The tune is peppy, and after a few short, springy notes, I realize:Music!I’ve missed it so!
Daisy loved music. She hummed and sang and turned anything she could get her hands on into an instrument: a set of spoons, or two sticks on a garbage can lid, or a puff of breath into a glass bottle. Daisywasmusic; when she was here…
My throat tightens. When she was here, Spirit would play a pippy little flute tune when we were together. It followed us about, these happy notes, like the music in a moving picture show. I didn’t realize until just now that I haven’t heard that tune since she died.Daisy was music.
“Stella, go dance,” Pax says with a wink. I can never tell if he’s teasing me orteasingme.
“I don’t dance.”
“You can’t dance, or you don’t dance?”
“I don’t.”
His eyes twinkle. “I don’t believe you. The only people who say theydon’tdance are the ones whocan’tdance.”
“I can. I don’t.”
“Two left feet is what they say.Oi, I can’t dance. I’ve got two left feet.” He says this in a silly, high-pitched accent, and I purse my lips to prevent myself from smiling.
“My feet are fine.”
“So you hate music, then. A disdain for music and mirth. Killjoy.” He’s rather enjoying this.
“No, I—”
“Nirav,” Pax shouts to the dancing boy. “Stella here says she does not dance. Do we believe her?”
Nirav grabs my hand and starts dancing a jig. He grins at me and tugs,Come on!I hesitate, very conscious of Pax standing next to me, watching. But I shrug that off and join Nirav: Music!
Nirav and I leap and twirl, and the monkey points at us and screeches, which makes us laugh. I am soon gasping for breath. Music! This feels like a winding back of time. We kick and dip and sway. Our very own dance party, here on the sidewalk, in the shadow of the rumbling el. Spirit shows me twinkling lights and confetti—a true party.
Pax jimmies a bit, too, his long and lean body imbued with this tune. “May I have the next dance?” His silver eyes appear almost lit from within, and his grin is salty.
I cock my head at him. “I believe my dance card is full,” I say, swinging my hand, clasped in Nirav’s.
Pax narrows his eyes and pretends to glare at Nirav. “You steal all the pretty girls.”
Pretty? My core muscles clench.
Nirav chuckles silently but releases my hand and bows deeply, gesturing at me, then Pax.Go right ahead. Why does this young teen trust Pax so much?
Pax steps forward, hand extended, eyebrow arched. “May I?”
The organ grinder slows the music. I swallow hard and nod. Pax takes my right hand and wraps his other arm around my back.
The sensation of his warm hand on the small of my back—snick! The tumblers of the lock fall into place and unlock something undefinable. Something scary and worrying.
Is that a Spirit message?
Pax glides around the sidewalk in a smooth and practiced waltz. I am awkward and a bit stumbly at first, not because of my lack of grace, but because Pax’s hand on my waist stuns me to my core. But as we drift, I recall my dance lessons from Daisy:onetwoTHREE-onetwoTHREE-onetwoTHREE—that’s it, Stella! You’re a natural!
It is a memory, not her voice, but I am glad for it nonetheless.
We float together to the music, Pax and I. My whole body is alert, and the music wraps around us and lifts us and we soar. Timeless and suspended, we drift.
If Daisy was music, is Pax… the dance?
I am allowing myself this moment of joy, and Pax tilts his head at me. His features are truly breathtaking: his dark hair and olive skin, his silver-green eyes. Spirit gives me a flash of a marble statue, a bust carved from pure white stone. I realize the meaning: each muscle, each cord is strong and lean and sinewy, but his eyes are so clear, they are almost translucent, as are the eyes in those masterpieces. It’s not frightening, but it makes me wonder if Pax sees the world in a way that I don’t. Calculating and precise.
