By the time I’ve dropped Candee at the store, and driven to the studio, my back and armpits are wet. Backpack in hand, I get out of the car and make my way to the studio. The walls are adorned with graffiti of various dancing forms in different colors. It takes my breath away.
“Excuse me,” I address the lady at the reception, but she lifts a finger to say “wait” and continues with her conversation. Arms crossed over my midriff, I pace the floor for a few minutes, but her highness is still on the phone.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m here to enroll for the Zumba classes.” I deliberately raise my voice, but she again lifts a finger, signaling me to wait. She laughs at what the other person is saying as she finally takes a form out of the drawer and slides it to me.
“I need two. One for me and one for my friend,” I explain, taking a pen out of my bag and silently thanking Candee for reminding me to bring one because it would have taken this woman another hour to give me a pen.
She distances the phone from her ear and murmurs, “It’s one form for two. Just add the name and required details of your partner.” She gets back to her call.
I look at the form. It asks for name, address, occupation, age, blah, blah, blah, and as she mentioned, there are grids to fill for the partner. Partner? Why would I need a partner for Zumba? Maybe it’s some new style? I scan the form, and yes, it’s written Kizomba in caps at the top—it must be a new form.
As soon as I finish, the receptionist ends her call. “Sorry, that was my boyfriend,” she admits with a shrug. At her mention of a boyfriend, I make a conscious effort to smile as I hand her my form and ID. She scans the form and nods. “This is a nine-week class. Twenty-five dollars per class, but if you want to pay for the nine-week package, it’s two hundred fifteen dollars.”
My mind processes the twenty-five dollars per class. I can afford it, but I’ve been raised by my mom, who doesn’t like wasting money. She’s a woman who keeps track of every penny, and she’s taught me to do the same. “That’s a little expensive,” I chide, and she has the audacity to look shocked.
“The rate is usually thirty dollars per class anywhere else, and for what you get, a two-hundred-fifteen-dollar package is awesome,” she gloats, still maintaining that irritating smile.
I end up paying, badly screwing up number two on Candee’s to-do list: no stupid expenses. Depleted of my savings, I drive back to the store to pick up Candee, reminding myself to look for a part-time job. Even though Dad is going to throw a fit at me working, I don’t want to ask him for money.
Candee gets in the car, and the first thing that comes out of her mouth is, “You won’t freaking believe it, but I just saw my soul mate.”
I glance at her. She’s sporting a huge smile, her cheeks flushed with excitement. The wildness on her face reflects her voice—she saw a pretty boy.
“Greaaaat,” I feign my excitement, and she groans.
“No, you don’t understand. He’s so handsome. I stood behind him in line and that ass, grrrr ... but that’s not all. It’s the long blond hair that hangs slightly above his shoulders and the fierce blue eyes,” she exhales, a dreamy look on her face. “There was a little girl in the line with her mom, and she was crying, so he bought her a chocolate bar and ruffled her hair before leaving.” She sighs, casting a goofy grin. “He is my Chris Hemsworth.”
Now she’s got my attention. “Seriously?”
She nods vigorously.
“Well, you’re doomed. And I hope you don’t see him again,” I joke.
“Shut up. We’re meant to be, and I know it. I’ll see him again.”
I want to break the bubble she’s in. I want to scream and tell her that maybe he has a girlfriend or several, or maybe he’s gay and has several boyfriends and how bad this guy will be for her, but I keep my lips zipped.
“So,” she starts after a few minutes of daydreaming, “you enrolled us?”
“Yeah.” I grab my backpack from the back seat. “It was more expensive than we thought. I paid two hundred fifteen dollars for nine classes.”
“Two hundred fifteen dollars?” she screeches, making my eyes twitch.
“Yeah. It’s a new form of Zumba or something.”
“But still … freaking thieves.”
I remove the receipt and the pass from the backpack and hand it to her.
“GRANDPA’S BALLS!”
My gaze flickers off the road and to the stunned expression on her face. “What?”
“You signed us up for Kizomba,” she says, her voice sounds incredulous.
“Yeah,” I hesitate, but then she shakes her head slowly, and I know I screwed up.
“You don’t know what kizomba is?”
I shake my head.
“It’s dancing. A bit like salsa,” she explains, and my brain freezes. I park the car on the side of the road and process what she just revealed.
Dancing.
“Dammit,” I curse. “We need to go back.”
“No, wait.” She grabs my arm. “It’s just dancing. Not Zumba, but still good for our health.”
I shake my head. “I don’t …” Goodness, how do I explain this to her without sounding like shit? “My dad won’t allow it.” That was the only explanation I could come up with.
“Hello.” She waves her hand in front of my face. “You’re an adult. You don’t need your dad’s permission.”
“It’s not that. My dad hates dancing. He says it’s useless and a waste of time. I come from a family of lawyers, who don’t dance except for weddings or parties, and definitely not sexy salsa,” I clarify, feeling a little awkward. This is the first time I’ve talked about my family, and somehow, I’ve made them sound like snobs.
But apart from that, I know kizumba is not a good idea. Mom wanted to be a dancer, but her father wouldn’t allow it. And after marriage, Dad told her, “Dance is for those who can’t keep their feet on the ground.” I can’t count how many times he’s said that to Mom, chastising her for not having a clear goal. Because Mom’s goal was to be a dancer. But she let go of that dream and stayed in his marriage cage for me and Kane, my brother. Dad made sure Kane and I understood that dancing is a big no-no, in case we decided to follow Mom’s flighty footsteps—this reason, I don’t share with Candee. I keep it to myself.
“You don’t need to tell him,” she suggests with a slight shrug. She’s right. Call it my upbringing, but I can’t overstep the line—I don’t want to lie—and if Dad finds out about this, I don’t even want to think about his reaction.
“No.” Not elaborating further, I reverse the car back to the studio.
***
Back at the reception, the lady is on the phone—again.
“Excuse me,” I call for her attention. She lifts a finger for me to wait, and I don’t even blink. After a minute, I call for her attention again only to be met with her raised index finger. This is a pretty poor service for the price I’ve paid.
“Hellooo?” Candee slaps the table a few times. “Are you getting paid to talk to your boyfriend? If yes, then I’d like to meet the manager because this job seems pretty cool, and I want it too,” she says, deliberately raising her voice.