Denise Gore Long
Fancy Feet Dance Studio bustled with life every Tuesday afternoon. Tiny dancers shuffled across polished floors, jazz favorites mingling with “5-6-7-8” from a nearby practice studio. Dorothy settled onto the cracked vinyl bench next to the man who always sat beside her. The studio discouraged adults from hanging around, so it was their only choice for seating.
Harold. He smelled faintly of stale coffee and Old Spice and always wore his cranky pants. She liked to needle him and make him talk.
She put down her cozy mystery and nodded toward the observation window as their grandkids paired up for partner work. “They seem to like each other.” He rewarded her effort with a grunt and continued working his Sudoku puzzle.
Her Sophie and his Leo were dancing as if their next juice pouch depended on it. Leo was all sharp lines and concentration. Sophie wore pink sequins like body armor and had an alarming amount of stage presence for a second grader.
Dorothy continued, “Of course, at that age I thought I’d marry a marshmallow Peep.”
He made a noise that could’ve been a chuckle or indigestion. “Might be better than the kid who still eats paste.”
She smiled and picked up her paperback. Her work here was done.
***
Next Tuesday, Dorothy again sat next to Harold. Same paperback, same Sudoku book.
Class hadn’t made it past its first four count when Leo and Sophie came tearing out of the studio.
Sophie grabbed her hand. “Grams, you have to or I’ll just die.”
Leo stood in front of Harold solemnly nodding as if the free world depended on whatever they were supposed to do.
“Miss Talia is teaching an adult class at the exact time as our class! Can you believe it?” Sophie’s eyes widened, clearly believing this was some sort of sign.
“Sophie dear, I don’t think—”
Leo chimed in. “Gramps, Miss Talia said she’d rather have you dance than sit in the waiting room. She said something about toileting.”
Sophie heaved a sigh worthy of someone twice her age and three times her size. “No, Leo, she said loitering.” She turned her attention back to the bench. “I think that means you can’t sit here anymore.”
You’d think all the money her daughter paid in dance fees would buy Dorothy a bit of consideration. Apparently not.
Sophie crossed her arms. “Plus, they’re going to paint the waiting room. They don’t want your old lungs to get sick.” She nudged her friend’s arm. “Right, Leo?”
When he was obviously confused, Sophie gave him the evil eye.
“Oh, right. The smell will be bad. Real bad. And Miss Talia said it would be okay for you to join them. As long as no one breaks a hip, she’s good.”
That’s how Dorothy and Harold got hoodwinked into learning the cha-cha. Harold in his orthotic loafers and Dorothy in her sensible Sketchers.
***
The music started before they were ready. Dorothy stood across from Harold, already preparing the apology she’d make to her hips come morning. He had the posture of someone who had never seen their feet before.
Miss Talia clapped her hands in rhythm. “Step, cha-cha-cha. Step, cha-cha-cha.”
By the second “cha,” Harold had stepped on Dorothy’s foot. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said through a wince. “Just . . . less stomping and more gliding.”
“I’m not the gliding type.”
She sighed and grabbed his hand. “Fine. I’ll lead.”
“You’re bossy.”
Their feet fumbled through the rest of class like two shopping carts trying to merge into the same aisle. But for a moment, their hands fit just right.
***
Week three, Harold wrapped his bum knee, and Dorothy switched into glitter flats. Class began, and they giggled over their missteps. She tripped over her toes, but Harold caught her. “Thanks. The floor moved.”
He flicked her dangly earring. “Nope. That was all you.”
She grinned. “Like them? I wore them especially for the cha-cha.”
“Well, Dorothy, I wore my least embarrassing socks. I guess we’re going all out.”
She smiled. “Call me Dot.”
“You can call me Hal.”
***
Week four, Dot wore a black sparkly skirt over leggings and Hal wore a bow tie with his white shirt. Cat sweaters were a thing of the past and gave way to a church blouse. Orthotic loafers were kicked aside and replaced with soft-soled slip-ons.
While waiting for their class to begin, Sophie and Leo inspected their appearance. Sophie nodded. “Not bad, Grams.”
Leo added with a suspicious note of pride. “You’re looking good too, Gramps. Miss Talia says you’re improving.”
Sophie grinned and elbowed Leo. “Told you dressing them up would speed things along.”
Leo gasped. “Sophie—”
Her eyes widened. “I mean . . . uh . . . speed along their cha-cha. You know. Dance technique.”
Harold frowned. “I don’t trust you two.”
“BYE!” Sophie shouted, grabbing Leo and escaping into their own studio.
***
On week six, Hal presented Dot with a paper flower made from a coffee filter. His cheeks turned pink. “Leo conned me into a craft project. Seemed fitting since this is our last class.”
“Thank you.” She sniffed it as if it were an exotic bloom and laid it on a nearby shelf.
When the music began, they took their positions—this time by choice. Their hands met without hesitation. Step. Cha-cha-cha.
They danced. Not perfectly, not smoothly, but with laughter in their shoulders and something warm blooming between missteps. At the end, their grandkids clapped wildly.
“You two are SO getting married,” Sophie declared.
Dot raised an eyebrow at Hal.
He held her gaze. “One dance at a time.” Then he dipped her low.
Her back cracked, his knees wobbled, and the kids rushed in with giggles and steady hands. She laughed, breathless and blushing. Maybe learning the cha-cha hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
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