It’s my syndesmosis, I almost said, but then you put your hands on my hips and my breath caught in my throat.
I wondered if you could tell that I sometimes thought about kissing you. That was a new thing, just a week or two old. It had started during a rehearsal, the day we’d practiced the adagio. Specifically, this one part of the adagio that was sort of like a slightly more chaste version of the scene in Dirty Dancing when Johnny comes up behind Baby and runs his fingers down her arm. You had just spun me in a pirouette, and your right arm encircled my waist and pulled me into you, so close I could feel your breath hot on my neck. Then I leaned right and turned my face toward yours before breaking away, and in that split second when our eyes locked, something happened. I forgot we were in a fluorescent-lit studio with Ms. Adair and Mr. Stratechuck six feet away, because it felt like we were alone somewhere in the dark, about to do something we couldn’t take back. I forgot you were the gangly boy I met when I was fourteen, because I could feel the stubble on your chin grazing my upturned cheek, and the muscles in your arms flexing against me, and suddenly I was acutely aware of parts of you I’d never thought much about before, separated from me only by a few thin layers of fabric. I got so flustered I botched a simple chassé, and Ms. Adair told us to take five. I’d gone straight to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face and some sense into my head, and by the time I got back you had been you again, mostly. But I couldn’t shake that moment.
“Loosen up,” you said, shaking me gently, and I snapped back to reality.
“Look, if you move your hips too far left, you’ll throw your whole balance off. We’ve got to practice having you lean on me without looking like you’re leaning.”
“So, what?” I asked, “We’re going to be doing our own rehearsals outside of rehearsal?”
“Unless you’ve got something better to do.” You moved behind me, repositioning your hands gently on my waist and shifting me over, lifting me ever so slightly.
“No,” I laughed. “I just don’t know how you’re going to manage to spot me from halfway across the room. You can’t hold me up the whole time.”
“I mean . . .” You clasped my hand and guided me to put more of my weight into your palm. I could feel your pulse racing under the skin. “Basilio is in love with Kitri, right, so he’d want to touch her all the time anyway.”
“I guess you’ll just have to pretend to love me, then,” I said, feeling suddenly unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with my feet.
“I guess so,” you said softly.
? ? ?
After rehearsal, you surprised me with a belated birthday cake—Entenmann’s marshmallow-iced devil’s food, my favorite—and we took it to the fountain with two plastic forks just as the sun started to dip down below the skyline. I propped my leg up across your lap.
“This is very high-low culture right here,” I said, licking crumbs off my fingertips while looking up at the twinkling lights of Avery Fisher Hall. The New York City Ballet spring season was about to begin, and a big banner promoting A Midsummer Night’s Dream had replaced Sleeping Beauty on the front of the building. Tourists enjoying the first breath of warmth after the bitter winter were wandering around with their jackets draped over their arms.
“What, you and me?” you asked jokingly, scooping up nearly half the cake in one bite. You swallowed and grinned, a blob of white frosting resting perfectly in the center of your top lip, that part that people call the Cupid’s Bow, because God forbid you should ever kiss someone without thinking about a little, naked cherub sniper. I reached up and wiped it off with my thumb, and your smile faltered for a second.
In every dance movie ever made—and I knew because I’d seen them all at least ten times—the two leads fall in love. That is just a fact of life, like the nitrogen cycle, or that one person who always leans on the pole in a crowded subway car. I wondered if it was because dancing was so physical. If forcing yourself to smile could create happiness, like Ms. Adair claimed, then maybe repeatedly pressing your body against someone else’s could create desire. It seemed logical, but also incredibly inconvenient. What if the person you were dancing with was someone you hated? Or, worse—what if they were one of your best friends?
“What are you thinking about?” you asked. You took another forkful of cake and marched it playfully toward my mouth, but I shook my head. I was already riding a sugar high, if my hammering pulse was any indication.
“College-acceptance letters,” I said quickly. “They should be coming in a few weeks.”
“Right.” You put the fork down and I instantly felt a pang of guilt. I should have said something else, something that didn’t exclude you. My parents were snobs, but I didn’t want to be.
“It’s boring,” I said, trying to backtrack. “I’m not even going, so it’s pointless.”
“No, it’s not. It’s smart to have a backup plan.”