Chico didn’t realize he’d been led away from the door until he was in the center of the room.
The people in the class had all stopped dancing and talking and were facing him—facing their instructor. Chico glanced quickly around at the framed posters on three of the walls, the mp3 player and speakers, the windows opened to catch the breeze, and then the last wall, almost entirely mirrored from floor to ceiling. It even had one of those barre things ballerinas used in movies.
He caught sight of his slight figure, absolutely dwarfed by the heavy black shirt and pants required for work. Even his wrists seemed too thin, reminding him once more of Davi accusing him of giving up, telling him he needed to get out more, to eat, to at least buy groceries once in a while.
His eyes were huge, and he parted his lips to take a deep, fast breath, unsure when he’d gone from looking like an aging twink to someone so waifish and lost. His skin was golden brown, though nowhere near as dark as he normally got in the summer when his Portuguese heritage made itself known. Black was not his best color, although he couldn’t help that part. The department store required he dress in black, and it had been the first place to offer him work in his weeks in Brandywine. Chico needed the paycheck.
He glanced up at the reflection and watched the dance teacher come around to stand behind him. A moment later he felt the heat of him. He quickly turned away from the mirror, almost afraid to find out what he looked like with that man at his back.
He felt like he was shaking, but maybe that was only inside where no one could see. Then a strong hand pressed against his side, and he stopped breathing. He was shaking all right, and he thought the hand was meant to calm him. As if Chico was only anxious about a dance class. The last time someone had touched him without it being purely friendly had been just before Thanksgiving.
Before that… before that there hadn’t been much, something Chico hadn’t let himself think about until it was too late not to. The thought of his last fuck with John usually left him cold and sick, obsessively worrying over every moment, every silent lie, wondering if everything had been pity by then.
But the hand at his side dropped to his hip and splayed out wide, and the instructor stepped in until they were almost pressed together. Chico lifted his head, and the instructor’s breath tickled his neck when the man lowered his head to whisper in his ear. “Don’t be nervous,” he advised, attuned to Chico’s mood but not understanding the cause. He seemed so concerned. “Everyone here is a beginner, and I’m here to help.”
“O… okay,” Chico agreed, although he hadn’t come here for a dance lesson. He couldn’t move his feet away. That hand was firm at his hip, and he liked it there. He hadn’t felt anything like desire in months, and now his body was making its needs known. It didn’t help that every time he trembled or lifted his head, the man was there, trying to reassure him, as if he could read Chico’s body better than Chico could.
“I’ll show you what to do,” the instructor promised, possibly the greatest teacher in the world, and Chico wet his lips and nodded along. Despite himself, he glanced back to the mirror and could barely breathe at how tiny he seemed, how delicate to be held in place by one hand.
The teacher raised his head. “Everyone, this is Francisco.” He introduced Chico to the group while also making Chico jump at the sound of his given name. “If he agrees, I’ll use him to show you the proper arm positions again. Is that all right, Francisco?”
In a town like this, of course he would know Chico’s name. Everyone would know. But Chico returned to his senses at the sound of those hated syllables and he tilted his head up. “Chico,” he corrected, with a trace of rudeness in his voice he didn’t mean. He made sure to soften his tone, and his pronunciation, so the word was Portuguese and not Spanish. “Sheeco. Nobody calls me Francisco but my mother and bill collectors.” The breathless note in his voice would have been alarming if he hadn’t already been shaking over everything else.
The instructor squeezed Chico’s hip, perhaps in apology, and took his hand away. Chico clenched his jaw to keep anything else breathless from slipping out, and shivered wildly when that hand returned to him. This time two hands curled around his ribs. They slid up, slowly, too slowly to be real, and then came up to raise his arms. He was arranged just so, lightly, with care, and then the teacher withdrew his presence at Chico’s back and walked around in front of him.
Chico met his gaze for a few seconds. The teacher’s lips parted, and he pulled in a breath before he faced his class again. “There’s a reason we start our summer dance classes with the waltz. It’s easy and there’s absolutely no pressure.”
“Waltz?” Chico noticed the classical music all over again. How had he wandered into a ballroom dancing class? He wasn’t old, or half of a bored married couple, or a straight groom worried about the first dance at his wedding. Although he belatedly realized the class was mostly younger people, and the senior citizens in attendance probably already knew the steps and were taking the class for exercise.
“A slow waltz, for now anyway.” The teacher carefully picked up Chico’s hand, where Chico had obediently left it poised in midair, and placed it on his shoulder. The skin there was bare, hot, either from the weather or all the dancing the man had done already. He pulled Chico’s other hand up a little higher while Chico blinked at him in stunned surprise, then opened his hand so Chico’s fingers curled around his palm.
Chico was dancing the girl’s part, but no one was laughing or saying shit about it. They were all taking similar positions, as if this was a cue.
“Wait.” Chico’s word caught in his throat when hazel eyes focused on him. They were mostly brown with flecks of dark green, yet somehow clear. “Uh. This isn’t… I don’t know how.”
That got him a curved smile and a whispered answer, just for him. “No one else here does either. They’re learning right now. You’ll be fine.”
He was so certain. Chico nodded before he remembered himself. “What do I do?”
“Aren’t you a brave one?” No one should be able to put that much encouragement and confidence in their voice and still sound gentle. The dance teacher was some kind of sexy dancer whisperer. “You’re going to move backward without looking behind you, which might make you nervous, but I’ve got you. I promise I won’t let you fall or bump into anything. Okay?”
His smile was like cinnamon coffee. People probably took these classes just to see that smile. In another life, Chico might have been one of them. Before John, maybe, or sometime in the future, when Chico wasn’t a wreck who could barely dress himself for work.
The teacher gripped Chico’s hand tighter for one brief moment and then raised his voice.
“Everyone, remember what we talked about. This is a simple box step. Traditionally men are the top of the box, but if you want to mix that up, feel free.” Some people let out a small laugh at that, especially the two women dancing together. Chico wanted to laugh too, but he knew it would come out too loud, too desperate, like any kind of top and bottom joke he could have made. Innuendo-laden flirting had never been his style, and he didn’t know what he was thinking to even vaguely contemplate flirting with anyone.
He stared up without saying a word, wishing he knew the right thing to say or do, and the instructor inclined his head toward him. He acted as if he was still addressing the class, but Chico felt like this instruction was for his benefit. “It’s called the box step because we’re moving our feet in a square. I’m going to show you the movements one more time, and then you get to practice for a while.”
He pulled their clasped hands up higher, a move that brought him closer to Chico by barely an inch but felt like much more than that. Maybe it was the way it forced Chico to stand up straight, with his shoulders back. Their chests were nearly touching. He took a deep breath, and his other hand fell from the instructor’s shoulder to his bicep.
“That’s it.” The man had the gentle, patient teacher tone down perfectly. The words should have been impersonal, professional, but Chico shivered all over again and lowered his gaze to the man’s collarbone. Then he looked right back up to his face in disbelief when his teacher moved forward and nudged Chico’s shoe with his.
“This is ridiculous.” Chico managed a full sentence, but moved his foot in response to the hint, and for a moment they were close again, closer than before. He dragged in a breath and then stepped to the side when led that way. He was a second behind, but he went, following when they came forward again and then to the side once more before stopping. That was when he stumbled, surprised they were no longer moving.
“He’s a natural.” The teacher angled his head up to tell the crowd. He said it easily too, like he meant it. Unlike everyone else in the room, he wasn’t looking at his feet or thinking about what his body was doing. He was staring at Chico and complimenting him.
Chico unexpectedly felt himself warming up and was grateful a blush would hardly show in his features.
“No, no, no,” he argued earnestly. “I’m really not. Not a natural at this or anything.” He tugged on their joined hands, then skittered back a step when that only brought their bodies closer to together, as if he’d been leading that time. He glanced around in total embarrassment, but the others seemed to be focused on their own foot placement and hand positions. “What am I doing? Oh my God. I’m sorry.” He tugged on his hand again, and this time it was released. “I didn’t actually come here to dance.”
“But you’re here now.” The reasonable answer was the most confusing sentence Chico had ever heard in his life. It was so simple and logical his brain wouldn’t process it for a moment.
He tossed his head. “The last thing I need right now is….” Chico wisely stopped there, and took a moment to swallow and wet his mouth. “I have to go. I was supposed to find—” He decided against asking this man for directions yet again, considering the way the last time had turned out. “Uh, thank you for the lesson,” he finished, stilted and impossible and kind of hating the person he’d turned into for the few seconds it took him to take his other hand from that warm skin and hurry to the door.
He closed it behind him, with classical music still humming in his blood and his face hot. He rubbed a hand over the warmth at his side as he left the office, and he only stopped once he was safely back out in the foyer. Davi would see how flustered he was, so he took a moment to straighten his clothes and pat his cheeks while he stared at the articles and photographs on one of the walls.
Chico was and always had been a small and fragile creature. He caught a glimpse of his wrist and wondered how it had felt when the dance instructor had held it to carefully pull Chico’s hand to his skin. No one should be that gentle in real life unless they were handling a newborn or trying to catch a ladybug.
Chico stared hard at a black-and-white photo for a long time before he realized he was looking at an early picture of this building. The studio must have added a wing sometime in the past few decades, probably when the town had become more than a hidden vacation spot for beatniks and the rich.
He moved on to study a framed magazine spread with several ballerinas in it, one of whom was identified as Elisabet Winters. Her tightly bound hair looked dark, and her features were vaguely Slavic, which made her appear like a fierce model. In the picture, she seemed slender and tall, but he was willing to bet she was his height or shorter. Next to her, with her arm at her waist, was another dancer, with lighter hair and softer features. Teodora Winters had a slightly thicker body than her sister. The small stub article next to the picture mentioned their family legacy of dancing and talked about their grandparents.
He walked down the aisle until he found a picture of these grandparents, a professionally made display of black-and-white photos, drawings, and newsprint articles about an American dancer who married a Russian immigrant.
There were some amazing photographs of that Russian dancer in the sort of fabulous beaded costumes Chico associated with black-and-white movies. The costumes couldn’t possibly be as heavy as they looked if someone had to dance in them, but Chico nearly smudged the glass as he traced a finger over the costumes in an attempt to determine their construction.
Ballet costumes had changed over the years. Chico turned to a new wall to study the varieties of tutus and skirts, and the sheer, revealing tights barely containing all the male strength on display. When that made him uncomfortably aware of his body all over again, he made himself look at more innocent things.
The Winterses had posted pictures of their students who had gone on to professional acclaim, as well as awards they’d won. Chico had expected that, if the studio was as prestigious as he was beginning to think it was. But the Winterses weren’t only proud of the ballet classes. The tap students had photos up too—glossy pictures of smiling children holding ribbons or trophies. There were no professional write-ups of tap dancers, although he noticed a few stray ribbons for ballroom dancing contests. But they weren’t the focus.
It was almost as if the Winterses loved dance and wanted others, especially children, to love it too, and didn’t have any snobbery about it. Chico had thought ballet would be all scary instructors shouting at exhausted, underfed children, with everything very serious.
But the Winters children themselves had their own section too, and the first thing he saw was a candid photo of Elisabet, when she was very young, standing on a grown man’s feet as he danced. That was probably her father, and she was giggling up at him.
An older brother choreographed dance scenes for Hollywood. Chico read all about his attempted revival of serious dance and his longing for the days when many more actors studied dancing. But it was the other brother’s picture that made him stop and forget everything he’d just read.
His dance teacher was Rafael Winters.
Rafael was posed by himself on a stage, costumed in a fitted jacket and tights that stopped Chico’s heart with how much they revealed. He didn’t know what exactly went on underneath those tights to both hide and emphasize everything, but it took effort for him to drag his gaze back to Rafael’s face. Rafael had to be much younger in the picture, but it was definitely him. According to the write-up from the local paper, he’d won more than a few competitions as a young man, but he had retired from professional dance only a few years after that picture was taken, choosing instead to stay and teach at his parents’ dance studio.