Chapter 7 Footwork
FOOTWORK
It turns out that the most convenient time for Ollie and me to have our next date will be on a Saturday afternoon when Hannah is at a four-hour-long ninth birthday party for her friend Nina.
Nina’s parents are the kind of Brooklyn monsters who joyfully turn their kid’s birthday parties into gala affairs involving rented bouncy castles and a private frozen yogurt truck, leaving the rest of us parents looking like peasants when we buy our kids sheet cakes to serve in the playground.
The timing will keep Hannah from feeling jealous of my date, though…
plus my Saturday plan with Ollie means that I won’t be busy Friday night, which—as Jody points out to me via text message—means that I have no good excuse not to turn up at the weekly ‘open social’ session being held at our dance school on Friday evenings.
I don’t know what I’m expecting when I get to Manhattan Swing on Friday night: a classroom environment, a workshop, a club…
What it feels like instead is a junior high dance: a few single people clustered around the sides of the room nervously and lots of couples in the center of the room trying out moves that they don’t fully understand yet.
The event is held in the largest classroom at the studio, in a huge room with mirrors on one wall and disco balls spinning overhead.
No one is dressed up, really; there are lots of jeans and t-shirts, and a few fancier outfits from folks who are presumably beginning their evening with awkward footwork practice before continuing on to the rest of their Friday plans.
After my gaze swings across the two dozen couples on the dance floor, I am relieved to spot Helen and Jody against a wall, chatting.
If I didn’t have Jody here, I might not find anyone to dance with.
Our regular teacher, Maria, is helping to run the evening, and she gives everyone a quick five-minute lesson at the start of the night: a discussion of ‘the whip,’ one of the more common West Coast moves, and then three different variations on the whip—only one of which I am likely to remember.
Class works that way for me a lot of the time; a lesson starts out slow, and I feel pretty confident about how I’m doing, but by the end, the instructors are giving us ‘next level’ challenges that only about five percent of the class (that five percent being Jody) manages to keep up with.
As the music starts and the lights are dimmed further, I spot our young blond friend Ben walking in, looking a little awkward without his fiancée. I wave him over.
“Paige is doing her bachelorette weekend,” he explains. “Even though we’re still a few weeks out from the wedding, her sister has a baby due soon, so we scheduled it around that.”
“Vegas or Atlantic City?” Jody asks.
“Nashville.”
“Of course,” Jody drawls. “Please tell me there’s an Elvis stripper on the agenda.”
“I didn’t ask. I just hope it calms her down,” Ben mutters. “It’s still five weeks to the wedding and she’s so stressed all the time.”
“Nothing calms someone down like a good hangover,” I reply. “Come on. Do you want to dance with me?”
Ben nods a little bashfully and then puts out his hand.
He has mercifully moved past his stepping-on-toes phase but is still visibly counting off steps.
It’s always relaxing to dance with him because there’s no pressure to look smooth.
I get just as confused as he does during his attempt to lead me through a turn and we both debate the different hand positions for ‘inside turns’ and ‘outside turns’ before consulting with Jody, who explains to us that we are both doing it wrong and teaches us the right way.
Then I take a turn dancing with Jody, whose confidence continues to make her the strongest leader I’ve danced with aside from our instructors.
While we try out the various moves from class, she mentions that she has her eye on a different follower, Téa, whom she met in an East Coast Swing class and who is now also learning West Coast. She points her out to me: a young woman with lavender hair who has the sweet, dreamy look of someone who talks about vibes and crystals.
As soon as we’ve stopped dancing, I command Jody to cross the room and make her move, and Jody rolls her eyes but reluctantly agrees.
I spot Helen dancing with one of the young men from our intro class while his wife watches from the sidelines; they are one of the married couples, and they seem much more relaxed than the engaged couples whenever they have to split up.
The husband, Tim, joked with me about it during our lesson.
(“When you’re engaged, you’re worried someone will steal your fiancée, and when you’re married, you’re hoping they give you a break.
”) Ben dances with a pretty young woman with light brown skin and long braids who appears to be a few months ahead of him in experience level but cheerfully smiles through his attempts to lead her through various entry-level moves.
The leader/follower relationship always seems particularly ironic when it’s only the follower who knows what they’re doing.
I take a few moments to watch the really experienced couples, seeing if I can pick up any tricks, and that is when I catch sight of a woman who is exactly what I hope to be someday: confident, creative, adding her own little spin to steps.
She is very pretty and very blonde, with a familiar face that makes me wonder if I’ve seen her in a movie.
I keep an eye on her during the next couple of dances as she takes turns with various leaders.
I wonder if she’s a teacher or just stopping by to get some practice in.
“I want to be like her when I grow up,” I joke to Helen when she and Jody return to our corner.
“Everyone wants to be like her,” Helen replies. “She’s a champion-level dancer.”
“Do you know her? Who is she?”
Jody opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything, our instructor, Maria, stops the music.
“Folks, we have a special treat!” Maria calls out. “Eliana Macri is back in New York, and she is going to give us a special guest demonstration on follower footwork at the end of the evening, so be sure you stick around because that is taking place at exactly nine p.m.”
My breathing becomes a little more shallow. No wonder the blonde woman has a familiar face. She is Ollie’s old partner, and I’ve seen her in videos with him, back when her hair was shorter and three shades closer to mousy brown.
“She’s ranked like, fourth in the country,” Jody murmurs to us.
I find my voice. “She used to dance with Ollie, right?” My voice sounds more high-pitched than usual, and Jody gives me a sharp glance.
“She may be again,” Helen says blithely. “Now that she’s back in town.”
There are a million reasons why I should stick around for Eliana’s ‘follower footwork’ lesson, but I use my babysitter as an excuse and head home, trying not to panic as I ponder the return of the woman who broke his heart.
I’ll be seeing Ollie tomorrow for our picnic at the bandshell in Central Park, where we are supposed to hang out and try some dancing to a big band show. If he is planning on being a dance partner with Eliana again, he’ll probably tell me, won’t he? My heart lurches a little at the thought.
After I get home and tuck Hannah into bed, I spend the evening torturing myself by watching old YouTube videos of Eliana and Ollie.
She is incredible, perfectly matching his elegant moves step for step, but I’m not really watching her.
I’m watching his face. In the videos, he looks at her like he is madly in love.
Then I watch some videos of Eliana in various competitions over the last few years dancing with Connor Yung. They have good chemistry, too. There is even a video of them placing third at a huge swing dancing competition in Barcelona only six weeks ago.
What happened there?
I wake up in the morning to a text from Nina’s mother, the host of the elaborate birthday party that Hannah was supposed to go to today.
Hey everyone so nina woke up with a fever so we’re going to have to postpone the party so sorry
I write her back an appropriately sympathetic response; it has sometimes been my turn to have my kid pick up something in the petri dish of New York City public schools.
Then I start to text Ollie and sigh. I guess he really is learning the realities of dating a single mom.
I explain the situation in as few words as possible, trying to make myself sound wryly amused instead of deeply frustrated.
I send the message and wait, giving him a chance to formulate a polite reply.
While I am waiting, I get another text, this one from the NYC transit system. Apparently, the subway line leading from our Brooklyn neighborhood into Manhattan is temporarily down, so we probably wouldn’t have been able to make it to Central Park today anyway.
No subway either, so I guess this is fate, I text Ollie.
My phone buzzes a few seconds later. Can I call you right now?
“So here’s what I’m thinking,” he says when I pick up. “It’s an outdoor picnic environment. There are playgrounds nearby. Is there a reason we can’t take Hannah with us?”
I sigh. “It wouldn’t be a date,” I say, “which is fine by me, but you need to be aware that as soon as my kid is there, the whole day will be about keeping her entertained.”
“I’m okay with that. I like your kid.” I try not to let myself react to that. “And we won’t say we’re dating, obviously,” he goes on. “We can say we’re work friends.”
“We don’t have an easy way to get there,” I reply.
“I could pick you up in my car.”
A car? He’s a lawyer, so I shouldn’t be totally shocked, but I forgot that people had those in New York. “You can’t just drive to Brooklyn and pick us up in your car to go to Manhattan. Where would we even park?”
“In the worst-case scenario, my lot isn’t that far away from Central Park. I have a monthly spot near my building.”