Chapter 4 The Away Connection
THE AWAY CONNECTION
“Are you here for a lesson?”
Unfortunately, I probably am, I think as I nod at the young woman with bright pink hair who is seated at a desk in front of me.
Manhattan Swing Workshop is one of the larger swing-dancing schools in New York City, and they offer a lot of introductory one-hour classes designed to convince people to try out the various swing dance styles they teach.
On the first Saturday of every month, one of those classes is taught by Oliver MacCormack.
The class description promises to teach newcomers the basic steps of West Coast Swing, including right and left-hand passes and a sugar push and sugar-tuck (I’m dying to know what those are), all in an hour.
For most people, this one-hour class is a way to decide whether to sign up for one of the studio’s four-week classes, which start at the beginning of the month…but in my case, it’s a way to attempt to throw myself back into Ollie’s path, where he probably doesn’t want me.
‘No partner required!’ was what the website claimed—but I can already tell, as I wait outside the classroom door, that several people are here with their significant others.
There are several cheerful young women clutching the hands of much less enthusiastic young men, two gay couples joking with each other, and a few single women like me, staring at our cell phones and trying to look like we’re not here to steal anyone’s man.
“Yeah, totally same for us,” I hear one of the young women say to another as the gorgeous twenty-somethings admire each other’s engagement rings. “I saw a video, and I was like, ‘Okay, we are not learning the waltz. I want our first dance to be to Disturbia by Rihanna.’”
I try not to smile. Some part of me wishes I was twenty-five again and capable of unironically choosing a song about dark torment as the first dance with my new husband. Is it even a wedding if you don’t hint at your bedroom fetishes in front of your new in-laws?
“We’re doing All of Me by John Legend,” replies her new best friend, searching on her phone for a video of the dance that she’s hoping to copy.
I text my sister: abby what the hell am I doing here?
She was the one who convinced me to hire a babysitter in the middle of a Saturday afternoon so I could throw myself on Ollie’s mercy. She writes back a moment later: you’re humiliating yourself to woo him back. worked for me!
Abby claims she fell in love with her fiancé over improv comedy, but I’ve never quite believed her. In her case, I think her fiancé liked her from the start and invited her to his improv group as a way to spend more time with her, which is exactly the opposite of what I’m attempting.
The elevator doors swoosh open, and I contemplate whether I can leap the fifteen feet and jump inside before they close again.
Just as I decide that I can probably make it, the classroom door swings wide and a stream of dancers pile out from an earlier class, tired and smiling.
They have the comfortable optimism of an advanced class, and they are chatting like they all know each other.
They seem to have gotten a fairly intense workout, too, judging by the glow on their foreheads and the sweat stains on some t-shirts.
I mentally sigh as I follow our intro group inside the room, where a tiny female teacher is shoving her stuff into a giant tote bag as she prepares to leave.
I stand awkwardly near the door, waiting for Ollie to come in so I can give him my little speech and ask him if it’s okay to stay.
He walks inside a moment later, wearing soft linen pants and a simple grey t-shirt.
He doesn’t even notice me as he greets the other teacher with a quick hug.
The woman is slender and gorgeous, and they seem to know each other very well.
I feel a brief, futile flash of jealousy like I’m a freshman in high school watching my senior crush chat with a cheerleader across the cafeteria.
Suddenly, I can’t seem to find the courage to approach him with my weak apology speech in front of the twenty people who are quietly standing around waiting for class to start. I should just leave now.
“Welcome!” Ollie says cheerfully, glancing down at his phone like he’s trying to connect it to the classroom speakers.
“Give me a second and we’ll get started.
I need followers to get into a circle facing the outside of the room, and leaders to get in a circle facing your partners.
If you’re new to partner dances, you may want to know that followers are traditionally the women and leaders are traditionally the men, but it is entirely up to you.
If you like being the one to make the decisions, feel free to learn the leader role. And don’t worry if you don’t have a…”
His eyes meet mine, and he stops for a second before continuing. I can’t read anything in his expression aside from surprise.
“Don’t worry if you don’t have a partner,” he continues, with raised eyebrows, staring straight at me. “We will be switching in a rotating pattern.”
The young woman with the Rihanna wedding plans groans audibly.
“And if you came here as a couple,” Ollie continues in a placid voice, his eyes swinging to her, “I understand why you may not want to switch partners, but trust me, it is very healthy to do so. It makes you a much better dancer because you learn different styles of leading and following, and you don’t fall into bad habits by relying on each other too much.
Most importantly, it prevents a lot of fights.
” Ollie gives the young woman a charming smile, then redirects it around the room to a few other couples.
“Every time I see a couple starting to argue about which one of them is doing something wrong, we rotate, and they learn that it was both of them.” There are a few chuckles.
“Or else, by the time they’ve rotated back to their partner, they are so overjoyed to see them again that all mistakes are forgiven. ”
Another chuckle ripples across the room, and the various couples look somewhat appeased.
“Alright, so let’s get into those circles, then. Followers, stand in the middle of the room and face outwards.”
As he gives more instructions, I gather my courage and step into the inner circle with the rest of the followers. Ollie walks right up and stands in front of me, meeting my gaze. There is no point in trying to play innocent; his name was prominently displayed on the sign-up link for the class.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hi.” We’re back to our favorite form of conversation. “I um… wanted to learn West Coast Swing…” I begin. My mind is trying to recall the charming speech that I had planned and coming up totally blank. “And I thought…maybe I messed things up a bit? With you?”
“Hmm.” A slow smile is growing on his face. There is a long pause. He opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it again. He gives me an irritatingly smug grin and walks to the middle of the room.
“Okay, everyone,” he says, his voice sounding faintly amused, “let’s get started.
I’m going to explain first about the concept of connection.
Connection is about the handhold, the grip that you have on your partner.
There are different ways for a couple to be connected in West Coast Swing, and the first one you’re going to learn is the away connection.
Leaders, I want you to put your right arm in front of you, with one finger out, like you’re pointing a gun.
And the followers should rest your fingers on the leader’s hand.
And for those followers without a partner… ”
He looks right at me, damn him.
“If you don’t have anyone to dance with yet,” he says with a smirk, “just put out your hand and pretend.”
I’m glaring at him by now. He is having way too much fun at my expense.
I spend the next couple of minutes doing a somewhat humiliating ‘air guitar’ version of pretending to have a dance partner, tapping my feet in place as I count under my breath .
No music is playing yet, which makes it all feel even more awkward.
Ollie is calling out counts from the middle of the room and occasionally lining up with the rest of the leaders to show them how to do something, then lining up with the followers to do the same.
He doesn’t return to me once, nor even glance in my direction.
He is very good at teaching, and I remember the ‘Take Your Child to Work’ Day event.
I never would have imagined that his charm with the kids came from teaching unsteady adults how to do romantically charged dance moves.
Soon enough, the leaders all rotate, and now I am dancing with a deeply earnest young man with sandy blond hair whose eyebrows are knitted together in fierce concentration as he tries desperately not to step on my foot. And then he does so. And then he does so again.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s fine!” I say brightly.
I genuinely don’t mind; I recognize him as the fiancé of the Rihanna-loving bride.
I spent the last few minutes listening to her giving him an earful, so I’m rooting for him to sort out his toe-stepping problems before he works his way around the circle and back to her.
I notice his bride-to-be giving me a vaguely insulting once-over, like she is assessing whether I’m a devious homewrecker, and then I watch her mentally dismiss me, which is somehow even more insulting.
After a moment, we both start counting out loud to ourselves. It’s a relief to be dancing with someone who is as clueless as I am.
“I think I’m getting it!” the young man says with a smile and then steps on my foot again.
“Okay. Time to rotate!” comes Ollie’s voice.