“I’m spending so much money on you, sending you to college, and this is what you’re doing. Dancing? Tell me, what are you going to do with dancing?” The veins in his neck strain from his shouting.
I hear Mom’s voice. “What happened? Is it Kaci?”
“Did you know about this? I’m sending her to college, and what is she doing? Dancing around, like a schoolgirl?”
“It’s just for fun—”
“I’m not making dancing a career. It’s simply—”
“—for fun …”
They continue taunting each other as I stand here with my phone in hand for more than a minute. “Dad? Mom?” I call out, trying to bring the conversation back, but they don’t hear me. I call them once again, louder this time.
Dad stops mid-shouting and brings his face back to the screen. “Your mom put all of this in your mind, didn’t she?”
Here we go. The blame game has begun. “What does she have to do with any of this?”
“She’s got everything to do with this. She didn’t do anything worthy with her life, and now she’s—”
“Marcus, you’re going too far,” Mom chastises.
“—you need to follow your goal. It’d be wise if you follow the advice of someone who was able to do something worthwhile with his life and not—”
That’s it. How can any man talk about his wife like this?
“Enough, Dad. You want to play the blame game, then let me participate as well. Breaking news, Dad, but giving advice and being controlled like marionettes are two different things.”
Shock slaps his face. “What? I have …”
“Shocked, Dad? You shouldn’t be. First, it was Mom. She had to stop doing the one thing she loved—dancing—because you didn’t approve.”
“Kaci,” Mom whispers her rebuke, but I don’t stop. Guilt strangles my words, but I push past it, speaking what should have been spoken long ago.
“Then, Kane, he’s lucky his business is doing well, or else you’d be reminding him what a waste it was to invest in his dreams, right?”
Stop, Kaci. Just stop.
“And now it’s me. I’ve never danced in my life, Dad, and now, I do. Maybe I’m not good at it, but it doesn’t matter because I like how I feel when I dance. I now know what Mom felt when she danced.” I pause to look at Mom. She’s shaking her head at me. I don’t let that deter me and look back at Dad. “And you snatched that away from her. You snatched the one thing that made her feel free. That made her happy. How could you? When you love someone, you love them the way they are, not the way you want them to be. That’s not love, Dad. There can be no love with conditions.”
A gentle hand gets closer, touching the screen. His eyes turn red as tears hang on his lashes. “Kaci …” His voice, a mere whisper, cracks, and that tears at my heart.
My trembling fingers wipe my cheeks. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, but I needed to say it, and you needed to hear it. You’re a good person, Dad. Don’t make us hate you.”
I end the call.
#FeelingLikeShit
TWELVE
#Tarantism
What was I thinking?
What the hell was I thinking?
I shouldn’t have spoken to him that way. I don’t regret what I’ve told him, but I regret how I told him.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Remi: A playlist? You’re practicing?
With my bangs gripped in my fist, I groan. He didn’t answer my question. I asked him for a kizomba playlist, but instead, he asked two questions of his own. I’m frustrated enough right now. I can’t deal with questions.
Kaci: Something like that. The playlist, please. And is the studio open right now?
After spending more than an hour cooling my anger and crying my guilt in the shower, I knew I needed to get out of here. Not bothering with proper dance clothes, I slip on a white crop top, black leggings, and my sneakers. Usually, after having a conversation like this with Dad, I’d grab my iPod and earbuds and go for a run, but today, I need to dance, and I want to dance, alone, where I don’t have to think about who is watching.
Each time I’ve attended the dance class, there was a voice in my head reminding me I wasn’t alone, and my body couldn’t move freely. I was always conscious of my moves, but today, I want to lose myself in the music and feel. I want the joy, the ecstasy while dancing.
Beep—I open the text to find a “Yes” and a list of songs from Remi. I feed them into my phone, grab my bag, and rush to the door.
“Where are you going?” Candee asks, a bobby pin dangling from her lips as her fingers roll up a section of her hair in her rollers.
“To the studio. Don’t wait for me, I might be late,” I say before closing the door. I take the stairs by two and run to my car.
When I reach the studio, it’s empty, but the lights are on. Maybe the custodian hasn’t gone home yet? I drop my bag on the chair, connect my phone to the sound system, and open the playlist Remi shared. I click on the first one, and the music hits the wall. Tightening my ponytail, I walk to the center of the room. Remi’s instructions echo in my head, and I close my eyes.
The song starts, but my body refuses to move—it’s stuck. Frustration grabs at me. I rub my hands over my face. I breathe in slowly and breathe out a long breath.
When it’s time to fly, you spread those wings wide, and you soar. YOU SOAR!
My eyes snap open, and I force myself to move.
Since our class is a beginner’s class, I only know a limited number of steps and moves, but the instructions of Remi and Layla keep playing in my head, and I keep moving. At first, my movements are awkward, but I don’t let that deter me, and my body starts flowing with the music. I keep my hands up to the level of my boobs as if I’m holding someone and my gaze is on my steps as I dance.
My feet follow the beat, my waist sways with the rhythm, and I let my mind wander between the music notes—forgetting everything that doesn’t matter—letting go of every barrier that’s holding me back. Tears of incredulity spring from the corners of my eyes and wash away.
Every fiber of my body feels the energy of the music seeping inside me. And I feel it. I feel all the feathers Mom sewed in my wings. They start to flap. With each move, each step, they flap faster, flying me higher. All the words Dad said, all the doubts I had about myself, get lost beneath the sound of the music filling me.
And right there, between the music, I feel him—Remi.
My back collides with a warm chest, sending a shiver running down my spine. Realizing I’m pressed too close to him, my toes curl, and I make a conscious effort to keep my knees straight so that I don’t embarrass myself and melt to the ground.
“Kaci …” he whispers, bringing his hand to the back of my neck, teasing the hair there with his fingers. “Kaci, darling, some people spend their lives watching others dance, and some dance, leaving others watching. Who are you, Kaci?” he asks, his voice so close that I can feel his breath heating the tips of my ears.
The song ends, and we keep still.
Remi’s fingertip slides up and down the side of my neck slope, making my voice thicker when I speak. “I’m the one who dances and leaves others watching,” I confess, feeling bolder. Then, the second song begins. The music. The beat. It feels hot. It feels dirty.