Chapter 5: Dance Lesson

The dance instructor had a cane, a silver ponytail, and no interest in our feelings.

We stood in the mirrored studio on Newbury Street.

"Duncan wants a waltz," the instructor said.

"You will each dance once with him, then together, to show sportsmanship," she added.

"Why would we show sportsmanship?" I asked.

"He said the ladies are gracious," the instructor said.

"I'm not gracious," I said. "I'm competitive."

"You will be both," the instructor said, and rapped the floor twice with her cane.

Lydia stood in the middle of the room in her pale-blue practice dress, with her hands folded in front of her.

"I've prepared something," Lydia said.

"Of course you have," I said.

"Gesture 12," Lydia said. "It's a dip."

"No," I said.

"You haven't heard it," Lydia said.

"I heard dip. I'm not being dipped," I said.

"I'm doing the dipping," Lydia said. "You're the dipped one. I have it all worked out."

"Why would I be the dipped one?" I asked.

"Because I'm taller," Lydia said.

That was true, and I did not have a counterargument.

So I put my hand on her shoulder as the instructor showed me, and Lydia put her hand on my back.

Her palm was warm through my shirt.

"One two three," said the instructor. "One two three. Ladies, you are walking, not marching."

"She's marching," Lydia said.

"I'm leading," I said.

"You're leading backward into the piano," Lydia said.

I turned around, and a grand piano stood in the corner with my heel an inch from its leg.

"I knew that," I said.

"Then dip her," the instructor told Lydia. "Now, on the four."

Lydia took a breath and bent me backward, slowly and with care.

For the length of one bar I hung in the air, with her arm under my shoulders and the ceiling swinging above my face.

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