“You be goin’ to the club, Whit?” Deja asked, smiling all silly.
“None of your business. And this is not the club,” Whit shut them down, shaking her head. “Anyway, we’re gonna learn a different kind of dancing.” She pushed play on the radio. And the music that came out wasn’t . . . it wasn’t classical, but . . .
“Oh, so the track ain’t good enough to be a club, but it is good enough to be a ballroom, huh?” Krystal jabbed.
Ballroom. That’s the kind of music it was. All royal sounding, like we were about to witness a prince and princess have their first dance or something.
“That’s right,” Whit said, stepping back and lifting one arm up and the other arm out as if she was being held by someone. “Now, this is called the waltz.” We all stood there looking at her like she had lost her mind as she lifted onto her tippy-toes and started counting, “One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three,” moving robotically, back, then left, then front, then right, dancing in squares, the violins from the music whining in the background.
“What y’all waiting for?” Whit called out, stepping and sliding, her back stiff as a board.
“We waiting for you to stop,” Krystal said.
“And I’m waiting on y’all to start,” Whit threw right back, one-two-three-ing forward. I glanced over at the track. The other runners were doing their own thing, for the most part. The distance runners were working on pacing, the other eight-hundred runners were running fart licks, working on endurance, and the sprinters, well, specifically, Lu and Ghost, they were looking over at us, smirking. Ugh.
“You serious?” Brit-Brat was asking, already knowing the answer. As a matter of fact, she didn’t even wait for Whit to answer and instead saved herself the frustration by being the trailblazer for the rest of us and getting in position. One arm up as if she was waiting for someone to grab it and arm wrestle her, and the other arm curved as if wrapped around the waist of somebody else. Someone with a rose in their mouth.
Krystal didn’t follow.
Neither did Deja.
But me, I was new, and it didn’t seem like a good idea to pop slick on one of the coaches. So I did what I had to do and became a real-life dance mannequin. As soon as I lifted my arm, I could feel Lu’s and Ghost’s snickers run down my spine, prickly like ice water. I didn’t know if they really were laughing, but I was pretty sure they were. And even if they weren’t, I could feel them thinking about it.
“One-two-three, one-two-three.” Coach Whit was still counting and pacing, ignoring the fact that Deja and Krystal were holding out.
“Just do it,” Brit-Brat groaned at them. “So we can get it over with.”
“I just don’t see what this has to do with running,” Deja said, reluctantly lifting her arms.
“I wanna tell you, but since y’all making me dance alone, I can’t,” Whit said, batting her eyes, laughter just under her tongue.
“Ugh.” Krystal threw herself into a lazy karate stance.
“Very nice. Now ladies, follow me.” And then, back to the one-two-three, one-two-three, except now we were following Whit’s steps. Backward. Left. Forward. Right. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Four-five-six, seven-eight-nine, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, I muttered to myself, betting that this was what the real fart lickers, Lu and Ghost, were saying to each other, their tongues hanging from their mouths like hounds, mimicking us (me) by doing the robot or something. And Aaron was probably saying something like, “You can’t win first place being ballerinas,” even though this wasn’t even ballet. But he was probably right (if he was saying that). I, a second-place winner (loser), couldn’t win first doing this. I didn’t know what kind of training methods Whit had, or what discount aisle Coach found her in, but . . . dancing? Dancing?
“One-two-three, one-two-three. Very nice, girls,” Whit said, all coachy like this was real practice. Then she sideswiped us. “Now, pair up.”
“What?” Krystal stopped. Arms down. Head cocked.
“You always run when the gun goes off, so I know you ain’t deaf, Krystal.” Whit was clearly reaching the end of her patience rope. And I couldn’t blame her. But I also couldn’t blame Krystal for being snappy. This was wack. “Pair up. You’re gonna dance with each other, and you can pout and suck your teeth and whatever else, but if you wanna win as a relay team . . .” Whit stopped dancing, folded her arms across her chest. “It’s your call.”
Well, no surprise here. I wanted to win. I really wanted to win, and straight up, if Whit told me that having my blood cleaned was the way to win, I would go to dialysis just like Ma. Now, I know that ain’t the case. But I’d do it if it was.
I glanced over at Brit-Brat. Nodded. She turned toward me and reached for my hand. “Let’s just get it over with,” she mumbled, facing me but directing her words to her fellow vets.
Krystal and Deja let out loud breathy huffs and positioned themselves in front of each other.
“Now, just like before, but this time guide each other. Trust each other.” Whit took a pause, inhaled and lifted her arms as if she was conducting an orchestra, and started again with the count.
One-two-three.
Me and Brit-Brat took a step back. Back for Brit, forward for me. It was awkward.
“Same leg, same motion, same time,” Whit instructed.
One-two-three.
Me and Brit-Brat moved left. It was a little smoother.
One-two-three.
Forward, which was actually backward for me. Not smooth at all. As a matter of fact, Brit-Brat stepped on my foot. Good thing she’s light. Keep moving.
One-two-three. To the right. Decent.
And on and on, but every time we’d make the step forward (which was my step backward) Brit would crush me. Just squash my feet with hers, until finally I just couldn’t take it no more.
“You think you could watch your feet, Brit?” I said, trying to be as nice as possible. I didn’t want her to think I was coming at her or anything. I didn’t need no drama. But I did need my toes. I mean, who can run with broken feet? When I said it, I braced myself for the quick, sharp tongue-lashing that I usually served up whenever somebody tried me.
“My bad,” Brit-Brat said softly, which I have to admit, threw me for a loop. I guess I shouldn’t have expected her to trip, especially since she was the first person to even give this whole dance thing a chance. “My feet are huge.”
I looked down. Whoa. When most people say that, well, first of all, I’m only used to them being boys. Boys around Barnaby Terrace like David Hunter, who at ten years old wore a size ten shoe. My mother said he had feet like rowboats. And if that was the case, then Brit-Brat had yachts. How you even run with those things? I wanted to say.
“It’s cool,” is what I actually said.
One-two-three.
But it wasn’t cool, because it kept happening. She would try to move them to the side, but they just . . . were everywhere. EVERYWHERE.
One-two-three.