What You Always Wanted (20 page)

Will I be that thoughtful? I mean, sure I can be more thoughtful than an arrogant
boy
, but will I have any relationship with my sister or brother at all? For all I know, in a couple of years I'll be in another state, or at least another city. I'm going to miss most of the milestones, like their first day of school, first missing tooth, first crush. Rider and I know what it's like living under the same roof, playing together, throwing food at each other during dinner. This new little Brooks won't remember the one year of his or her life when I was still at home. Will I remember to check in with this child throughout their life? Will I even want to?

The alarm chirps softly as it does when someone opens a door, and I head down the secondary set of stairs that lets out near the kitchen to see who else is up. The house is quiet and dark except for a night-light above the stove and floodlights filtering through the fancy decorative window between the cabinets on the back wall.

My eyes catch sight of something outside as it whizzes past the window. It happens again and I barely make out a flash of red on the white surface. A baseball. Which means Jesse must be home from work.

I feel my way around the furniture in the next room and twist the blinds open. Jesse's only about ten feet out, illuminated in a yellow spotlight from the corner of the house. He winds up and pitches another ball toward the pool area, and my eyes follow it to a net, where it falls next to a few others. I sink sideways into an armchair and watch silently as Jesse brings the glove up toward his face, hikes up his left knee toward his stomach, stretches his right arm back, and hurls the last ball.

I'm a total creeper sitting here in the dark, like Jimmy Stewart in
Rear Window
spying on his neighbors across the courtyard of his apartment complex. But instead of a little yappy dog digging up evidence of a murder in a flower bed, I spy Jesse scrambling around the bushes for stray balls. He pulls out the hem of his shirt, exposing the last couple of abs, and loads about five or six worn baseballs in his makeshift pouch, dumping them in the patch of dirt where he started.

He wipes his shiny brow with his forearm, selects a ball, twists it until his fingers are in just the right position along the red stitching, and throws again. I'm transfixed. On him. On his arms. The muscles that tense and relax, tense and relax. The graceful, fluid movement as he winds up and follows through. The narrowed eyes and the teeth that bite his bottom lip in frustration. Determination. He reaches down and scratches just above his knee before throwing the next one.

What I wouldn't do to see those legs dance. Just once.

I'm quite tempted to let myself count that kiss, anyway.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Since we're off from school the week of Thanksgiving, and because Ma's being especially sentimental and emotional and a little too pregnant for me to be around, I spend most of my time working and practicing at the playhouse. By Wednesday, the place is pretty much deserted, with everyone out of town or getting a head start on cooking. Traditionally, I'd be baking something with apples or pumpkin right about now, but if I don't get this triple time step down, I won't be able to keep my spot in the upcoming production of
Crazy for You
.

I didn't exactly blow anyone away in the dancing portion of my audition last weekend, but Mrs. Morales fought for me, and Mrs. Haskins, the director, said she admired my moxie and believed that with enough work and dance training, I could be one of the Follies Girls. It's not much of a speaking part, but I'm onstage for quite a few scenes.

One step closer to Broadway!

I'm practicing in the smallest dance room—without music because so far all it does is throw me off—when I hear a door shut down the hall. I know I locked myself in, so whoever it is either has a key, or they broke in. Nothing much here to steal, though, except a bunch of dusty props and a closet full of costumes.

Using the opportunity to get a drink of water and take off my shoes for a while, I mosey toward the closed door just as whoever's inside begins a tap warm-up. It's the same routine Mrs. Morales taught me, starting with shuffles then progressively adding flaps, leaps, digs, stamps, and other things I can't remember the names of. But this person goes past the part I know, and I don't recognize the complicated sounds.

I'm standing here, mesmerized, with my hand on the knob just as I was nearly a month ago, the first time I heard someone tapping away behind a closed door. It has to be the same person. She's incredible.

I must be taught by her.

I must be her best friend.

When the warm-up is over, I give a light knock and push open the door. The person's back is to me, but it's definitely a guy, which I wasn't expecting. I was hoping to have some rockin' female mentor, but I could work with a man . . . as long as we leave the door open and someone else is in the building.

I scan my eyes over his body and stop at his thighs. Suddenly I'm unable to breathe. I'd know those legs anywhere. I've dreamt about those legs.

“Jesse?”

He twists around to face me. It could be my imagination, but his cheeks look like they're turning a shade or two darker.

“When did you get here?” he asks, a mix of irritation and surprise in his voice.

“I've been here a couple hours. You didn't hear me practicing when you came in?”

He shakes his head. “And I didn't see any cars. I thought I was alone.”

“Ah, yes. A car,” I say through a sigh. “Still need one of those.”

“Someone dropped you off?”

“Dad.”

He nods, scratching at his leg just above his knee like he did when I watched him practice pitching. Again, it draws my attention.

Then the realization slams into me like a stage curtain dropping right on my head: Jesse Morales is standing in front of me in tight black pants. And tap shoes.

I have to sit down.

I find the nearest chair and collapse into it, trying not to act like a freak. It's just Jesse, dancing only for himself.

Such a waste.

I won't stand for it.

He spins a chair around and straddles it, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows and crossing his arms over the chair back. His eyes are trained on the floor, but I wait long enough and eventually they find their way to me.

“So,” we both say at the same time.

“You still dance,” I finish, and I'm proud how quickly I've composed myself.

He inhales and lets the breath out slowly. “I help out with choreography.”

“Just choreography? I mean, you don't like to dance sometimes? Just to . . . dance?”

“Madison, I'm not going to
be
in the show, so don't even ask.”

I swallow hard and try not to shrink away from his infinite tone. It's like I'm getting scolded, and I didn't even do anything wrong. Yet.

“Well, I heard you through the door, and this isn't the first time,” I tell him. “You're good. You're beyond good—you're amazing.”

Now I know his cheeks are darker. “This can never leave this room.”

I agree to nothing, and he squirms in his seat until he can't handle my staring, and clicks across the room to fiddle with his iPod.

I don't know if I'm more dumbfounded that I may actually be about to witness Jesse dance or that he's capable of being embarrassed about something. And in front of
me
. The fact that he's still dancing and no one else knows . . . it's like I have power. A very special power that must be manipulated very, very, very carefully. I shall use this power for good.
My
 good.

“Teach me what you know,” I say from my chair because I'm afraid I still haven't regained the ability to stand.

He laughs and abandons his iPod without choosing a song.

“Why would I do that?” he asks.

As he walks oh so slowly toward me, my ears barely register any sound from his shoes.

Because if I never see you dance, I might possibly die
.

“Because . . . you owe me?” It comes out as a question.

More laughter bounces off the mirrored walls as he continues his leisurely pace in my direction. He stops behind my chair, resting his hands on the plastic backrest. I keep my breathing as steady as possible, refusing to let him get to me. I can tell he's leaning down to me, and I swear if he starts to sing I really will fall over right here on this floor.

“Maddie,” he says much too softly.

What was that I was just saying about me having power? And aren't I supposed to be mad at him for . . . something?

“Like I said before, I helped you. I don't owe you anything else.”

And the spell is broken.

I jump up and rush down the hall to my practice room, grab my shoes, and march straight back to my chair. Jesse looks on as I stifle a whimper and shove my sore feet in my shoes again. We have to wear character shoes for the performance, which are practically high heels with taps, so that's what I have to practice in. They're killing me.

“I mean it,” I say. “Stealing my first kiss and saying I should
thank
you is the most absurd thing I've ever heard. And you're going to make it up to me.” I pause to see if he has a reaction, which he doesn't, outside of narrowing his eyes. “By giving me tap-dance lessons.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don't think s—”

“Oh, it's
happening
. And it's starting right now,” I demand. “Unless you want your secret to get out. . . . I'm sure your jock friends would love resurrecting your old moniker, whatever
it was they called you. Twinkle Toes, perhaps?” I probably wouldn't actually do that to him, but he doesn't need to know that. This must happen even if self-preservation is his sole motivation.

A scowl takes over his face as he runs a hand through his thick hair.

“Furthermore, I'm in this show that
your mother
helped me get in, and I'm not going to mess it up with inferior tapping.”

He leaves me hanging for far too long before saying, “You know this means you'll actually have to talk to me again.”

“Well, considering it's in the name of
making it up to me
, I'll allow it. I may even start carpooling with you again, you know, for convenience.” Angela still takes me to school in the mornings, but my mom has been picking me up lately.

One of his eyebrows rises. “And we'd have to spend quite a bit of time together.”

“I'll get over it.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up. “And you'd have to take it seriously.”

“I'll be the most willing and dedicated student you've ever had,” I say, drawing an
X
over my heart.

Scratching his chin, he says, “What makes you think I'd be a good teacher?”

At this point, I don't even care what kind of teacher he'd make. I just want to see the boy move.

Clearing my throat, I ignore his question and muster the courage to ask one of my own. “Can you show me your time step?”

He sighs. “Which one?”

“Um . . . the first one?”

When he reaches the middle of the room, his feet fly. All the steps are there, I see them, I recognize them. Stomp, hop, step, flap, stamp, stomp, over and over, alternating feet. It's the most effortless movement I've ever seen from him. Like it's easier than walking.

His ego wins out, and his steps transition into a continuous flow of the most beautifully complex rhythms. He moves across the floor with such grace and strength, my brain doesn't understand how he could ever want to do anything but this.

I try to fight the thought, but this boy . . . he's getting closer to what I want.

“Say you'll dance with me,” I softly plead when he finishes the impromptu demonstration.

He chugs half a bottle of water and tosses it into his open duffel bag. “How much do you already know?”

I give my shoelaces one last yank and stand just in front of him. I shuffle my right foot, out-in, out-in. “Shuffle.” I do a similar movement, but instead of pulling my foot toward me at the second sound, I keep forward and put weight on it. “Flap.”