You Bet Your Heart, page 17
We do this for about thirty more minutes before I notice that the sweat is making my edges frizz on my face and my dress is now plastered to my body.
“Okay. Sorry, Megan Thee Stallion. My knees need a break,” Ezra calls out between exhausted breaths.
I snort. “Come on.” I grab his hand and lead him back to our seats. Getting off the dance floor is its own type of special skill, ducking and dodging beautiful dresses and moving body parts. Without saying anything, he grabs two water bottles off the refreshments table and hands me one. We guzzle them down while we sit, our bodies wobbly, like we’ve just finished a marathon.
We take loud recovery breaths, just smiling at one another. Even in this dim lighting, Ezra glows. And when I see my joy reflected in his own face, I brighten, too. Has this light always been in me, or has he just helped me remember how to shine?
I’m about to speak, when the lights in the room dim low and the DJ’s smooth voice comes on. Small bits of white foam release from the sky, sprinkling down. I extend my arms to catch the magic.
Every senior is now in the clouds, in this magical snow. Me, full of enchantment. Ezra, straight out of a dream—his jacket is off, his sleeves are rolled up, a bow tie hangs across his neck, and his top button is undone.
Ezra wraps his arm around me, but this time it feels different. There’s an urgency in the embrace that makes my heart beat faster and louder as we head to the dance floor. I squeeze back and let our bodies intertwine. He doesn’t say a word. He just holds me close, and I note just how well we fit, how there’s space at his collarbone for my head, how my arms make their way around his neck comfortably. He moves his hands to my waist and touches my back, which causes me to laugh because it tickles. Ezra takes his hands off, and my entire body misses him already. Then he touches me again, intimately, and my body rejoices. Sound has been sucked out of the room, because I only hear his heart beating through his chest, like a metronome.
Ezra keeps one hand on my lower back, and his other hand comes around, brushing my bare collarbone.
“You look really beautiful tonight.” His lips graze my ear as the words chase down my spine.
Ezra runs the tips of his fingers across the side of my face. “Can I be real for a moment?” he whispers. Behind us, the room twinkles; gold and silver bounce off the walls like light refracted by diamonds.
“Yeah, of course.”
He is like all my favorite things: a new book, pages untouched; the beach in the early morning; fresh flowers in bloom. He grazes his thumb down my back, making small circles.
“I can’t believe how we’ve found each other again, you know? After all these years,” he murmurs. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence. It can’t be. When I realized how much time I let pass, I almost wanted to kick myself for being so dense. Maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am.”
I nuzzle my face in his chest before responding. “What are you saying?”
“Just that…you’re my best friend, you know? You’re the brightest star in my universe. That I don’t just think, but I know that I’ve…I’ve loved you for a very long time, SJ.”
His eyes widen, probably mirroring mine. Because it’s like we’ve been waiting our whole lives for this. And maybe we have. This moment feels worth the wait. He smiles, a dimple denting his cheek. We gravitate toward one another, and our lips meet. This kiss is unlike any of our previous kisses. This is a kiss built on a love sanctioned by the cosmos. This kiss is love coming home to its rightful owner. It’s a passionate one, so much so that I can feel us both grow taller, stronger, together. When we pull away from each other, I know I have unlocked a new superhuman power.
Our heads spin for a few seconds. Before either of us can let out another word, the DJ plays some hip-hop loudly, way too fast and upbeat for the moment we’ve just come out of. The lights flash obnoxiously, and a crowd of bodies flood the dance floor.
Hand in hand, Ezra and I walk to our table. I sneak a peek back at the scene, the clouds, the smiling faces, the traces of fake snow, the excitement. Never, ever could I have imagined any of this. I’ve been too caught up in school and grades and the idea of being the best. I didn’t think I could exist in this world, be here, with this human by my side. Freely.
Maybe this is my wildest dream.
Ezra has changed the name of this conversation to
SUNDAY
Ezra 12:45 p.m.: I have a prom hangover. I wish we could go back.
Sasha 12:47 p.m.: Me too. It was…perfect.
Ezra 12:47 p.m.: It was perfect squared. Perfect to the perfect degree. Pick you up for school tomorrow?
Sasha 12:48 p.m.: Yes please
MONDAY
Ezra 9:15 a.m.: Would you rather be an alien or a zombie?
Sasha 10:00 a.m.: Alien. Closest I can get to space travel, duh. You?
Ezra 10:11 a.m.: Zombie. But only if you’d be a zombie with me. Wanna go out and eat some brains? I’ll bring the hot sauce.
Sasha 10:12 a.m.: So tempting…
TUESDAY
Sasha 11:00 a.m.: Would you rather be able to speak any language you want or speak to animals?
Ezra 11:11 a.m.: Animals. You? Also, make a wish.
Sasha 11:12 a.m.: Okay, Eli Thornberry. I’ll say any language. I really hate how bad my Korean is.
Ezra 11:13 a.m.: Maybe you could take a class next year in college? It’s never too late to start. Try something new, surprise yourself.
WEDNESDAY
Ezra 8:15 p.m.: Would you rather read the book or watch the movie?
Sasha 8:15 p.m.: Do you even know me?
Ezra 8:16 p.m.: You’re right. Read the book. I’m the same. Just checking!
Sasha 8:17 p.m.: We should bring that old thing back?
Ezra 8:18 p.m.: Pick the title and I’ll be your living, breathing, walking audiobook.
THURSDAY
Ezra 7:30 a.m.: Tutoring today, right? I have something for Ben.
Sasha 7:31 a.m.: Awesome. What is it?
Ezra 7:33 a.m.: That’s confidential information.
Sasha 7:33 a.m.: Fine. I’ll just eavesdrop.
Ezra 7:34 a.m.: Dope. See you soon.
Sasha 7:34 a.m.: xx
FRIDAY
Sasha 10:00 a.m.: Would you rather be kissed or hugged every day?
Ezra 10:02 a.m.: By you?
Sasha 10:02 a.m.: …
Ezra 10:03 a.m.: You know how much I love a good hug. But I’ll take whatever I can get.
SATURDAY
Ezra 1:15 p.m.: I’m gonna go to the gym and then maybe a movie. Wanna come?
Ezra 1:15 p.m.: Or get dinner?
Sasha 3:45 p.m.: Sorry, busy with mom today.
Ezra 3:45 p.m.: Tell ohmma hello.
SUNDAY
Ezra 9:15 p.m.: I don’t wanna go to school. I think I’m gonna take a day off. Join me?
Sasha 9:17 p.m.: I can’t. But I can get a ride with P in the morning.
Ezra 9:18 p.m.: I’ll miss you. Love you, SJ.
My fingers hover over the keyboard on my phone. Ugh, it’s so easy for Ezra to say “I miss you” or, when he’s feeling super affectionate, “I love you.” It just rolls off his tongue or his fingers. Whenever I try to type the words and I see them staring back at me, I panic.
Do I love Ezra? I mean, I know I love spending time with him. I love being with him, and of course, kissing him is just as nice. I type the words again, and as soon as I do, my thumb hits backspace, deleting my thoughts. I know it’s weak, but I drop a heart emoji instead. Ezra never presses me to say it back. Not yet at least. One day I want to; I want to be able to tell him how I really feel.
My throat tightens. Relationships don’t come with manuals, and right now, I kinda wish they did. I guess I haven’t loved anyone new in so long, or in this way, that I’ve forgotten how to do it.
The post-prom glow and giddiness last for two glorious weeks. Two perfect weeks of Ezra and SJ, of school, of incessant texting, of the things that were once mundane now being delivered with a special twist. The love glow-up is real.
The following Thursday morning we’re in Ezra’s car headed to school, his hand in mine. Ezra pulls into the parking lot, and before turning off the car, he leans over with a hard stare. “Do you trust me?”
I smile. “Yeah, I do. Why?”
“Let me borrow you for the morning.”
I peer outside the car window, confused. “But we’re already at school. What do you mean?”
“I can have you back by lunch and of course for tutoring,” he says confidently. He raises his eyebrows and rubs the top of my thigh. I melt into him like butter on hot toast.
“Okay, but we need to be back by the end of lunch.” I try to sound more confident than I feel. I’m allowed to have a case of senioritis too, right?
Ezra puts the car in reverse, and then we are the only car exiting the lot.
We sit in a comfortable silence for ten minutes as he gets on the highway. I exhale, and Ezra chuckles.
“What? What’s that about?” I ask.
“I know you hate surprises, so I won’t make you suffer any longer.”
“Low-key…thank you.” To know me is to love me.
He points to the glove box. “There. In there.” Then he puts both hands on the wheel.
I lean forward and press the cold plastic button. The front drops down, and a bright white envelope sits on top of a pile of napkins and papers.
“Go ahead, open it.” Ezra steals a glance at me and then his eyes refocus on the road. I pick up the envelope—it’s light. I turn it over and pull out two tickets.
“No way,” I say, reading the words once, twice, three times. “An Alvin Ailey matinee? How did you?”
“My mom and the pit conductor are pretty good friends; they used to play together in San Francisco. She pulled a favor.”
“This is incredible. I’ve always wanted to see this dance troupe perform, I just—” I examine the tickets again, trying to ignore the price in the corner. “Ooh, orchestra seats?!”
I grab his hand and kiss it. Doja Cat fills the car, and Ezra does a small shoulder shimmy on beat. My eagerness can’t be contained, so I let go through my favorite dances. My head and arms move in sync, and even though my seat belt is on, I’m able to move my arms and deliver small body rolls while Ezra drums on the steering wheel. We car dance for thirty minutes, until the windows begin to fog and Ezra flips on the AC, reminding us to breathe.
* * *
For the next hour, I sit at the edge of my front-row seat, mesmerized. I am in awe of the beauty, the mastery, the joy in the dancing, as well as the physical expression of my people and our history. I feel connected to something larger than myself, like my soul is speaking to other souls through some time portal. I don’t think I blink the entire time. I watch the show more intently than I’ve ever watched anything in my life.
The house lights come up, and onstage the dancers hold hands and take a synchronized bow. I’m the first on my feet, applauding loudly. Ezra follows, and then, one by one, the other guests do too. The dancers bow again, and I clap louder, harder. Each clap contains all my enjoyment, my pleasure, my gratitude, so I make sure they can hear it. The doors open and a wave of feelings ripples through my body, high tide. Small tears form. Tears of joy. I let them fall, salty in my mouth. I pat my eyes and turn to Ezra.
Ezra leans into me, eyes wide. We stand, hand in hand.
“Hold up,” I say as the other people make their way toward the center aisle to exit. I survey the crowd—who are they, what type of magical lives do they lead to be able to go to a dance show in the middle of the day? How awesome to be able to take time out of your life to honor and enjoy the things you love.
“That was so dope. You wanna get going?” Ezra asks, squeezing my hand.
I’m giddy; my eyes dart around the room. “What if…what if we wait? Give it two minutes, maybe three. The dancers are gonna come out after, I know it. We could try and get a photo?”
“Hell yeah! I love this energy.” Ezra begins walking down the aisle. The audience dissolves quickly, and sure enough, two dancers walk down as if to join us. He gives me a squeeze, and I go a limp, just a little.
I spot one of the lead dancers, Michelle Simon. She stands, long and lean. I remember her from all the routines, up in front, commanding the audience. Her skin is a deep, flawless brown, warm and glowing. She’s in a black tank-top leotard with short brown Uggs. She runs a hand over her head, which is freshly shaven. Each step she takes toward us, I swear the ground beneath me shakes. Behind her, the other dancers follow.
Ezra doesn’t waste a second. “Excuse me,” he calls out. Michelle stops in front of us and smiles. On her collarbone there’s a small tattoo, a butterfly with wings in the shape of Africa.
Ezra says, “We’re big fans. Would it be okay if we got a photo?”
“Absolutely,” she says; even her voice is beautiful, soft and melodic. Without hesitation, she puts her arm around my shoulder, and we pose, proper at first, and then, as if on cue, we throw up peace signs and duck lips.
Ezra rejoins and the other dancers join too. Just us, hanging after the show with the Alvin Ailey dance crew. No big deal? Huge, huge, biggest deal of my life.
“Y’all from around here?” Michelle asks. There’s something Southern in her voice; she kinda sounds like my dad’s big aunt. Ezra gives my arm a shove.
“Close by,” I reply. “The show was absolutely amazing.” Now they smile, proud.
Alvin Ailey dancers, in the flesh, in front of me.
Do it, Sasha. Just ask.
“How did you, um, how did you do that?” The words barely make it out of my mouth, but I have to know.
“The dances?” another asks. She has a slight foreign accent, but I can’t place it.
“I mean, yes, but also…” I pause again. I need another moment to align my thoughts. “It was more than dancing. How did you, you know, where did you learn to…” Shit. “I’m sorry. It’s just there was so much emotion, so much history, so much passion in every movement. I’ve danced before, but I’ve never, I’ve never been able to—”
“That fervor is already in you. The spirit you need to break free is all there. You just have to trust your gut, you know?” she says as we lock eyes. She gives me a small nod and then she removes her palm. From behind her, more of the dancers begin walking toward the front exit.
There’s a dance in the show called “Revelations,” and I feel like that’s happening now to me. Like she’s just given me the key to unlocking magic in my own life.
“All right, it’s time to eat!” someone in the group calls out. Michelle does a small but extremely graceful twirl, waves her hand, and walks out.
I turn to Ezra and kiss him, a light peck on the lips. “This was perfect. Thank you.”
“I just don’t want to be late for tutoring,” I say. I fiddle with my fingers to hide the irritation in my voice, but it’s hard. What is it about Murphy’s Law and the one time I decide to ditch school? What was supposed to be an hour car ride has turned into two, the highway bottlenecked due to a flat tire on a semi. I stare out the window as we inch toward our destination, afraid to show Ezra the worry on my face.
“Shit, I know. It’s out of my control. I think we’ll make it just in time for tutoring according to the GPS. Not so terrible if you’re a little late, right?”
I don’t answer him. Being behind schedule’s not the worst thing in the world, but it’s not my favorite.
We pull into the school parking lot five minutes before the final school bell rings.
“Back just in time.” Ezra unbuckles his seat belt. He presses his back against the door, facing me.
“Thank goodness.” I grab my phone and out of nervous habit pull up GradeSavR, our school’s app for grades and attendance. I check it daily, because, well, you know.
“Oh shit.” I freeze. “Mendoza posted our presentation grades. He must have gone over that today.”
“Word?” Ezra unplugs his phone from the aux cord and taps away at his screen. It takes a moment, but then his grade appears. I do my best not to peer over his shoulder, but I can’t help it.
“What’d you get?” The eagerness in my voice fills the car.
