Waltz This Way (v1.1) (8 page)

“All while I memorized your pamphlet as if it were the new Bible.”

Max pulled into a parking space and patted Mel on the back. “I’m glad you have a sense of humor. You’ll need it with a bunch of preteen boys who’d rather have lobotomies than learn how to dance.”

Mel looked down at her hands, clutched together in a ball. “I don’t want to dance. How can I expect them to want to?”

“You’ll find it again, honey. I know you will. Someone who danced like you did can’t have lost all of that joy. It’s just buried under a pile of shit that’s become more important— like survival. But dancing was once your life, and the pleasure you took from it isn’t stupid or insignificant. It’s not trivial.”

Mel’s head shot up. That was exactly how she felt. Dancing seemed superficial and a ridiculous skill to have when she could have been a shop teacher or a garbage man. “How did you know?”

“I know because being a housewife was to me like dancing is to you. Okay, maybe that’s a shitty analogy, but you get the meaning, right? You think to yourself, ‘Jesus, what good does it do me to love to dance when I don’t want to get out of bed. Who cares that I was, at my peak, once a champion in the sport?’ ”

Mel nodded her consent, the deep regret for her lost youth stung like vinegar on a fresh wound these days. “I knew the hazards going in. I knew making a living as a dancer was at best a huge risk and at worst a pipe dream. But back then when I met Stan and he was full of so much praise for my work, I thought nothing could stop me. Youth, right? But then his work took precedence. I became more of an assistant to him, and I stopped pursuing auditions because his work always took us all over the globe. When I think about how glad I was that he decided to do the show because it meant we’d stay in one place for an extended period of time, it makes me want to drive to Hollywood and choke him.” But only after she cut out his heart.

Max clapped her thigh. “Good! Angry is good. It beats indifference. That’s death. Trust me. Look, everything you once loved looks very dull and drab to you right now, but I promise, it gets shinier once you dust it off and give it a good buffing. This is your opportunity, Mel. No one who danced like you did can stay dormant forever. No one.”

Nervous anxiety skittered along Mel’s spine. “Suddenly, I’m a nervous wreck.” Since she’d snared this job yesterday, her attitude had been one of unsettling indifference. It didn’t feel like the coup of the century. It didn’t feel lucky. Maybe she just couldn’t feel anymore?

Though, it certainly should feel lucky, considering her complete lack of marketable skills. She was going to make a semi-decent salary and she had benefits. In a few months, she and Weez could stop leeching off her father.

Max had told her how Frankie and Jasmine had struggled. That her struggle was a far shorter journey should be a reason to be grateful. She’d only been broke a few months instead of close to a year like Maxine.

Instead, last night, after her boring dinner and only a half of a spoonful of some refrigerator-hard frosting, she’d gone to bed without a single worry about her new employment.

She was too caught up in how much she missed her other students, students who weren’t reluctant participants and who wanted to learn to dance, and the ongoing plan to finely hone Stan’s perfect murder.

But this morning, as she haphazardly made an attempt to cover the dark circles under her eyes with concealer and applied a light gloss to her pale lips then packed a lunch of apples and a bologna sandwich with mustard, her stomach had twisted and heaved.

When Max, who’d been kind enough to give her a lift because her father had a podiatrist’s appointment, had pulled up, Mel had almost turned tail and run.

She was no Hilary Swank in some remake of Freedom Writers.

These kids wanted to dance as much as she wanted to wax her legs.

But it turned out Max was a hard taskmaster who took no shit. So here Mel was on the way to start her new career.

Max turned in her seat. Her green eyes so warm it made Mel’s heart thaw a bit. “Just keep your eye on the prize, Mel. A paycheck. A pretty good one, too. One that will afford you a place to live eventually—and plenty of chocolate frosting. And self-sufficiency. There’s nothing like that for your wounded pride. You taught in L. A.; you can teach in Jersey. I know you were good at it because I saw that interview on Hollywood Scoop with the little boy who said he missed you.”

Humiliation flooded her cheeks in the shade of red. How that reporter from Hollywood Scoop had conned Tito’s mother into letting him do an interview left her speechless. Not to mention, pissed.

“Tito. He was a great kid.”

“These kids will be, too,” Max soothed. “Now get a move on, teacher, or you’ll be late.”

Like it was her first day of kindergarten, Mel slid from the car with reluctance. “All right,” she offered dejectedly.

“Don’t forget your lunch.” Maxine tossed the brown paper bag at her and waved. “Have an awesome first day, Mel!”

Mel watched Max drive off like her mother had just abandoned her at the 7-Eleven. She wanted to run after Maxine and cling to the bumper of her car. Beg. Plead. Cry.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

She paused when she was unable to relax.

Okay, deeper breaths.

“Hey! Mel, right?”

Mel stopped her breathing exercise cold, turning to block her eyes from the sun as a tall man approached.

He lifted a broad hand in her direction, the scent of his spicy cologne drifting to her nose on the early morning breeze. “Remember me? Nephew to Myriam the Hun?”

Oh, she definitely remembered. How could she forget so much hot? Her heart skipped at least two beats when she peered at him through the sunlight. The curl of his hair around the collar of his casual jacket made her knees weak. “Drew, right?”

He grinned and she wondered why he appeared so pleased she’d remembered his name. “That’s me. C’mon, I’ll walk you in.”

Everything seemed brighter suddenly when he placed a light hand to her waist. She didn’t feel as much like she was headed to the guillotine with Drew taking long strides beside her.

Not until she saw her reflection in the school’s doors anyway. Her thick, kinky-curly hair, always difficult to contain no matter what product she used, flew around her chalky face in tangles, pulling out of her ponytail, and her wraparound skirt was wrinkled. Much to her delight, she’d also missed a button on her sweater, leaving it uneven.

Ah, but she’d remembered her bra. The miracle one. God was good.

“Do you have a son who attends Westmeyer?”

“Me? No. No children here. I … I teach here.” That’s right. She was a teacher. Teacher, teacher, teacher.

“You’re a teacher? I thought you were a dancer.” He stopped at the wide double doors of the school, looking down at her with his dreamy eyes.

Mel’s eyebrow cocked upward. How had he known that? “Well, I wasn’t born knowing the steps to the tango. I had a teacher who taught them to me.”

He chuckled, his white teeth flashing for a moment. “Right. What I meant to say was what do you teach?”

Mel cocked her head, running a nervous hand over the length of her messy ponytail. “Ballroom dancing.”

Drew’s dark eyebrow’s slammed together. “Say again?”

“Ballroom dancing.”

“Here?”

“It seems so.”

“And who hired you?”

“The dance fairy?”

She’d meant to make him smile again, because it was so nice, but he wasn’t smiling. “Was it Dean Keller?”

“Yes. Why?”

“God damn it,” he spat, shoving open the doors and stalking through them.

Mel followed close behind, forcing her eyes away from his ass encased in the jeans he wore like a second skin. “Wait! What did I say?”

But he waved her off with a quick flip of his hand, leaving her to stand in the middle of the school’s imposing foyer while curious boys in starched black uniforms milled around her.

Well, then. Yay, teaching.

Mel glanced at the clock on the wall and realized she’d better find out where her class was going to be held. She stopped a short young boy with thick round glasses and a pristine black jacket with yellow piping. “Can you tell me where Dean Keller’s office is?” She’d lost her bearings after yesterday’s blur of hiring and paperwork.

He pointed behind her. “If you take this hall approximately twenty-two point three feet then make a hard right, walk another fifteen point six and a half feet, you’ll find his office. His name’s on it. It says Dean Keller. D-E-A—”

“Thank you,” Mel cut him off, frightened by the idea he’d actually measured how far the dean’s office was from the entry.

She slipped between the boys and pressed forward twenty-two point three feet. Ah, there it was. Just like Young Einstein had said.

Just as she raised a hand to knock on his door, she heard yelling.

Drew’s yelling.

“You told me my son was coming here to get an education— not dance like some fairy! There was nothing in the welcome package about ballroom dancing and leather pants, Keller!”

Mel’s eyes went wide. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her gasp from escaping her lips.

“Men,” someone muttered.

Mel whipped around to find Dean Keller’s secretary, Mrs. Willows. She’d met her yesterday while she’d filled out insurance forms.

“I’m sorry?”

Hawklike gray eyes on a gaunt face assessed Mel. “Don’t be sorry. I said ‘men.’ They all react the same way when they find out the boys have to learn to dance. They make such a big deal out of it when it’s really not that big of a brouhaha. So, yes. Men. Especially a man as manly as Drew McPhee. Now, he’s all man, a man who’s probably going to be your worst nightmare while you teach his son, Nate.”

Like she didn’t know nightmares. Mel squared her shoulders. She was offended by the very notion that if a man danced, he was some sort of slight to Neanderthals everywhere.

Sure, there were lots of gay ballroom dancers. There were lots of gay flight attendants, too. They just didn’t wear costumes that sparkled when they left Newark airport. Dancing was healthy— it was incredibly good exercise and some of the strongest men on the planet were dancers. So enough already with the stigma. “Well, he’ll just have to suck that up, won’t he?”

Whoa. Had that been a spark of passion in her tone?

Heh.

Mrs. Willows began to laugh, the wrinkles on her neck bobbing up and down. “I like you, and yes, he will if he wants his son to attend Westmeyer, especially on a scholarship.”

“The hell I’ll see my son dressed in some tutu!” Drew shouted, storming out of the dean’s office and heading right toward Mel. His face no longer held that easygoing expression, but a hard mask of fury. His nostrils flared in angry fits of snorts.

Hoo boy. She put her hands behind her back, clamping her fingers together. “Um, if it’s any consolation, there aren’t many tutus in ballroom dancing. It’s mostly Lycra pants and those skimpy tight shirts.”

Drew’s blue eyes narrowed to slits in his head. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. I didn’t send my son here to learn how to do the twist—”

Mel flashed him a sweet, totally disingenuous smile. “Oh, I don’t know how to twist. Though, I’m sure I could learn.”

His lips thinned while his gaze left her feeling like the antichrist.

“Look, lady. I didn’t send my kid to this fancy private school to do the sumba!” Drew’s words sizzled from his mouth.

Mel popped her lips in obvious mockery. “That’s a rumba, or a samba, depending on the meaning of your jumble of inept words, and you’re right. There’ll be absolutely no rumbas and no sambas— or even a sumba. Not a one. You’ll be so relieved to know, I’m teaching traditional ballroom dancing. You know— the girlie waltz. Maybe a nice sissified foxtrot.”

He dragged a hand through the luscious thatch of hair she now wanted to pull out of his head. “This is the most ridiculous rule I’ve ever heard of.”

“Yeah. Coordination and exercise are all that and more.” Suddenly, and for the pettiest of reasons, she wanted this job. She wanted to show Mr. Manly Man that dancing was hardcore work. It took more than just some jazz hands to lift a hundred and twenty pounds of sparkly rhinestoned woman over your head.

“He gets all the exercise he needs throwing a football around.”

Mrs. Willows gave Drew an elbow to the ribs. “Now, be fair, Drew McPhee. You know darned well Nate hates sports. And you better get going. Ms. Cherkasov has a ballroom class to teach.” She left them with a snickering chuckle that pinged around the hallway.

Drew jammed his hands in the pockets of his worn Levis. The tightening of his jaw left her very aware of the effort he was making to hold back. “Have I said this is ridiculous?”

She contemplated him from heavy-lidded eyes. “With zeal.”

“Nate came here because they don’t have the facilities to keep up with his genius in public school. He didn’t come here to dance.”

“Did you have some sort of dancing trauma that’s led you to so vehemently hate all things dance-ish? Did some angsty teenage girl break your dancing heart at the prom? Mock your technique, maybe?”

“I don’t hate dancing. I hate that my kid’s going to be forced to do something he hates.”

“And what brought you to the conclusion that he’s going to hate my classes? Because I have to tell you, I’m taking this exceptionally personally. I’m a good instructor. In fact, most of my students came back year after year to attend my classes when I had my own studio. So, why don’t you stop fobbing your silly, knuckle-dragging perceptions off on your son before he’s even had the chance to experience his first class. And now, I have to go fluff my tutu. I don’t want to be late for my first day.” With those parting words, Mel stomped off to Mrs. Willows’s office to locate her classroom, leaving Drew McPhee and his blatantly discriminatory bullshit to rot in the fiery pits of hell.

All right. So maybe she’d been a bit hasty when she’d decided for Nate that he’d love ballroom dancing.

From the looks of the forlorn faces who’d much rather be measuring the drips per nanosecond of a ketchup bottle, she was not the Hannah Montana of Westmeyer.