I shake my head. “Well, just you wait. When I’m lead chip scientist or whatever, pumpkin-spice chips will reign supreme.”
I turn up the volume a little as the announcers talk about their top contenders for first place. A team from Harlem, another from Southern California, one from Miami, and the current title holder, a team out of Savannah, Georgia. I take way too much satisfaction in the fact that Clover City doesn’t even get a brief mention when they discuss possible upsets.
“So they just dance?” asks Mitch. “How do you judge something like that? Like, objectively?”
“Well, there are two major categories: technical ability and artistic presentation. And then in each of those categories, they judge things like technique, difficulty, precision, creativity, use of space, and the elusive energy. Which is actually frustrating as hell.”
We watch a few routines in silence. I glance over to see Mitch’s gaze wandering as he studies a not-at-all-interesting painting of a desert landscape above the television. Yeah, even for someone who’s into dance, this is pretty boring.
I scoot across the cushion that divides us so that I’msitting right next to him. “Okay,” I say, snapping his attention back to me. “See that kick line they’re doing? It’s actually super hard, because I bet they’re all going to land in the splits like a domino effect, but there’s always one girl who’s gotta go and screw the whole thing up.”
We watch as the team on television in their multicolored neon glittering costumes do one last fan kick as each dancer falls into the splits one by one.
“Ow, that does not look comfortable.”
“Anyone can do the splits,” I say. “It’s just about stretching the right muscles.” I point to one girl in the middle as she lands into the splits. “Look. She’s the one who threw them all off. Bye-bye, perfect score.”
“They’re barely off, though!” says Mitch.
“Doesn’t matter. When other teams are perfect, the smallest mistake comes with a big price tag.”
“So anyone can do the splits, huh?”
I chuckle and bounce up from my seat, sliding right down into the splits and then rotating on my hips effortlessly. “Voilà!”
“Whoa. If the whole team is half as limber, I think the Shamrocks might be more athletic than the basketball and football teams combined.”
I throw my hands up. “This is what I’ve been saying for years!”
He nods. “Teach me something.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell yeah!” He stands up and holds a hand out for me, pulling me up from the splits with one quick yank.
“Okay. I’ll teach you how to do those kicks,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No way. I can’t kick that high.”
I shake my head. “Kicking high is impressive, but it’s about kicking in unison.” I start pushing on the coffee table. “Let’s get this out of the way.”
He comes along beside me and helps push the table to the wall.
“Okay!” I take his arm and loop it around the back of my waist. His hand curls around the front of my stomach. My breath hitches.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.” I cross my arm behind his.
He gasps. “I’m ticklish. Embarrassingly ticklish, actually.”
“Note to self.” I smirk. “Okay, so just kick straight out from your hips. We’ll save the fancy fan kicks for later.”
He kicks out clumsily.
“Keep your leg straight,” I say. “But your support leg should be bent a little.”
He tries again.
