12 Dancing queen

Date = 5 November

Place = San Francisco (Stanford) and San Jose (Santana Row)

POV - Melaena

“My brother was released from hospital this morning —” I break off and shake my head. Not quite right. I tighten my grip on the backpack I’m hugging tightly to my chest.

“I fell my ass off right in front of one of the hottest men in the world, who just happens to be the dog trainer of the team —” Nope, even worse.

“Prof, have I told you that you’re my most favorite —” No one likes a suck-up. Even if it’s the truth. Anne Jones, a lady in her fifties with the language skills of a 16-year-old, and the scorn of Dolores Umbridge when you get on her wrong side, really is my favorite professor.

Why am I so tense? I was only 10 minutes late for class. I’m sure she’s not going to let me write out ‘I should not be late’ a hundred times with a magical quail. I rub my knuckles in anticipation, clear my throat, and knock on the door.

“Come in!”

I slowly open the door a few inches and peep around it. She’s on the phone and gestures for me to come in. Like a skimpy mouse, I pootle to the pink coach and sit my ass on the very end of it.

“I told you I have it under control.” She rolls her eyes, not at me but at the person on the other side of the phone.

“I already have someone in mind.” She pulls a skewed face. I try to be as still as possible.

“I know they have to win.” A different skewed face.

“Yeah, I know it was my fault. I will fix it.” A third face.

“Listen, I’ll talk to you later, got a student with me.” Face four.

“Bye.” She puts down the landline, a little hard, folds her arms on top of her desk, and eyeballs me.

“I can explain, my brother got stabbed by this crazy stalker that wants revenge and he came out of the hospital … and his twin … my brother’s not the stalker’s … is sulking because he feels guilty because he wasn’t stabbed and then I got stuck in traffic and I ran to class and miss a step and fell on my ass in front of a very beautiful man who just happens to be the trainer of my puppy group class —”

“Stop,” she interrupts, “Please.” I shut my hub and rub my hands together.

“Do you have a magic feather that carves words on my hands as I write?” She pops her eyes and tilts her head.

“Are you on drugs or just fucking in love?” She now pulls on a frown. I’m back from insanity.

“Huh?”

“People go crazy when they’re in love … and you sound a little as if you have your head in the clouds.” Yeah, that’s a good question — where is my head? Even better, what happened to my brain? I blame it all on him. Again, as if it was nothing, he turned my world upside down. I blame it on D too.

I take a deep breath and decide to stop making a fool of myself.

“I’m sorry I was late. It won’t happen again.” Well, knowing myself it most likely will happen a few more times.

“I don’t care about you being late.” Huh?

“Why am I here then?”

“Because I need something from you.” I can’t think of a single thing my professor could ever want from me. “Do you still dance?” Now I’m stunned. Not at all what I expected.

She can probably see the confusion on my face cause she quickly adds: “I saw in your file … you were pretty good.” I was, but that was a while back. When I was still in school. Okay, maybe not a while … a year or three.

“No, I stopped in my junior year. Yes, I guess I was not bad.” I answer each of her questions.

“Fantastic. I have a little proposition for you.” I move even more to the edge of the sofa.

“My daughter’s dance class needs a new instructor. One that will take them to the top.” I can see where this is going. And darn, I didn’t even know she was married, now I learn she has a kid … maybe kids.

“What happened to their old teacher?” At that, she rolls her lips together and breaks eye contact. Not good.

“One of the mothers got a little heated during a lesson and threw the teacher with a shoe and now she’s out of action for 6 weeks and the competition is coming up.”

“She got taken out by a shoe?” At the thought, a half-neurotic giggle bubbles up, but I manage to swallow it. That must have been one heck of a throw.

“No,” Anne says sternly, “The shoe missed, but while dodging it she fell off the stage and broke her leg.” Right, that makes much more sense. But it doesn’t cancel the fact that the kids belong to killer tendency mothers. And I already have a killer stalker on my case.

“Listen,” she moves slightly forward in her chair, “We want them to compete in the Nationals. And you have the skills to take them there. They need to win.” First, I want to tell her that dancing should be fun, not about winning competitions. And then I wonder what will happen to the teacher if they get second place.

Ann frowns. “Please,” she begs, her eyes pleading. What the heck? I have nothing to lose and it could be fun. A distraction. And maybe I won’t need to worry about being a little late for class on the odd occasion.

“Okay,” I pull out the word, trying to rebuff my bearings.

“Great!” Her face lights up and she claps her hands.

“But I need to bring my friend. She’s the reason I always won.”

“Okay. Does she dance too?”

“A little … she has a weak ankle … but she’s a great choreographer.”

She nods and smiles at me as if we share the secret of eternal youth between us. I’m just glad I didn’t have to write out anything. Or didn’t get hit by a shoe.

My phone vibrates silently in my hand and I peek at the screen.

D Stalker: Digging the dancing queen!

How the hell does he know so soon? I quickly look around the room — it’s not that big that he can be hiding somewhere in here. There is only one door — the one I entered through. Through the thin slit at the bottom of the door, I notice a shadow move. Someone eavesdropped.

I jump from the sofa and throw open the door. The hall is filled with students, none of which looks suspiciously like a D. And what does a D look like I wonder to myself.

“You in a hurry?” Anne asks with a chuckle. “Or is it part of the love craze?” I bite my lip and close the door.

“Remember the stalker I talked about that stabbed my brother?” Her eyes go wide.

“He’s for real?” Guilt is written all over her face. She didn’t believe me.

“Yeah, and somehow the creep seems to know exactly what I’m doing all of the time. And he sends parcels to my house … chocolates, flowers, even perfume … the exact fragrance I love to wear. It’s creeping me out.” Feels nice to get it off my chest.

“Are the chocolates any good?” She’s trying to cheer me up. “If so you can pass them on.” I might just do that.

Anne talks a bit about training, but after the third time she has to try and grab my attention, she dismisses me saying I must go. I almost run out of her office and back to my car, heart pounding in my chest like a pig being led to slaughter.

I hit the steering wheel a few times with my palms, yelling out loudly, attracting a few glares in my direction from passers-by. I drop my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes. I just need a moment or two to calm myself down.

Knock-knock!

“Fuck!” Startled, my head shoots up when somebody knocks on my window.

Lucinda, a girl in my class, pushes her glasses back and waves pitifully. She’s very nice — dorky, overeager, and naïve but sweet, with dark bob hair and chocolate eyes.

“You okay?” She peeps in when I roll down the window while my heartbeat drops to a normal rhythm.

“Yes, thanks. Are you going home now?” She nods, saying she’s finished for today.

“Can I give you a lift?” A big smile spreads across her face and she gets into the passenger seat. My phone alerts me of another message and I take it anxiously, letting out a relieved sigh when I see who it’s from.

Kiara: I’m late. Meet you at our coffee shop in 30.

I look at the message again and then it strikes me. I’m supposed to meet Kiara to go dress hunting for the upcoming freshman ball. Why, I don’t know, because between us we have a train full of dresses — more hers than mine. But she insisted.

She’s been planning this for months — she’s the leader of the committee organizing the ball — and will never forgive me if I cancel now. And maybe it will distract me from my annoying stalker.

“Do you want to go shopping with me and my friend? We’re getting new dresses for the ball.” It seems as if Lucinda just won the lottery and I take it as a yes.

Mel: C U. Bringing a friend.

“This is so lit.” Lucinda’s dark hair bob around her head and her glasses keep slipping off her nose. Why doesn’t she just get better-fitting ones? I pull out of the parking area and head to my favorite mall in San Jose.

Kiara is already waiting for us, so we get straight to the point, walking to the first high-end dress shop. Kiara finds nothing to her liking.

As we leave shop number four empty-handed, Ilkay phones.

“Hi, Sis, where are you?” My brothers have been keeping tabs on me since they found out about D. And even more so after what happened to Jackson.

“I’m at Santana Row with Kiara. We’re looking for dresses.” I try to sound more excited than I feel. “And you know the bitch is picky when it comes to what she wears.” He laughs knowing it’s the truth.

“Will you be okay driving back alone?”

“We’ll be good, don’t worry.” But I know by now that it’s like saying don’t shine to the sun. He’ll always worry about us. I think it comes with being the eldest and taking responsibility after we lost our parents. And deep inside, I love him for it.

“Okay, stay safe. Love you. And let me know when you’re back home.”

When we enter the fifth shop, I pray to find something my demanding friend would deem appropriate in this little boutique. A very thin guy in a gray suit welcomes us with a fake smile, gesturing with slow feminine hand movements for us to take a seat on a fancy black leather couch.

“So how can I help you today, ladies?” he asks in a monotone voice, his pitch a little higher than expected and his posture upright, prim-and-proper, as if he swallowed a ruler.

“We need sexy high-end dresses for a ball! We need to look dope.” Kiara is on a high and the guy suppresses a real smile while looking us up and down.

“Beautiful, but short. I have something that will work.” He turns from me to Kiara.

“Okay, you look like an African queen, tall, elegant, yes,” as if talking to himself, he moves on.

“Yeah, I have one that will turn you into a princess.” Lucinda looks away for a moment as if she needs to regain herself. Is she feeling insecure? Yeah, Kiara has that effect on a girl. She has everything going for her.

Luckily, I never suffered from low self-esteem. With all the egotistical fat-heads in our house, there was no space for it.

“I would like a high neck with sleeves,” Lucinda then orders.

He grabs onto his chin, contemplating. “Just wait here for one second.”

The man walks to the back and comes back with three gowns. He hands one to each of us, points us in the direction of a curtained-off dressing area, and leaves.

Mine’s a beautiful violet plum in the softest silkiest material — holding it against my cheek is like hugging a cloud.

“Get stripping girls,” Kiara gabs excitedly, kicking off her heels.

I hang the purple dress on a hook and remove my boots and jeans. Then I get rid of my sweater.

“Oh, my word, this thing is exactly my size. How did he know?” Kiara is already squeezed into her bottle-green dress.

“Wow, bitch, you look good,” I say. Lucinda stops to also look at Kiara.

“Real good,” she says, pushing those glasses into place again. She’s standing in her unbuttoned shirt with pink cotton underwear, sporting a boyish figure … a little flat at the top with square hips, but at least she’s got length, just an inch or so shorter than Kiara.

Kiara turns a few times, looking at herself in the mirror. The mermaid dress has a see-through lace top, perfectly showing off all the luscious curves of her model-like body.

Lucinda quickly slips off her shirt, as if she’s shy, and gets into her wine-red A-line halterneck dress with long sleeves. Just like Kiara, she looks her best. The man knows what he’s doing.

Lucinda wipes her hands softly down her sides while staring at her reflection.

“I think we found ourselves some dresses,” she murmurs.

Kiara struts up and down the length of the mirror.

“Now all I need is a date,” she laughs. “And shoes.” I roll my eyes — she’s got hundreds of pairs of shoes.

“You could always ask one of the dickheads.” I throw the purple cloth over my head and let it fall into place. Staring at the image in the mirror I softly suck in my breath — it’s as if it was made especially for me. It fits like a glove, in a good way … a really really good way. Lucinda is right, I found my dress.

“Who wants to go to a dance with one of their frickin crazy cousins,” Kiara scolds with an inhumane snort. Yeah, she’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to go with one of them. I pull the straps over my shoulders.

“Let me get that.” Kiara lace-up my dress at the back — then steps away and whistles.

The bodycon cut with a cowl neckline hugs my slim figure and flatters my curves with silver lace inserts on the sides of my hips. Thin spaghetti straps loop over my shoulders to crisscross over the open back and a slit runs all the way up my left leg to stop just before being indecent — only just. I frickin love it.

“Damn, girl. Now that’s what I call dope,” Kiara hisses. “Snatch on some silver heels and you’re going to break more than a few nuts.” I glare at her through the mirror.

“What? Just saying as I see it.”

“She’s right, your boyfriend’s eyes are going to fall out,” Lucinda adds.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I confess and she pulls a queer face, a strange bode in her eyes. Did I say something wrong?

“Well … she has an asshole on standby and a stalker …” Kiara bids. “But I’ll bet my left pinkie fingernail that she’s going to get hitched to some hunky badboy soon.” Lucinda’s eyebrows almost disappear into her hairline and for a moment I’m scared she might attack us or something — still boding that eerie look in her eyes.

“I swear you’re sniffing coke when I’m not looking,” I scold my friend.

“That’s rude,” she pouts. “And you know you wish I’m right.” Maybe I do a little … especially after that dance.

“Girls, can I come in?” the man asks from the other side of the curtain.

“Yes,” Kiara says while pulling the curtain open.

“O, la-la! You all look DE-VINE,” the man squeaks, putting down the basket in his hand.

“I picked out some extras to go with the dresses,” he points at the basket, “if you want to have a look.” He walks out and closes the curtain behind him. What a strange man.

“Holy fuck,” Kiara swears while unpacking the basket. She holds up a pair of golden heels in her size, red for Lucinda — and some dainty silver wedges in mine.

“I ask again, how the hell does he know?” Apart from the shoes, he also added jewelry, handbags, and lipsticks all a perfect fit to finish off our outfits.

“That’s one man with very good taste,” Kiara says impressed. “Maybe I should ask him to be my date,” she titters.

We pay for everything and walk through the mall to where we’ve parked. My phone lets out a farting sound to alert me of a message.

Stalker D: Nice dress.

Arg! I hate this guy.

“Want to grab some food and drinks at the club?” I ask, not in the mood to go home. But I am in the mood for alcohol. And the only place I can get in without showing my ID is my brothers’ club.

“Sure, I’m not in a hurry,” Lucinda eagerly agrees.

“Got a date, but I’ll see you at home.” Kiara swings into her car with a little wave and drives off. How does she do that? Casual dating?

“How’s your brother doing?” Lucinda asks out of the blue. I’m surprised she even knows I have a brother.

“Oh, he’ll live.” And I’m not sure why but I add, “Broken boys don’t die easily.”