“We will have to do something about clothes,” Fifi says as she scrutinizes us both. “But they are good match height-wise,” she says to Archibald and Maggie. “And both very good-looking. Especially X,” she says, and waggles her eyebrows like some sort of demented cartoon character.
“Fiona, be a dear and don’t undress my grandchild with your eyes,” says Maggie.
“You prefer I should use my hands?” asks Fifi.
Archibald guffaws an actual guffaw.
X cough-laughs into his fist.
To be fair, Maggie kind of walked into that one.
After we’re done laughing, both Archibald and Maggie explain how the competition works. We’ll be competing for the Top Studio Amateur prize in the Nightclub Dance category. Nightclub is made up of five dances: bachata, salsa, West Coast swing, hustle and Argentine tango. Westside Dance Studio, their main competitor, wins the prize every year.
“But not this year,” Maggie says with a determined nod.
They—Archibald and Maggie—touch each other the entire time they’re explaining. A small hand squeeze here, a quick caress to the face there. You can practically see love bubbles floating out of their eyes when they look at each other.
After they’re done, they wish us luck and leave the studio, arms around each other’s waists, laughing about something.
Fifi waits for the door to close before turning to X. “Forty-three years your grandparents have been married, yes?”
“Sounds about right,” he says.
“You live with them. Tell me something: they are so lovey-dovey at home too?”
X nods and laughs. “Never seen anything like it either. They’re the real deal. My pops says they’ve been like that his whole life. They won the love lottery when they found each other.”
I make a note to myself to avoid seeing them kiss at all costs. I don’t want to know how it ends for them.
“Now,” Fifi says, “we get to work, but first we talk about clothes.” She points at X. “What is horrible thing you are wearing?” She looks at him like he’s a boil she wants to lance.
X looks down at himself. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
He’s wearing shorts and another ironic T-shirt (it readsIronic T-shirt).
“You Americans and short pants. I do not understand it.”
He gives me a quick look that asks me to save him. I give him a look that sayssave yourself.“What’s wrong with shorts?” he asks quite reasonably.
“Where I come from, they are for children only. Not ballroom dancing. You do not wear again.”
Then she turns her attention my way and stabs me with her eyes. I’m wearing jeans and a formless Disneyland T-shirt. “I do not know what this hobo outfit is, but will not happen again,” she says.
She positions us so we’re facing the floor-length mirrors. “Today we start with bachata.”
X gives her his full attention. “We’re doing this thing without music?” he asks.
“With those outfits, you two do not deserve music,” she says.
I feel X grinning at me in the mirror, but I ignore him, admiring Fifi’s outfit of the day instead. Today’s asymmetrical skirt is pearl white and made from satin or silk or butter. Her stiltlike heels are scarlet. Her lipstick matches her heels.
Fifi nods at X. “I start with you,” she says. “Then I do your partner and then you dance together.”
“First you watch,” Fifi says to X. She snaps her fingers. “One-two-three-four.” Like she showed me before, she does the basic side-step, but without adding in the hip movement.
X is busy paying attention to Fifi, so I can finally let myself take a good look at him. Nothing much has changed since the last time I saw him. He’s still ridiculously hot, but now that he’s wearing shorts I know he has nice calves too. They’re wide and muscular, with just a modicum of hair. Who even knew that I liked calves?
“Now you try,” Fifi says to X, interrupting my calf musings.
