Realizing her new routine is a ploy to lure me away from the ground floor, I blurt out, “I know Nev.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. We’re friends.”
I’m not using her.
I listen to another remarkable chromatic succession. The haunting depth of Nev’s voice chills me. “She has so much talent.”
“Sheisincredibly gifted, but so are you, Angie.”
“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”
Steffi runs the towel over her buzzed hair. “Just stating a fact.”
“So, did you really have a routine to show me, or was it a ruse to get me downstairs?”
“I actually do have something new in the works.”
I trail her downstairs and sit on the bench propped against the wall.
Steffi blasts a Sia song, then positions herself in the center of the room and lets the music flow through her body, possess her. She pressesher fingers together as if in prayer, shoots her arms up, locks her elbows, dips backward, then sucks in her stomach and plunges her upper body forward, curving her neck, her shoulders, her spine. She executes this flow rapidly, successively, to the right, to the left, forward again. Her body moves like a ribbon, seemingly devoid of bones.
When the music fades, I clap. “That was awesome!”
Her flushed skin glistens with sweat. “Want to try it?”
“Sure!” I skip to the middle of the dance floor.
Steffi grins, then runs me through each move without the music. Once I’ve gotten the steps down, she makes me repeat the series, clapping her hands to give me a tempo. When she deems me ready, she hitsPLAY. Keeping my gaze locked on her body, I follow her footwork, shoot my arms in the air, bend, curve, slide, repeat.
The music penetrates my skin, rolls over my flesh. The lights blind me. The floor vanishes from underneath my toes. The exertion burns away my earlier worries. But then the last notes evaporate, and I’m back in my body, back in the dance studio, back to pondering my motivations.
Stupid conscience.
There’s whistling at the bottom of the stairs. Lynn and Nev. Steffi shakes her head, whereas I gape at Nev, at the smile puffing her cheeks, and I think that I somehow put it there. I’m not evil and calculating. Besides, I don’t need Nev to reach Mona. I need mymusicto reach Mona.
I grab a rolled hand towel from the stack Steffi replenishes obsessively. “I heard you practicing. How the heck do you hit those low notes?”
Nev’s face colors with delight.
“You two have completely different ranges.” Maybe it’s because they’ve lived together for so long, but Lynn has the same knee-jerk reaction as Steffi—reassuring me that I’m good. It’s sweet and appreciated, but not what I’m after. “We better get started, Angie. I have a lesson right after yours,” Lynn continues.
I seize my tote and wave to Steffi.
She winks at me.
Nev climbs the basement stairs behind Lynn. She’s traded her pleated blue uniform skirt for a pair of slouchy white track pants.
When we get upstairs, I ask her, “Can you stay a bit longer?”
“Let me go ask Ten.”
“He’s here?”
“He always picks me up.” She flings the front door open, then dashes down the porch stairs, her matchstick legs pumping extra rapidly.
Barely a minute later, she bounds back toward the house. “He said he can wait.”
