So, so ready.
“Yes,” I say at a completely unnecessary volume.
Mom rubs my shoulder and leans in close. “I don’t remember him being this cute,” she whispers.
I shush her and sneak a glance at X’s face, hoping he didn’t hear her.
Mom gives me a hug and a kiss and wishes us luck before taking off to meet Archibald and Maggie and Fifi upstairs.
“Let’s scope out the competition,” I say.
Since the pros don’t compete until nighttime, the practice room is packed with mostly young amateurs. Per capita, the only other place you can find more sequins or bow ties on teenagers is prom. X and I shuffle along the perimeter until we find a free spot.
“This is wild,” X says as we watch our competition. I look for the couple from Westside Dance that Maggie said would be our main adversary. They’re about our age and very, very obviously in love, given the way they can’t keep their hands off each other. They’ll have no trouble with the “give yourself to each other” part of the Argentine tango.
Finally, one of the organizers gives us the five-minute warning. Dancers for the first heat start heading out.
“We should go up to on-deck,” I tell X, even though we’re in the second of the two heats.
He nods but then doesn’t move. Instead, he cups the back of his head with both hands.
“You’re nervous,” I tease.
“I’m not,” he says.
I reach up and touch his elbow and gently tug his arm back down.
He captures my hand in his and threads his fingers through mine.
By the time we get upstairs, the heat one dancers are already competing in the main ballroom. Bachata music filters out through the closed doors. A few of the other heat two couples dance along with the music.
Thirty minutes later, the heat one dancers file out. They’re sweaty and breathing hard but happy and relieved too. They wish us luck.
And then it’s our turn.
As it turns out, ballroom competitions are not stately affairs. The fans are boisterous and partisan. As soon as we walk into the main ballroom, they start whistling and screaming out the numbers of their favorite dancers.
I hear a few loud calls for twenty-three. X and I scan the audience until we find our little cheering section in the second row on the right. They’re all waving wildly. Except for Fifi. Fifi just gives us a small nod.
“Well, she’s consistent,” X says, laughing.
Up at the mic, the lead judge welcomes us and goes over the rules and the order of dance. Bachata followed by salsa, West Coast swing, Hustle and, finally, Argentine tango. “Have fun, and dance your hearts out,” she tells us.
X and I start off nervous, but by the time we get to West Coast swing, we’ve settled down. As usual, the Argentine tango is our weakest dance.
The song ends. We take our bows and exit the floor.
“You think we did it?” X asks when we’re back downstairs in the practice room.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.
He rubs his chest and pretends to be wounded. “Ouch, my heart,” he says.
Impulsively I press my hand over his heart, feeling the beat under my palm. “Not a thing wrong with your heart,” I say, looking up at him.
It’s not long before an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. “Dancers, please make your way back to the ballroom for results.”
The audience hushes quiet as soon as the lead judge takes the mic. She thanks everyone and says that she wishes we could all move on to the next round. It takes her forever to read the numbers, but finally she gets to ours. We made it to the semifinals.
