keep going. Either repeat what you did or start modifying other football drills.”

  I nod. “Uh, I’m a little nervous.”

  “We’ll all do it,” says Brittney. “Improv, right?”

  We each take a corner of the floor, and Jesse cues the music. I go through the strike and shed a couple of times, but as the song progresses and she’s singing that she gave all her love and he took it, I’m back in time, hearing my ex tell me she doesn’t love me anymore.

  Usually when those feelings come, I push them down, pretend they don’t exist. This time I take a deep breath, because I know it’s going to hurt, and let the emotions run through me. When I extend my hands, those emotions make my fingers tremble. They give weight to my roll, they’re the gravity that pulls me back when I leap, and they give flexibility to the arch in my back.

  When the song is done, I’m sweating, and I feel hollow inside. It’s not a bad empty—more like there’s nothing inside because I left it all on the floor. I wipe the sweat from my face and look up to see Jesse and Brittney watching me. “What?” The question comes out like a croak.

  “That was amazing,” says Brittney. “You were raw, and the moves weren’t polished at all, but the emotion—”

  “It was there, and it was awesome,” Jesse says. “You know, when you let go, you’ve got talent.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think Peter’s going to let me run football drills and call it contemporary.”

  “Yeah, but you know, you’re always worried about being good enough,” Jesse says, his expression thoughtful. “I think you proved you are good enough.”

  “With you, it’s all about the practice,” Brittney says. “You did amazing with the drill-dance because it’s in your muscle memory. You just have to rehearse the choreo until it’s embedded in your muscles.”

  Jesse shakes his head. “He’s got the choreo. What he doesn’t have is the confidence.”

  They exchange long looks. Then they look at me.

  Uh-oh.

  Eleven

  “I can’t believe you convinced me to do this,” I grumble as we walk through the metal gates of the park entrance.

  “You know it’s for your own good,” says Jesse.

  “No, I think this is material for you to laugh at me.”

  Jesse stops walking and looks at me, his face serious. “I would never laugh at you for doing something like this.”

  “Yeah,” Brittney agrees. “Dancing is hard work, and performing in front of people can be terrifying. No one will laugh at you.”r />
  Somehow, I doubt it. Maybe I was lightheaded after the workout at Jesse’s, or maybe it was the giddiness of having done something close to actual dance, but when the guys suggested doing the routine at the park, where everyone can see me, I found myself saying yes. Not at first, of course, but somehow—and I still don’t know how—they managed to get me to agree.

  We walk along the tree-lined path. The park sits in the center of downtown, and it’s full of man-made lakes, fountains, picnic spots and foot bridges. And right now, at noon on Saturday afternoon, it’s chock-full of families and groups enjoying the sunshine and warm temperatures.

  I do a quick scan to see if any of my football buddies are around. They’re still buying me leotards and hair gel so I can put my hair into a nice tidy bun. If they’re here, for sure I’m going to get heckled and for sure I’ll forget my steps.

  But they’re not as terrifying as all the people milling about. There’s a bunch of moms with their babies and toddlers. A few families bicycle past. Couples line the benches, and others walk by us with their hands linked. “Let’s do it by the fountain,” says Brittney. “The ground is nice and flat.”

  “I’d rather do the routine on the grass,” I say. “It’ll make it less painful when I fall on my face.” That gets me a shot in the arm.

  Jesse adds words to Brittney’s punch. “Don’t say that.”

  “But what if I screw up or forget a move?”

  “Then do your football-dance thing,” says Jesse. “It’s contemporary dance—it’s fluid and allows for autonomy. Besides, the only people who know the routine are the three of us. Anyone else is going to think you’re doing a solo section.”

  We get to the spot, a grassy area with a big fountain in the middle. Benches border the grass. Off to my left is a group of people doing tai chi, and farther down the grass some junior high kids are playing soccer.

  Brittney casts a critical eye around the area. “Luc, you’re right.”

  “Great,” I say, not bothering to ask what exactly I’m right about. “Let’s go.”

  “No, I mean about doing the routine on the grass.” She points to the right. “Over there looks good.” Not bothering to look back, she heads to the spot and starts to stretch.

  Jesse follows.

  I can’t back out, so I trail behind.

  “Do you remember the warm-up from yesterday?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Okay, let’s do that for ten minutes, then the routine.” He sets down his portable speakers by a tree while Brittney and I fall in line with each other. Jesse stands between us, cues the music and starts. It’s the basic stuff we did last night—head rolls, sweeping our arms up and then down and into a stretch to touch our toes.

  The warm-up doesn’t take away my nerves, but a few minutes in, when I realize most people aren’t watching and don’t care, my anxiety level drops from terrified to highly stressed.

  At the ten-minute mark, Brittney moves us into the routine.

  I gulp some air, take heart from the fact the area is less crowded than before and move into the choreography. The instrumental music for “Conqueror” swells. A soft boom of the drum counts me in.

  Five, six, seven, eight—I step into the routine.

  One, two—

  Rise up on the toes of my left foot, quickly follow with the right. At the same time, I do the marionette wrists, pretend my puppeteer pulls the strings of the right hand, then the left. The pretending helps. My arms are jerky, sharp. I let my hands fall to my face—and accidentally slap myself.

  I ignore the surge of embarrassment at the slipup and remind myself that no one but me knows I messed up. I follow that with a head roll, go into a spin, fall into a side roll. Roll out of it into a slow-motion run. Drop into a crouch, sweep into a standing position, drag my fingers along the ground.

  Bend my knees, sweep my left foot out and into a semicircle as I swing it behind my body. Keep myself in a down position, pivot on my right leg.

  I realize I’m counting. More than counting. I’m doing it out loud. My lips ticking the beats and the steps. I glance over at Jesse, then Brittney, and confirm what I already know—they’re in the zone.

  I stop, waving my arm like a helicopter rotor. “Can we start again?”

  They stop dancing. “Yeah, sure.”

  Jesse resets the music.

  I take my position. Take a breath. Feel the wind against my face. Inhale the smell of summer and sun. Hear the leaves of the trees rustle. Hear the start of the music. Feel the rhythm inside. Jussie Smollett’s voice comes through the speaker, and I pretend I’m him, singing about the endless cycle of life, the victories and defeats. Then I’m in those moments, the first time I saw my ex, the day she said goodbye.

  I keep dancing, and when he gets to the part about being a conqueror, I feel it. It’s in me, the energy of the dance and the music. He’s singing about standing strong, about being authentic and true to myself rather than following the crowd.

  “I am a conqueror,” he sings, and I want to sing along with him.

  I am a conqueror. All the injuries I’ve taken for football, all the cold, rainy mornings when I ran track, playing through the pain of an injury, the feel of an opposing player’s arms around my waist as he tackles me, the feel of his waist in my hands as I drag him into the mud and dirt.

  The song is my life. It’s my theme song. It’s me fighting with Mom and Dad to take dance class and stick with football. It’s me finally learning the steps. It’s all hitting me as the music swells and dips, and even though it’s breaking my heart into a million shining, brilliant pieces, it gives me confidence to make eye contact with one of the people who has stopped to watch.

  He gives me a trembling smile and a thumbs-up.

  I’m dancing, and he’s in a wheelchair.

  But he stays.

  Watches.

  Cheers me on with a smile and a gesture.

  And that’s when I see it.

  Feel it.

  This song isn’t mine—it isn’t my life. It’s everyone’s life. All the people watching, this is their story as well as mine. And I keep going, hitting the beats harder, punching my elbow into the air. I don’t know this guy, but I find myself dancing for him, making my body move in ways his can’t. And it doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know if he even cares that he can’t walk. But I want him to watch me and feel like he’s walking. I want everyone watching to feel like they can fly when they see me dance.

  There’s an energy in the air, a current, and it’s thrumming through me. I’m sweating from the cardio in the dance, the sun beating down on me, the wring of emotion as it twists me and spirals into the crowd.

  But it’s not a spiral—it’s a boomerang. It rockets around the people watching, spotlighting their reactions. They’re connecting with us—with me—because of the dance.

  I never thought I could say so much without ever opening my mouth.

  By the time the song ends, the audience has grown to a group of fifteen. They applaud as the last chord echoes into silence. Jesse and Brittney smile and bow. Me too, but I feel like I should be applauding them. Thanking them for what they’ve given me.

  For me, football has always been a metaphor for war and battle. I run onto the field and I’m a warrior, ready to defeat my foes and grind them to dust. The people who come to watch either cheer for or against me. Like me, they are looking for victory.

  I thought dance would be the same, the audience cheering me on—but it’s not. They’re not rooting for me, they’re rooting with me. In every bend and kick, hop and step, they were connected to me. It was my body that was moving, but it felt like all of our hearts were beating in sync.

  I’ve never felt a high like this before. If the football field is my favorite spot on earth, then I think I just found my second.

  And it’s a dance floor.

  * * *

  Saturday’s moment in the park triggered an inner avalanche, and I spend the rest of the weekend practici
ng in every spare moment. Actually, I find myself making moments for practice. When I grab the broom to sweep the kitchen, I cross the floor with a set of chaînés, or turns, complete with my elbows up and out like I’m holding a beach ball.

  Or when I take out the garbage, I mix pas de bourrée, sauté and jeté. It has Mom laughing and Dad rolling his eyes, but I don’t care. The more I know the steps, the more I can let go and embrace the movement. The showcase is coming up, and I want to get the same reaction from that audience as I did from the people at the park. I’m hooked.

  I can’t wait for Tuesday.

  * * *

  On Monday, I’m up an hour early so I can get in some practice before heading to my first job. It’s for Mrs. Peabody, who lives in a house that looks like it came straight out of the board game Clue. Her backyard is a giant square with trees and circular beds of flowers, and it’s perfect for mowing and dancing.

  Traffic’s light, and when I arrive she’s on her porch, having her morning cup of coffee. I wave hello, then unpack the mower and bags and head to the backyard. At stoplights during the drive, I practiced chest, arm and foot isolations, but before I start mowing-dance practice, I take a couple of minutes to stretch out my legs and hips. Then I turn the mower on and start cutting grass while I practice the routine and run through some of the warm-up exercises.

  I’m so into the movement, how it stretches and lengthens my hamstrings and calves, that I don’t notice the gopher hole…until I step right into it, wrench my ankle and fall. My heart jumps as I grab the mower handle for balance and the entire thing tips back. With visions of the blades slicing and dicing me, my body takes over and does an instinctive twist that saves me from the blades, but my entire left leg takes the force of the fall. There’s a pop in my knee, an answering click in my ankle, and then I’m down on the ground and curling into a ball. The pain is sharp and hot. Have I done the unthinkable? Have I hurt myself so badly I may have ended not only my chance to dance in the showcase, but to play football again?

  Twelve

  It turns out to be just a sprain, but it still messes me up. I have to miss two classes plus work. Even though I can’t dance, I still go to practice and watch and video the class. And since I can’t mow lawns, I spend my work time in the office, fielding calls and helping the staff with paperwork. In my off time, I watch the video and practice modified versions of the choreography.