“But not this year,” Maggie says with a determined nod.
They—Archibald and Maggie—touch each other the entire time they’re explaining. A small hand squeeze here, a quick caress to the face there. You can practically see love bubbles floating out of their eyes when they look at each other.
After they’re done, they wish us luck and leave the studio, arms around each other’s waists, laughing about something.
Fifi waits for the door to close before turning to X. “Forty-three years your grandparents have been married, yes?”
“Sounds about right,” he says.
“You live with them. Tell me something: they are so lovey-dovey at home too?”
X nods and laughs. “Never seen anything like it either. They’re the real deal. My pops says they’ve been like that his whole life. They won the love lottery when they found each other.”
I make a note to myself to avoid seeing them kiss at all costs. I don’t want to know how it ends for them.
“Now,” Fifi says, “we get to work, but first we talk about clothes.” She points at X. “What is horrible thing you are wearing?” She looks at him like he’s a boil she wants to lance.
X looks down at himself. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
He’s wearing shorts and another ironic T-shirt (it reads Ironic T-shirt).
“You Americans and short pants. I do not understand it.”
He gives me a quick look that asks me to save him. I give him a look that says save yourself. “What’s wrong with shorts?” he asks quite reasonably.
“Where I come from, they are for children only. Not ballroom dancing. You do not wear again.”
Then she turns her attention my way and stabs me with her eyes. I’m wearing jeans and a formless Disneyland T-shirt. “I do not know what this hobo outfit is, but will not happen again,” she says.
She positions us so we’re facing the floor-length mirrors. “Today we start with bachata.”
X gives her his full attention. “We’re doing this thing without music?” he asks.
“With those outfits, you two do not deserve music,” she says.
I feel X grinning at me in the mirror, but I ignore him, admiring Fifi’s outfit of the day instead. Today’s asymmetrical skirt is pearl white and made from satin or silk or butter. Her stiltlike heels are scarlet. Her lipstick matches her heels.
Fifi nods at X. “I start with you,” she says. “Then I do your partner and then you dance together.”
“First you watch,” Fifi says to X. She snaps her fingers. “One-two-three-four.” Like she showed me before, she does the basic side-step, but without adding in the hip movement.
X is busy paying attention to Fifi, so I can finally let myself take a good look at him. Nothing much has changed since the last time I saw him. He’s still ridiculously hot, but now that he’s wearing shorts I know he has nice calves too. They’re wide and muscular, with just a modicum of hair. Who even knew that I liked calves?
“Now you try,” Fifi says to X, interrupting my calf musings.
His dreads are piled high again, and he rubs his hand over the back of his head. He takes a step, but with his right leg.
“No,” Fifi says. “You start with left. You are lead.”
“Shit. Sorry,” he says, and starts again.
While he practices, Fifi quizzes him about his life. He tells her about his band (X Machine) and about where he’s from (someplace called Lake Elizabeth in upstate New York).
I listen but try to make it look like I’m not listening. It involves a lot of nonchalant stretching.
He does the step a few more times before Fifi finally gives him a nod-sigh. “Good enough for now,” she says, and turns back to face the mirror. “Now I show you hips.” She throws me a look. “Your partner there is not so good at this part.”
She repeats the side step, but this time with the infinity hips.
As soon as X begins to copy her, I drop my eyes back to the hardwood floors. I do not need to see his infinity hips.
“Fine, fine,” Fifi says after a while. “Now you,” she says, pointing at me.
I practice while she watches. Twice she tells me that my hips are “like rusty spring.”
X cough-laughs after each insult. I glare in his general direction.
“Now you try together,” Fifi says finally.
My stomach does a (small, very small) flip at the thought of standing so close to him.
“We dance open frame,” Fifi says, positioning us so we’re facing each other. “If we ever make it to Argentine tango, we do closed frame.” She imbues the “if” with so much overwrought skepticism it sounds like eeeeeeef.
“Now face each other and hold hands at waist level,” she says.
X takes my hands in his.
I immediately take them back. His hands are giant blocks of ice.
“Holy crap,” I say. “Are you actually a corpse? Why are your hands freezing?”
“Shit, sorry!” he says. “I get cold when I’m nervous.” He breathes on his hands and then rubs them together like he’s trying to start a fire.
He holds out his hands again and I take them. They’re not any less cold.
“Okay, now relax your shoulders. They do not belong next to ears,” says Fifi, pressing on X’s collarbone. “You have nice strong neck. Let the people see it.”
Who are these people clamoring to see his neck? I wonder.
She turns to me, and I adjust myself under her scrutiny. My stance is perfect. But I’m holding my body so far away from his, I’m practically in another room.
“What is matter with you?” she asks me. “Is his breath stinky?”
She turns to X. “Open your mouth and breathe for me,” she says.
“No way I’m doing that,” he says to her without taking his eyes off me. “My breath is just fine.”
I can’t decide if it’s basic self-respect or supreme arrogance to assert that your breath is not foul.
Fifi pokes my rib cage until I get closer to him. She adjusts us some more while explaining to X that he needs to be a strong lead.
Now that we’re standing so close, he seems even taller. Which is fine. At least I don’t have to look directly into his eyes. Instead, I look directly into his clavicle. It’s a good word. Clavicle.