Practically Ever After Page 6

  Mom stopped midway in her drawing and laughed. “Oh, you have to see how much smoky eye makeup I piled on for mine. It’s hilarious looking back at those pictures now.” She picked up her marker again and grinned at me. “Grace, you have fantastic timing. We could use your opinion.”

  “But I was heading out,” I gestured at my dance bag. “I’m supposed to teach the adult class tonight. You know, the class you and Aunt Drina guilted me into teaching?”

  Mom ignored my pointed comment. “Just one second, okay?”

  I glanced at the grandfather clock, made some calculations, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath before dropping my bag in the hall and heading inside. “What’s up?”

  Mom smoothed out the paper she had been drawing on before stepping back to make room for me to see. At first, it looked like one of the seating charts she usually drew up for events—all circles in perfect formation and spaces for names, but then I noticed a squiggly line had been drawn down the center with a completely different layout on the other side. “Okay, so we’re trying to figure out seating for the reception…”

  “Even though it’s not a sit-down,” Trixie chimed in forcefully with a look over at her mom, who frowned in response.

  “Yes, not a sit-down, but people will need places to drop their things and I think they’ll want to be able to sit and eat or rest,” Mom continued smoothly, not even batting an eye at the unspoken tension between Trixie and her mom.

  “Especially for people who want a sit-down,” Mrs. Martins said, “like anyone over the age of forty. And it will need to look elegant.”

  “I want people to be comfortable. And I want them to be able to mingle.” Trixie looked over at me and said, “Amani is my only high school friend coming to this. Could you imagine if I just forced her to sit at a table with my college friends or you guys or Petur’s friends? This way, she can, like, eat an appetizer while listening to Aunt Sophia talk about her last trip to the gastroenterologist, then escape to hang out with Petur’s really cute cousin from Keflavik without feeling like we’re trying to set them up.”

  “Honestly, you and Phoebe make it sound like the only things Sophia talks about are her health problems,” Mrs. Martins said.

  “She does,” Trixie said, adding, “And she’ll be especially worse since she knows Amani is in med school.”

  Mom looked over at me and shrugged her shoulders ever-so-slightly as if to say, See what I’m dealing with? “So, I drew up a more traditional cocktail hour table layout, but what if we mix standing tables with a few sitting tables and have a few elegant,” she said, looking over at Mrs. Martins as she said it, “—lounges set up on the sides and back, away from the DJ, with comfortable sofas, chairs, and low tables, so people could sit and chat casually.” The last word was aimed at Trixie. Mom then looked over at me. “Grace?”

  I stared at the second seating plan for a minute, impressed by Mom’s neat lines and the whole flow of the room. She’d even thought to put what she’d marked as a “hot chocolate and coffee bar” between two of her sofa-lounge seating layouts, and left space by the walls for people to check out the artwork in the gallery. For someone who wasn’t into technical things, she would have blown everyone else away in my engineering design class. “I like the idea of the lounges. They’ll probably be more comfortable for some of your older guests rather than forcing them to sit at a table all night. You can still see the dance floor really well from them.”

  “Great-Uncle Antonio is going to fall asleep on those,” Mrs. Martin pointed out.

  “And he’ll say it was the best wedding ever,” Trixie countered.

  “Why did you do standing tables?” I asked Mom, already knowing her answer.

  “It’s good for mingling, but people like Amani won’t feel like they’re stuck talking to the people at those tables forever,” Mom said, looking at me but directing her words at the two Martins.

  For two people with very different tastes, Trixie and her mom had identical appreciative hums.

  “Got it,” I said, making sure to look over at Trixie and Mrs, Martins, too. “I honestly like it. It has a really nice flow from food to different seating options, and it looks like a layout that might get more people out on the dance floor or checking out the gallery.”

  Mom nodded, a tiny smile on her lips, then turned to the other two women, who were also nodding with her. “So, what do you think?”

  “It’s an elegant compromise,” Mrs. Martins said, slowly.

  “It looks comfortable,” Trixie added, with a glance over at her mom. “I’m positive Petur will love it, too.”

  “Then, done.” Mom put a checkmark on the side of her paper with the sofas and standing tables. “I’ll start looking into rental costs for the tables and lounge furniture and I’ll get back to you.”

  I looked at the three of them, then over at my backpack. “Can I go now?”

  Mom didn’t look up from her notebook, but she had a wide grin as she waved me away. “Yes, thank you, Grace.”

  Trixie pulled away from the table to come to my side. “I’ll walk out with you. I’m meeting up with Amani to hit up some of the vintage stores in Mt. Holly. Thanks, Mrs. Correa,” she called out as she shouldered her purse. “I’m doing a brooch bouquet and I’m kind of hoping to find some fun pins for it.”

  “No flowers?” I’d seen those kinds of bouquets made up only of pins and brooches in pictures from one of the fashion weeks a few years ago and wasn’t surprised Trixie would pick something like that for her own wedding.

  “Flowers die, but tacky rhinestone pins from the seventies are forever.” With a glance over my shoulder, I could see both my mom and hers shaking their heads at Trixie’s comment, but she didn’t seem to care. “I have a bunch I picked up in the city, but I need a few more to fill it out. And Amani has this magical ability to find the best pins in the bins in seconds.”

  Amani was the name she had mentioned earlier. I tilted my head at her, asking the question that had popped into my head during the whole seating discussion. “You said you only had one high school friend coming to your wedding? What happened to that whole art class group Phoebe said you used to hang out with?”

  “Oh, you know how it is,” she said, waving her hand airily. “We all went on to our own schools and kind of grew apart. It happens to everyone. Amani’s the only one I really kept in touch with after freshman year.”

  “Wow.”

  At that, she glanced over at me with super wide eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you and Phoebe and the others will stay close. It’s just me and you know, fashion design takes up all my free time and the city’s just a pain to get to if you don’t have a huge budget…” Even I could tell her excuses were weak and, with a sheepish smile, she quickly changed the subject. “Anyway, did you and your mom just tag-team me and my mom back there?”

  I pushed open the front door and waved for her to go ahead of me. “I wouldn’t say ‘tag-team’… I just agreed that she came up with a nice compromise.”

  “Oh, she totally did, but it’s hilarious how you two basically steamrolled us into compromising.”

  I stopped mid-step and cringed, realizing that we really had somewhat bullied them into Mom’s plan. “Sorry. I can go back and argue something different if you want.”

  “No,” she said with a laugh as she headed down the driveway. “Seriously, I love it. But you two are dangerous. Remind me to come to you when I need to convince store buyers to carry my stuff.”

  I grinned. “If you think we’re bad, you should spend more time around my dad. It runs in the family.”

  “I’m not sure whether I should be scared or impressed,” she said, then grew a little more serious. “Thanks again for your help back there.”

  “No problem. Good luck finding tacky stuff.”

  “Thanks, crossing my fingers for something neon this trip.” With a wave, she turned in the direction of the exit to our development, probably to catch the bus off Main Street. “I’ll see you at your graduation
,” she called out over her shoulder.

  “Later,” I said absently, pulling out my phone to check the time before getting into my car, and held back a groan as I tossed my dance bag onto the passenger seat. Hopefully, the green light gods were going to be kind to me today.

  Chapter 10

  “It’s good for you,” Leia’s voice repeated in my head as I took a deep breath and opened the door to Aunt Drina’s studio. The glass door, scribed with Adamo School of Dance in blue cursive, was all marked up with fingerprints.

  Inside, it was like walking right into the past. The waiting room windows were still packed with rows and rows of trophies, and the same worn benches were filled with gossiping dance moms and the lone dad waiting for a class to let out. Except for the waiting room walls changing from a bright violet to an even brighter green, nothing had really changed from my time there as an uncertain sixteen-year-old constantly reminding herself that dance was taking up too big a chunk of her life, always on the verge of quitting in favor of things with bigger payback. If it weren’t for today’s date tacked onto the top of the corkboard with the class schedules and competition information, I would have sworn the dance studio had simply frozen in time the moment I walked out two years ago.

  Aunt Drina waved me over from the office door, wrapping me up in a big hug the second I was in arm’s reach. “Thank you so much for agreeing to help. You’re an angel. I would have been so stuck without you.”

  I squeezed back, the hug dragging up so many memories of dropping into Aunt Drina’s office for a chat or a hug whenever I felt sad or overwhelmed or needed advice. It wasn’t like I’d stopped talking to her after I’d stopped classes, but now, instead of seeing her practically every day, sometimes for hours, I maybe saw her once a week. I’d forgotten how much I missed this part of my dance life.

  “I didn’t really have a choice. Leia guilted me into it,” I said into her shoulder.

  My aunt laughed and let go, stepping back to regard me with an amused look. “Of course she did. Remind me to thank her the next time I see her.” She glanced up at the clock and then back at me, still grinning but trying to look all business. “Okay, so the adult contemporary starts in ten minutes. That class is in the rose studio. Usually about twelve or so show up. Keep it at an advanced beginner level, max.”

  Nerves bubbled up in my stomach and I leveled my gaze at her. “Are you still sure about this?”

  “Definitely. Mila will probably tear another ligament if you even hint at doing something close to intermediate or advanced,” she said, “and Sandy will complain that you’re making it too hard for her to keep up if you go too fast. Stick to beginner.”

  “I mean, me teaching adults,” I said, wondering if she even saw the problem. It was one thing teaching people younger than me who didn’t really know better, but these people probably expected their dance teachers to have degrees and actual experience. “Won’t they get upset that I’m not, you know, a real dance teacher?”

  “You’ll do great,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Amy was only a few years older than you and they had no problem with her teaching them.” Her eyes drifted to the clock again. “Go on, I’ll catch up with you after.”

  I shouldered my dance bag and nodded.

  “I’ll be in the little studio if you need anything,” she added, before practically pushing me back out into the waiting room.

  The rose studio was just as obnoxiously pink as it always had been, the walls above the barre cluttered with pictures of kittens inside pointe shoes and close-ups of tutus and roses. The gray marley floor had lost its sheen from when it had been replaced when I was fifteen, and the old sound system in the corner was perched on neon pink shelves and packed with layers upon layers of CDs. I dropped my bag in front of the shelves and, after a glance at Aunt Drina’s museum-worthy collection of music, hooked my phone up to the system and pulled up one off the playlists I used when I needed to warm up for cheer.

  “Oh my goodness, is that you, Grace?” A voice came from the doorway and I turned, seeing a woman with dark curls pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head step inside the studio with a wide grin. “It is you. Wow, what a blast from the past. Are you taking over for Amy?” Little wrinkles had cropped up around her eyes, but I recognized her as one of the adults who had been taking classes with Drina as far back as I could remember.

  I nodded, wracking my brain for her name. “Yup. It’s good to see you again…Mila?” I hoped she didn’t hear the uncertainty in my tone when I said her name.

  “It’s good to see you back. This school just hasn’t felt the same without you hanging around all the time. I remember you sitting over there—” she nodded at the far corner of the studio, “—doing your homework between classes. How are you? Did you graduate yet?”

  “June 21st,” I said, looking past her to wave in a few uncertain students standing in the door. “Come on in, I’m Grace, I’m taking over for Amy.” The room was starting to fill, a few other familiar faces joining the group of about ten adults that ranged from their twenties to a small woman with completely white hair. I was the youngest person in the room by at least five years.

  “Congratulations.” Mila continued. “Are you going to college after?”

  I felt like I was being cross-examined by a PTA mom, but tried not to show my annoyance. “Penn State.”

  She lit up. “That’s great. I remember you mentioning you wanted to go there. Are you going for dance? I hear they have a great program.”

  “Um, no, for engineering.” Before she could drill me anymore, I hit play on my playlist. “Um, let’s get started. Is everyone here?” I looked past her to the rest of the group. At the nods around the room, I slipped my phone on top of one of the speakers and reached up to tighten my ponytail.

  “Grace is Drina’s niece. She used to dance here,” Mila explained to the general room, finally taking what I assumed was her usual spot on the floor, center front. “It was such a shame when she stopped. She’s such an amazing dancer. You’ll see when we get to the combination. I think she held the school record for individual awards in competition.”

  “No pressure,” I said under my breath, then pulled up my spine and chin to try and look a little more teacher-like. “Okay, let’s start with a nice and easy warmup and stretch. Follow me, and if you can’t do something, adapt or let me know so I can show you how to adapt.” I waited for the right spot in the music and started my usual set of warmups, the same ones Drina had been teaching at her school for decades.

  “See, I told you. They all go through that stage where they rebel, go off to become cheerleaders, and then they always come back because they realize dance is so much better than cheer,” Mila whispered to the man stretching next to her. I shut my eyes and didn’t bother to correct her, only pretended I didn’t hear as I melted into a deep plié and arched my arm over my head to stretch to the other side.

  This was going to be a long class.

  Warm up and technique had gone smoothly, with only one of the adults rubbing her ankle after we’d worked through a few basic pencil turns. My worries about having to actually teach different turns and jumps from scratch had faded as soon as I realized the class had enough experience to keep up and that I wasn’t going to break them if I asked them to try something new.

  I hadn’t had time to prepare a center combination for the class, so I racked my brain to remember a simple one from one of my early competition dances.

  “Okay, I’m going to do this straight through at first, but try to follow along. I promise it’s not too complicated.” I cycled through my playlist to find a good song to match the choreography, then put it on repeat and hurried back to the center front of the room. I counted down the beat for the class before stepping straight out into a deep second position plié. The familiar combination poured out of me into simple steps I’d done a million times before. It was only a few bars of music, but an unexplainable feeling of loss and missing tightened in my chest and
I forced out the last few steps. I glanced in the mirror, hoping no one else had noticed the emotions that were running across my face and pouring into my movements. I wanted to run out of the room.

  Trying to hide the tightness in my throat, I said, “Mila, you seem to have picked up the pattern, can you go over it with everyone while I step out for a second?” I was betting she’d done this combination before in one of her classes. I couldn’t be the only former student who had recycled this choreography.

  She nodded, rolling her shoulders confidently as she tried to hide how out of breath she was. “Sure.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and tried to look unconcerned as I headed for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as I was out of the room, I leaned my head against the wall and took a deep breath, letting the much cooler hallway air wash over me. Aunt Drina was letting me “ease back in” to dance the first week by only taking on the adult group, but if I couldn’t even hold myself together for them, I had no idea how I was going to make it to the recital.

  “You agreed to do this. People are counting on you,” I muttered to myself under my breath. “So suck it up.”

  One of the other teachers I didn’t recognize passed me, paused to take in my sweaty pose, and asked, “Um, is everything okay?”

  “Just taking a minute,” I said, then added, more as if I were talking to myself than to anyone else, “Don’t mind me. I’m weirdly emotional today. Probably my period messing with my hormones. I’ll be back to practical soon.”

  “Okay?” she said, furrowing her brow at me for a minute before quickly adding, “Let me know if you need me to call Drina,” and hurried off without waiting for me to answer.

  Great, I’d just scared one of the other teachers. With my luck, she was going to quit, too, rather than deal with the owner’s “hormonal” niece and then I’d be stuck teaching yet another bunch of classes. I let out a little laugh, and, before I could potentially cause any more damage, took another deep breath and rolled against the wall to face the door again. “Back to work,” I said to myself, before opening the door and stepping back into the combination as if I’d never left.