Two to Tango, page 4
“Yeah,” she sighs. “I’m almost done with the documents for the Lorenzo case, so I’ll bring them over to you by the end of the day.”
We gather our leftover lunches and slowly walk back into the building side by side.
“Start on the notes for the Turner case when you can, please,” I call out, heading right to my office. And when I enter it, I get back to my own pile, my own to-do list, my head down.
Except the shoes pull me from my work. The conversation at lunch is still wedged in the back of my mind. It’s all a distraction I can’t afford, but I think about the women in my life that got up and made shit happen without any fear. My grandmother, who decided to take up dancing as a young woman and continue on to compete. Who traveled all over the world and created a life she wanted to live. My mother, who packed up her family and built a life in a new country.
And I look at myself in the mirror and wonder where the ball got dropped. My life is one comprised of guilt and fear. I live in calculated decisions and apologies. I don’t jet set around the world. I certainly didn’t start a new life in a new country, relying on my own strengths and the kindness of strangers to get by.
All I’ve got is a list I’ve been checking off intently every day of my life to make my parents proud, a job I work way too fucking hard at, and now some shoes.
But what if.
I look around the office, find everybody deep in their own work, then pull up Google to search for tango classes near me. A small list comes up. The number one hit is that ballroom where Larissa went on the date, but another one in particular catches my eye. Something like what I’m looking for. Dance classes specific to tango, a couple of miles from here in a dance studio in downtown New River. A new twelve-week session starts this Thursday with—according to the website—renowned tango dancers Logan Beck and Tara O’Byrne.
That’s too soon. I would have to coordinate with my clients, figure out my schedule and the timing of it.
Twelve weeks of the fundamentals of tango, it reads. Each week will focus on a different technique. We will work together to give you confidence, make you a strong tango dancer, and most of all, have fun while doing it.
That’s a tall order.
But what if I put aside some of the logical thinking for a minute? Clearly nothing is logical if I’m even entertaining doing this. Maybe I like the idea of being a strong tango dancer or gaining confidence or, shockingly, having fun. I don’t even know what that word means anymore.
I hover above the Sign up now! button, my heart racing as I consider doing it. What if my family found out? My fingers twitch just a little. Should I even be spending money on something so frivolous? My hand moves off the mouse. Maybe the shoes weren’t meant to be worn, just admired from a distance.
“I can’t do this right now,” I whisper, just in case anybody else can see what I’m trying to do on my computer. In my own office. Behind a locked door. I’m getting paranoid.
A quick knock breaks me out of my stupor. I rapidly minimize the screen.
“Come in,” I say, trying to sound as calm as I can.
Jim pokes his head in, paperwork in hand. “Hey Julie, could you stay late on Thursday?” he asks, not really waiting for an answer. “Barbara said you didn’t have anything else going on and you’d say yes.”
Of course, she did.
“I can’t,” I blurt out.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I forgot I have … something important that came up.” I must look pale as a ghost.
“Oh.” He’s surprised. “Okay, not a problem. I’ll get Larissa on it.” He walks away, leaving the door ajar behind him.
I look back at my computer, pulling up the website I couldn’t let myself exit out of.
Maybe the shoes were meant to be worn. What if they are a sign to take command of my life? What if I want to do something for myself for once? Something I can love, something that can bring back some zest for life. Something that can help me reclaim my time. No emails, no messages, no phone calls from Barbara.
No assumptions that I have nothing else going on.
What if I took one step outside of my comfort zone? Just one step.
Would it change everything?
Fire at my fingertips, I click on the Sign up now! button and quickly fill out the form. Once I submit it, I step back and try not to think about the most impulsive thing I’ve done in about ten years. You’d think I just decided to rob a bank.
Maybe abuela wanted me to do this. Maybe she didn’t. But maybe the more important part is that I want to. I think.
Maybe I want to try.
Larissa peeks her head in. “Hot date?” she says with a smirk.
I jump, startled from her accusation. “No, no. Just … a family thing.”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “That’s no fun.”
I feel guilty for lying, giving her an answer that could easily dismiss her. But Larissa is kind and thoughtful, and she tries. And she indirectly put this idea in my head, so I can’t help but change my answer and tell her instead, “I’m trying something new.”
Her face lights up. “As you should,” she responds supportively.
“I’ll let you know how it goes.” I aim for friendly.
“Can’t wait!”
“Sorry Jim threw more work your way.”
“It’s fine.” She shrugs. “Better to be productive here than to be out on another disappointing date.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Now I feel guilty about doing this, about having somebody else pick up my slack. “Well, let me finish up what I can to keep your work to a minimum.”
“Thanks, Julie,” she says, a grateful smile on her face as she leaves my office and heads back to her own.
And then I make it a point to work until I’m the last one in this building to make up for the time I’ll be spending away from it.
Chapter five
Julieta
I’m wearing my power pants to this first class. Well, my high waisted trousers that Agostina lovingly refers to as my power pants. The ones I didn’t realize I always wore on court days. Maybe I picked them today for an extra boost of confidence.
I rushed out of work, almost embarrassed, as I left my surprised coworkers behind to make it on time for this six o’clock class. Larissa whispered, “Take me with you!” as I gathered my things and walked out the door.
I quickly park, and before I get out of the car, I shakily place the shoes on my feet, heart pounding as I do.
The website said you didn’t need a partner for the classes, but I still see couples paired up and chatting when I walk in. I might be the youngest person here, except for the blonde woman greeting me who seems closer to my age.
“Hi! Are you here for the tango class?” she asks enthusiastically.
I nod, walking up to her slowly. “Hi. Yes.”
“Wonderful. Welcome! What’s your name?”
“Julie Martí.”
She checks down a list on a clipboard. “Perfect. My name is Tara. We’ll be starting shortly so you can get settled in studio B with the other students.”
“Okay, great. Thank you.”
This was a bad idea.
I feel very much like the odd one out. Everybody seems to know each other, chatting and laughing. Most are wearing tango shoes, some are even wearing dancing dresses. I’m out of my element.
This studio is like any other unassuming dance studio: wood floors, a wall of mirrors, bright lights, plenty of space. I linger in the back, unsure of how to proceed, holding on to my purse like a lifeline.
Tara seems nice enough. Maybe she won’t notice if I quietly slip out now. She’s speaking with an older woman in a form-fitting dress with roses all over it. I’ll just pretend to search for the bathroom and calmly walk right out. I walk backwards, slowly making my way to the door, ready to run for the hills. And when I turn around to walk out, my face comes into harsh contact with … a chin? A neck? What did I just run into?
“Woah, there.” A deep male voice says while hands grab hold of my upper arms to keep me steady. “Is class over already?” he asks, and when I look up to meet his face, his smirk tells me he’s joking.
“Oh. I just … needed the bathroom.”
“Ah. Right through there and to your right,” he says, pointing toward the hallway just outside of the studio.
“Thank you,” I manage to get out, face probably turning beet red.
I walk to the bathroom quickly, splashing water on my face to snap myself out of it. It’s one class. For crying out loud, I can do one class. Maybe I can partner up with that guy I just ran into.
I make my way to the studio again and get situated in the back row and out of view.
“Good evening, everybody. Welcome to twelve weeks of the fundamentals of Tango,” Tara states at the front of the class. “This is a recurring class that we offer here in the studio so I know some of you, but I do see new faces. My name is Tara and I co-teach this class with my partner, Logan.”
Of course, it would be the guy I just face planted into. Of course.
Logan is up front next to Tara now, his messy dark hair like he just rolled out of bed, a fitted white t-shirt, and loose-fitting black pants. She’s in a stretchy black dress that looks surprisingly comfortable.
The students say hello back, and judging by the enthusiastic reply, it seems Logan is quite popular in this crowd. Understandably so, I guess. He’s attractive.
“For this class, we are going to focus on teaching basic steps and getting you comfortable with tango,” Logan starts. “Dancing shoes are ideal, but if not, any comfortable footwear will do the trick. You need to feel confident in moving around so please wear loose or stretchy clothing to allow for movement. We start at six and it runs for an hour. We do ask that you silence your phones as well, if possible.”
Tara smiles, and with a nod says, “Let’s begin.”
“With Tango, there is a leader and a follower,” Logan tells the class. “People think it's always the men that lead and the women that follow, but tango has a long history of men dancing together to practice. And as time has gone on, it is not unusual to see two men or two women dance together, where one gravitates to leading, and one prefers to follow. Here, we welcome whatever you would like to do.”
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know that I want to be a leader, so I aim to follow instead.
“For the purposes of this class, Tara will teach the follower steps, and I will teach the leader steps.”
“Tango is considered a walking dance,” Tara says. “So, we’re going to begin with the foundation of the dance, the basic step.”
“The basic step is an eight-count step and it looks like this.” Logan shows us the move as a leader, and Tara shows us how to do the step as a follower.
“Now, let’s go slow. One.” She takes a step. “Two.” She takes another. “Three, four. Five, cross over. Six, step back. Seven and eight.”
We follow, all of us solo to start. I watch my feet, how they move in these shoes, and I’m struck by how good it feels.
It’s almost unbelievable to be here, doing this. I never thought I would. I figured these dreams would have stayed with eight year old Julie, falling away with everything else I loved when I was young. But here, learning steps, wearing these remarkable shoes, it feels like I’m close to something I’ve been unknowingly chasing for a long time. It’s almost too overwhelming, and I worry I might shut down.
Logan and Tara continue to speak, Logan mostly showcasing steps, slowly adding on to them, and letting us practice several times. He talks about the differences in Argentine tango versus ballroom tango. He speaks of the competitions he’s done, the formalities of it. He even mentions how, “even though this isn’t a history class, we can certainly take a minute to understand and appreciate the origins of tango. How it came to life in the impoverished neighborhoods of Buenos Aires, pulling inspiration from African and European dances.”
The thing is, I don’t know Logan, but I know he is a very talented dancer. That much is evident. And he could surely give the Wikipedia rundown of Argentine tango. But what else is evident to me now is how much I can sense the soul of it, the heart of it. And how a strange thing is happening to me in these shoes. It sounds ridiculous. Hell, it feels ridiculous. But I feel powerful. I feel graceful. I feel … free.
“Now, we’re going to do something called a practice hold or a practice embrace,” Tara says to the class. “The practice embrace is not a proper tango hold. It’s meant to give you more space to practice the steps, to work on them as a beginner with a partner. You’re welcome to pair up with whoever you’d like for this exercise.”
Some students pair up with their dates, others pair up with other students, and I’m left lingering in the back.
Well, this is awkward.
But then Logan walks over to me, stopping to get the attention of a male student that was next to me in the back row.
“Would you like to partner up with Ethan?” he asks me.
“Sure,” I respond. It saves me the embarrassment of dancing by myself. Ethan comes over to me, and we position ourselves ready to dance.
“Hey, I’m Ethan.”
“Julie,” I say in greeting.
Logan nods and continues his walk around the room, helping other couples.
“Hold onto each other’s upper arms like so.” Logan demonstrates with Tara. “Try to keep your spine straight and your chest open. Keep your elbows up and give yourself space.”
“As a follower, sometimes it’s easy to want to cave in, but don’t be afraid to open up,” Tara says, widening her arms and keeping her back straight. “Allow yourself to take up space here.”
Is she still talking about tango or my life?
Ethan and I take our positions, and this feels much more intimate than I imagined it would. Not that I imagined much, but I’m almost too shy to be this close to a stranger, putting myself into awkward positions with him. I aim to focus on my steps, to keep my head down to look at my feet.
“So, is this your first time?” Ethan asks.
“Um. Yes,” I manage, working on the basic eight count, stumbling a little as I go.
Our faces are close enough that even talking feels intimate. I pull my face back to answer but all it does is mess up my form.
“That’s okay. It takes a while to figure it out. I wasn’t very good at the beginning either, but I think I’m one of the best ones now,” he says as I try to keep my head down. Whatever cologne he’s wearing is harshly offensive to my nostrils, and his steps are hard to keep up with. He seems like the kind of guy Larissa ended up on that date with.
But the next voice I hear isn’t his. It’s Logan’s, right at my side.
“You know, the thing about tango is that it should involve relinquishing your ego,” Logan says out loud to the class. “In order to be a good partner, there should be a compromise. Teamwork is meeting where your partner is at. It’s choosing to not humiliate or upstage the other.” He turns to my partner. “Ethan, this is her first class, so you need to meet her where she’s at.”
Now this is really awkward.
“Julie, try to keep your spine straight,” he says to me in a softer tone, placing his hand lightly on my back. It feels warm, like there’s an underlying current of electricity coming from his palm. “Lift your elbows up and try to keep a box frame here to give yourself room.” I nod in response, but then he turns to Ethan and says, “Watch the basic step as a leader again.”
Logan takes my hand, stepping in to hold me in a practice embrace. “It should look like this.” He then leads me with precision, one basic step together. It’s only a couple of seconds, a brief eight count, but it pales in comparison to what I just danced.
Is this what dancing should feel like?
Well, no wonder he’s the professional.
Logan releases my arms, and it leaves me feeling inexplicably dazed. Ethan and I come back together, working on our moves, maybe awkwardly laughing through it. I’m almost desperate to take the reins and lead him myself.
I listen intently, and I continue to practice the moves little by little. Tara and Logan walk around the studio looking at form, stepping in to help. She keeps a friendly, approachable smile; he’s humming a song. Tara gives me a small smile of encouragement as she approaches. And when Logan comes over again, his brow furrows slightly, his mouth set in a firm line.
Am I doing something wrong? I stop for a moment.
“No, keep going,” he says.
So I do, and he continues to look at me with that intensity. I will myself to not think about him, or Ethan's less than desirable leading, and focus on my feet instead. One foot in front of the other, cross over, feet together, and back. He wordlessly walks back to the front and calls out the end of class.
When Ethan and I finally part, he stumbles and steps right on my shoe.
“Ah, shit,” I wince, leaning down to grab my foot.
“Oh no, I’m sorry. You’re alright, though?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a response.
“Mmhmm,” I mumble, nodding with a tight smile.
“So, for the end of class, we like to do a review,” Logan says at the head of the class. “Tara and I will dance the moves you’ve learned today. We’ll dance slowly so you can see them and then we can have everybody partner up again and try if you’d like.”
Tara sets up the speakers to play a song in tempo. The music starts on cue, and I am not prepared for my reaction. There’s an overwhelming sense of pride in the unmistakable sounds of piano and bass and violin. The rich, bold, incredibly romantic music loved so deeply, so fiercely by my grandmother is now here. The music I would hear in my dreams as a child is now in this small dance studio, the sound booming from the speakers. I feel it within me, setting me alight.
I catch my reflection in the mirror in the front of the room; I look terrified.
Logan and Tara stand facing each other then bring their hands together. Her arm wraps around him, and Logan’s arm wraps around Tara, his hand set in the middle of her back. They do the basic step and cross, and I watch, soaking it all in.
