“What did you think?” I ask Danica when we’re almost home.

“I thought it was beautiful,” she says.

“Me too,” I say. And I mean it. It was beautiful. But it was sad too. Both things, and at the same time. I don’t know why so much of life is like that.

CHAPTER 43

Entertain Us

LA DANCEBALL IS only four weeks away now, and Fifi steps up our practice schedule from rigorous to outlandish. Instead of two hours, our weekday sessions are now three. She takes us back to the promenade to see how well we can attract an audience and keep their attention. She makes us teach mini dance lessons to strangers, and then dance with the strangers. “Best way to learn is to teach,” she says.

The extended practice sessions improve our salsa, bachata, Hustle and West Coast swing. But the Argentine tango is still a beast. Mostly it’s my fault. At least, according to Fifi it’s my fault. “You need to be more sensual and loose,” she tells me. “Let yourself be swept away.”

And I am trying. I have the steps down cold. X’s lead is stronger now, and I’m better at following it. But I still can’t manage to relax. For the tango, I’m supposed to give myself to X as if I can’t help myself. But I’m afraid that if I pretend even for three minutes, I won’t be able to stop. The truth is, I don’t want to stop. And even though I’m seeing fewer visions these days because I know how to avoid them, I’m still afraid of what the future holds for us.

Now that I’m friends with my friends again, X slips into our little group as if he’s always been a part of it. He goes with me to all our beach bonfires. He brings his guitar and we sing silly songs and play Tipsy Philosophicals. We go to his shows as a group. Cassidy drinks too much and blames it on the music. Groupies are supposed to party, she says. Martin nicknames us X Faction.

As spring gets hotter, we decide to spend Sunday mornings at Cassidy’s house by the pool instead of at Surf City Waffle. The first time X takes his shirt off to get into the pool, I nearly die. I look so hard that I trip over my own feet and almost knock myself out on the lip of the pool. For the rest of the day I’m convinced I’ve stumbled into one of my romance novels. How else to explain how ridiculously hot his whole chest-abs-stomach combination is? X without a shirt is very nearly fatal.

At three weeks to go before the competition, Fifi changes our schedule again. We go from outlandish to fantastically, breathtakingly unreasonable. Four hours of practice a night instead of three. She cares not at all about my social calendar, homework or home life.

“Dance is life!” she says.

At two weeks to go, she begins videotaping every practice. She makes us watch our performances while she critiques them as if we’re not in the room.

The last week before the competition, she adds full dress rehearsals to the four hours of practicing.

When I get to the studio on Monday for our first dress rehearsal, X isn’t there, but Fifi, Archibald and Maggie are. The three of them have set up folding chairs in the back next to the windows.

Only after hugs and kisses does it occur to me why they’re here. “Are you going to judge us?” I ask, horrified.

Fifi answers. “Not judge. We are audience. You will entertain us.”

Somehow that answer is more horrifying.

“I’ll go change,” I say, and get the hell out of there.

Studio two doesn’t have a class tonight, so I use it to change. I unwrap my costume from its garment bag and love it all over again. It’s an emerald-green, sequined, spaghetti-strapped dancer’s dream. In a previous life, this dress was a mermaid princess. I shimmy my way into it, very careful not to mess up my braids, which are held up by approximately seventy-seven bobby pins. I check to make sure my heel protectors are on before strapping on my sparkly gold shoes.

Once everything is on, I face the mirror to get the full effect.

The full effect is…not bad.

The dress is fitted close, but not too tight. Except for the spaghetti straps, my shoulders and arms are bare. It feels like I have an ocean of skin, all of it glowing brown from the Sunday mornings at Cassidy’s pool. Hopefully the judges don’t mind tan lines. I examine myself from all angles and decide I like the way my body looks, curvy and strong. I lean closer to the mirror. Dance competition makeup is supposed to be theatrical and unsubtle. I’ve done an okay job, but Danica would’ve done it better.

When I get back to the studio, X is still not there. Archibald and Maggie coo at me, telling me I look beautiful. I’m in the middle of executing a perfect spot turn when X finally does walk in.

It’s a testament to Fifi’s relentless training that I don’t stumble, because X right now is my own personal earthquake. He belongs on the cover of a romance novel about bad-boy rockers with hearts of gold. He’s wearing black suspenders with smoothly tailored black pants. It turns out I really like suspenders.

I drag my eyes up to his face and realize he’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him.

“Jesus God, Evie, you look fucking—”

Maggie cuts him off before he can finish. “Xavier Darius Woods, watch your language,” she scolds.

In her entire life, no one has ever dared to shush Maggie, but I almost do it. I look fucking what?!

X rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, Grams,” he says, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“You look nice too,” I say.

Fifi claps. “Positions!”

X and I take our places, and Fifi hits play.

Five dances and twenty minutes later, we’re done. Archibald and Maggie marvel at how much we’ve improved.

“Westside Dance won’t know what hit them,” Maggie chuckles.

In her mind, she’s already making room for the Top Studio Amateur trophy.

Since she’s “just audience member” today, Fifi will only say she enjoyed our performance. She tells us to go home and get rest.

X is getting his guitar from the closet when I break down and ask him. “What word were you going to use before?”

He knows exactly what I’m talking about. He turns around, giving me his full attention. “Astonishing,” he says.

Then he puts the whole sentence together. “Jesus God, Evie, you look fucking astonishing.”

It’s because I’m thinking about looking “fucking astonishing” that I don’t notice Archibald and Maggie are still in the studio. It’s why I don’t notice the way they’re leaning into each other.

Why I don’t notice they’re about kiss until it’s too late.