“Let’s Sleep on It Tonight” slowed to an end. Karen and her partner danced until it finished, then paused in the quiet between the songs. Karen rocked back and forth on her feet, waiting. The next song was faster, more bouncy, and brought a twinkling grin to her partner’s face. He bobbed his head to the beat three times, then they started.
Karen glided across the room as if a cushion of air lay between her feet and the wooden floor. It was better than flying. The rush of adrenaline made her giddy. The people standing around the edge of the dance floor blurred into a white mass. A swift comparison with the other dancers reassured Karen she was the best. She felt her feet go faster. She wanted to throw her head back and laugh, but didn’t; it wouldn’t have been proper.
Her partner danced well, with an easy grace and a bit of skill. He didn’t talk to her, though he smiled often. Karen knew she made him appear a better dancer than he actually was. She tried to stay in that supportive partner role, trying not to be a prima donna, but she couldn’t rein in her feet as he turned her. She spun too many times, making him wait. When she looked up, a forgiving grin filled his face. After that he turned her often, pausing and subduing his dance for hers. Karen felt so grateful she could have cried. She spun faster now, like a moth when it first finds a flame.
After the proper three songs, all she could dance with any one man without giving him ideas, she pulled away and thanked him with a slight curtsy. He bowed with a large flourish in return. She hoped she could dance another set with him later.
The next song was a familiar line dance, “The Turkey Three-Step.” She stood at the perimeter for a minute to watch for any local variations. A few cropped up, nothing to throw off the rhythm of the dance, so she flowed into the center, joining the steps in perfect time.
Now she could really let go. She didn’t have to worry about a partner or what anyone else thought. She could discharge the energy cached in her legs and feet and toes. She added small touches — an extra kick at the turn, a couple of shakes as she moved forward, a twist of her wrist, fingers splayed, as she sidestepped — all the things she needed to do to make the dance her own. It felt good to express herself and to lose all her lonely aches in the music.
Karen barely glanced at the surrounding dancers. Sure, some of them were good, but she felt magnanimous. She didn’t need to compete with anyone tonight. She would forget she had so little cash. Instead, the hall could become her temple, she, a dervish, sacrificing herself for them. She could dance until a fey light shone through her, until she was pure and clean, her sweat smelling sweet. She did still love to dance.
After the song ended, Karen heard someone close to her say hello. She jumped and turned around. Frieda was standing behind her. Impulsively, Karen took both of Frieda’s hands in her own, greeting her the same way she had always greeted Angie. Frieda’s hands were smaller than Karen’s, and warm. When Karen felt Frieda squeeze her hands, she looked down, embarrassed. They had only just met, and it wasn’t, well, normal. She dropped Frieda’s hands and didn’t meet her eye again before the music started.
Karen started adding her own flourishes right away. Frieda matched her step for step: as soon as Karen came up with a new twist, Frieda also started doing it, almost at the same time. The warm glow spread through Karen’s belly again. They augmented each other’s dance, dancing with each other in a line. When Frieda smiled the Angie smile again — one eyebrow raised while the other half of her lips lifted — Karen felt blessed. She chanced a set of syncopated finger snaps. Frieda was right with her, the rhythms piling up on top of one another. Karen let herself laugh out loud with joy.
The next song, “King of the Mountain,” was a country waltz. Neither Karen or Frieda looked for other partners. They stayed in the center of the bobbing dancers, weaving around each other with slow, intricate steps and expressive arm gestures. They almost danced like a couple, moving from side to side, mirror images. Karen felt her boots running out of steam, the slow movements releasing the pressure faster than the two-stepping had. Maybe she could leave the floor with Frieda after the waltz.
Karen looked away from Frieda once. A heavyset woman with a big bosom smiled at her before her partner turned her again. Maybe Annaville was a different place, and she could be accepted here. She extended her arm to Frieda, as if she was passing a fragile glass ball to her. Frieda accepted it gracefully, then passed it back. More than once their hands almost touched.
As the music wound down, Karen reached for Frieda’s hand, her fingers extended. Frieda smiled at her, and reached out her hand as well. But before their fingers met, the man in the corner switched from the soft music and started playing “So Much for Pretending,” another fast two-step. Frieda turned abruptly to look at him. Karen retracted her hand. When Frieda looked back, she snapped her fingers and slapped her feet. Stunned, Karen didn’t respond immediately. Frieda did another flurry of steps, heel-to-toe with her feet turned out, and threw Karen another smile.
Was it a smile of friendship? Or mocking challenge? A voice inside her head warned, No! Don’t do this. This is your chance. Walk away now! But Karen wouldn’t let herself leave, though her boots were no longer controlling her dance. She paused for another beat and swept her eyes over Frieda. The quilted yoke on Frieda’s blouse was obviously hand-sewn on top of a plain shift, and her jeans showed wear down the thighs and through the knees. Her boots, too, were scuffed. Karen added a half-stag leap to her hitch-kick, spun on her heels and snapped her fingers. She wasn’t about to be outdone by a simple waitress at a local café.
Frieda’s smile sharpened. Fiercely they danced at each other. Sometimes they copied and changed the other’s steps, sometimes they came up with new portions of dance. Even during the slow dances they didn’t rest.
Within two hours Frieda’s frizzy hair flattened down with sweat, her eyes closed to half-mast exhaustion. Karen thought she still looked beautiful, even though it wasn’t right for her to notice that way. Soon after that, Frieda stopped challenging or bringing new flourishes to their dance. A thick core of excitement strengthened Karen’s bone and fueled her feet. She felt loose and warm, ready to dance forever. She bounced on the balls of her feet with every step and spun often. The thrill made her breath come short and shallow. An intoxicating heat filled her chest, like an expanding balloon, anxious to explode. The taste of near victory, sweeter than any pie, made her forget all the empty miles between dance halls.
The man in the corner was playing “One More Last Chance” when Frieda tripped and fell. Karen didn’t stop. Chin raised high, she clicked her heels in triple time and danced a fandango around the girl, clapping her hands over her head. She had won. Again. The balloon burst through her limbs, melting all her hard places, filling her with beauty. She danced on her toes, in love with the world, which must now surely love her back. For a measureless moment she danced at the top of the world. The stars moved in mere mimicry of her faultless steps. Crystal music shimmered in the soft night air, then gently carried her back to earth.
When she looked over her shoulder at Frieda, the other girl shot her a look of contempt that burned even in the night’s heat.
Suddenly Karen saw Angie on the floor, fallen as she had the night they competed with each other for the red boots she now wore. It had been an endurance contest. If they’d been a true couple, they could have danced with each other, supported each other. But they had been separate dancing forces, competing against each other for a single prize, like girls were supposed to, according to her mama.