Jivin' Tango

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this stripped book.

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Jivin’ Tango

Copyright © 2015 Connie L. Smith

All rights reserved.

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ISBN (ebook): 978-1-939590-44-2

Inkspell Publishing

5764 Woodbine Ave. 

Pinckney, MI 48169 

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Edited By Vicky Burkholder.

Cover art By Najla Qamber

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This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials.  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated

Dedication

To my fellow kindergartener, so many years ago, whose wife I refused to be in The Farmer in the Dell. You were too young to know such heartache.

Chapter 1

Lila

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I hate a rumba.

I can’t even pinpoint a precise reason for this distaste, but it’s there nonetheless. It’s possible all dancers have that one style that makes them want to beat a stuffed bear to pieces with a baseball bat—hey, I’m not homicidal—and this is the one that drives me up the wall.

But I have to play by the rules, and the rules insist the judges of this statewide, high school competition pick the dances for each couple. Said couple has to choreograph and perform that style at their school’s auditorium with eight judges present. When the results are tallied, the students with the three highest scores from each school will make it to the state show.

Three couples, and we’re one of sixteen trying out from Thomas Jefferson High School. Basically we’ll have to dazzle the judges if we want to stand out. As stated, rumba isn’t really my forte, so I’m already feeling out of my league.

I started dancing when I was in elementary school. Actually that’s not entirely true since I fell in love with the idea when I was barely a toddler. I would prance around my house in a costume, my unsteady feet attempting to mimic the moves I’d seen on the television.

And I know what you’re probably thinking. You might even be picturing it in your head. A ballerina tutu, cute little slippers, and my arms extended over my head as I turned an elegant circle. Good guess, but completely wrong. I was a lindy hopper all the way, and I still prefer those upbeat styles that leave me barely breathing after a few minutes on stage. Jive, swing, jitterbug—I love them. I’m at my best when my feet are rushing around the dance floor and my partner is swinging me wide.

But I don’t just like those types of dances, even if they are my favorites. In fact, I have soft spots for some of the stricter styles. I can rock a paso doble like no one’s business, and don’t get me started on the greatness that was my last tango. Unfortunately, for some reason, none of that enjoyment spills over into a rumba. And rumba I must lest I get kicked out of this competition before it really starts.

From behind me, my dance partner, Trent, chuckles. He shakes his head as well, and not a single strand of his blond hair moves. How could it with all the hair gel he’s used, spikes shooting up every way you could think of? It sounds like it has to look ridiculous, and I don’t think a person technically needs that much goo in his hair, but somehow he pulls it off. Which isn’t surprising because the guy is practically physical perfection. He’s built, and his eyes are so blue that, had I not known him since before kindergarten, I’d think he wore contacts. Add that to the goofy grin almost always on his lips, and he’s a gorgeous man.

He’s also like a brother to me, so there’s no romantic sparks flying. But he’s the best friend I ever had, and the only person on the planet I trust to toss me over his head.

When I quirk an eyebrow at him, he smiles. You’re so transparent. It’s one dance, Lila.

I groan, picking at the sleeve of my shirt. It’s not surprising he can read me so easily, and he hasn’t exactly hinted something secret. Anyone who knows anything about my dancing knows of my disdain for this type of routine. Still. It’s not nice to make fun. I hate rumbas. You know that.

I do, indeed. He inches forward and lets his eyes lock with mine in the mirrors we placed across the back of our school’s auditorium stage. But it’s already choreographed. It’s awesome from start to finish, and we’re performing it tomorrow. Stepping a bit closer, he wraps his arms around my shoulders and hugs my back to his chest. It’ll be over soon. I promise.

I’ll admit he has me feeling better, and I sigh as I pet the hands holding me. Yeah. Maybe I’ll get a jive next.

I say I in that context because I’m the choreographer for the two of us. Trent knows his steps, and he’s a phenomenal performer, but I have a knack for creating routines that tend to leave the judges amazed.

I’m not just bragging either. I’ve been registering for these annual competitions since I started high school. Trent’s older than I am and had been in the one before my freshman year, but he ditched his previous partner as soon as I was old enough to enter. Again, not surprising. It’s ridiculous how quickly Trent and I clicked when we met in a jazz class over a decade ago, and we’ve been the default couple for any competition that comes our way since.

Anyway, I did our choreography that first year, and our audition earned the highest score any freshmen at our school had ever gotten. Ever. It wasn’t enough to let us go to the state level, but no freshmen and only three sophomores from any school have made the final cut in the event’s history.

This is our second year competing together, Trent as a junior and me as a sophomore, so the bar is set high. Despite the tall reach, I have no plans of falling short. I’m going to be the fourth sophomore to dance in the state competition.

But I have to get through this rumba for that success.

With a long exhale, I pull away from Trent to face him. I place my hands on my hips as I consider the stage’s design, thinking of each step we took across every spot of space. Most of it was flawless, but one part just didn’t quite cut it for me. We have to work on that lift at the end of the first chorus. It was kind of sloppy.

Not my fault you gained weight. He’s joking, and I playfully smack his shoulder. Hey! This is dancing! Weight gain could throw the whole thing off!

Snickering, I shove him forward. Shut up, and get ready to catch me.

Lift with my knees...

I brace myself for my run, but pause long enough for one quick headshake. Idiot.

****

Dance practice ends about an hour later when I’m sure the lift is top quality. Trent and I are both sweaty and guzzling water as we put our gear back into our bags, and the moment I glance at my watch, I wince. I have to be ready in half an hour.

Trent looks at me for a few seconds, then scrunches his nose in feigned disgust. Not happening. I roll my eyes and sit on the floor to search my purse for my phone while Trent runs a hand through his hair—Oh wow! It moves!—and takes another drink of water. Where you going anyway?

David’s taking me to help him pick a suit for prom.

Trent tugs the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder. I can’t believe you’re still with that moron.

Even though I don’t stop scrolling through my missed texts, I spare Trent a smile. You sound jealous.

Of you? He shudders. That would basically be incest. He ignores the rows of seats in the auditorium to collapse on the floor beside me. But that’s because you’re basically my sister. And as your older sibling, it’s ingrained in me to take care of you.

I snort, gaze locked on my phone. Older sibling?

Yeah. He puts his fingers across the phone’s screen to block my view. When I peek at him, there’s an unusually hard expression on his face. I’m serious. I want you to be happy, but I want you to be okay, too. I don’t like that guy.

I stare at him for nearly a minute, trying to decide how to react. I know Trent isn’t jealous, despite my teasing. We genuinely are like brother and sister, and brothers and sisters watch out for one another. I want to take his concerns seriously, especially since this is the most intense warning he’s given me about the situation, but David’s my junior boyfriend who invited me to prom and has never shown me a reason to not trust him. Maybe you’re being paranoid.

I don’t like him. He shrugs and stands. But you’re a big girl. Do what you want. Before he reaches the door, he peers back at me with a smirk. But when he messes up, don’t blame me for pounding on him.

I just grin while Trent heads into the hallway, then focus once more on my phone when it starts to ring. Speak of the devil, I think as David’s name flashes on the screen.

Hey, I say once the phone’s at my ear. What’s up?

Hey, baby. He sighs, and I realize there’s a problem. He only sighs when he has news I really, really won’t like. Something came up. I’m not gonna be able to make it tonight.

My shoulders sag, but I try to brush off my disappointment. It’s fine. Anything serious?

No, no. Just some stuff. Look, I’ll call you later and we’ll reschedule, okay?

I’m beyond confused, but I agree, end the conversation, and put my phone back in my purse. Just some stuff? Stuff so pressing he couldn’t postpone it?

I attempt to calm my skepticism by telling myself I’m being obsessive. Maybe the stuff that happened was too embarrassing for him to tell me. Or he could have a bad stomach bug, forcing him to get off the phone before he started puking his guts up. I feel a little guilty for hoping the theory’s right, that my boyfriend’s currently revisiting his latest meal in agony on his bathroom floor, but clinging to the notion can’t be stopped. My alternatives are acknowledging he’s hiding something from me that I should know about, or admitting I’m being entirely weird about this.

Better that he’s barfing, I think.

****

I get home just before dinner. My home, by the way, isn’t a typical one because I don’t live with my family. I used to, but my parents moved from the area over a year ago when my dad had to relocate for work.

I was inconsolable when they told me about the intended change. My freshmen year had officially arrived, the chance to be a part of the competition I’d been dreaming of for so long, and my parents expected me to leave?

They’d argued I could enter other competitions out there—there being Phoenix, Arizona—but A) this event is not replicated in that state, and B) Trent wouldn’t be near. Like I’ve said before, I trust no one else to toss me over his head. I’ll have to overcome that issue in a couple of years since Trent’s going to college and I’ll still be in high school, but I’ll worry about that later.

My dancing takes place in Denver, my friends live in Denver, and the climate in Denver works much better for my pale complexion. Seriously. Three days in Phoenix and I’d be a tomato.

I fussed, pouted, and sulked, until the Bensons took me in. They’re a family of four that I’ve known since before I started dancing with Trent, and the two sons in said family, Jacob and Austin, were a big part of my childhood. Jacob’s my age, so I was always closer to him than Austin, who’s one year older than I am, but the three of us got into all kinds of trouble together as kids.

Once Jacob and Austin heard the news about my uprooting, they relayed the information to their parents, who in turn offered to let me live with them through high school. It wasn’t easy getting my folks to agree to the arrangement, but eventually they caved, and I’ve been under a non-blood-related family’s roof for the last year and a half.

When I enter the house, I toss my dance bag and my backpack by the door, then stretch a bit before making my way into the dining room. The mom of the household, Dana, is pretty much professional-chef caliber, though she’s never had a culinary job in her life. She does interior design, which she rocks at, but her cooking makes me wonder why I haven’t gained ten pounds since I moved in.

I walk over to the table as she sets the final dish in front of Jacob and his dad, Mark. What’s for dinner?

Chicken stir fry, she answers. I thought you were going out with David.

I shrug, and we both sit. Something came up, and he canceled.

By now, she’s serving each of us a fairly enormous portion of the main course. We could very well get it ourselves, as can be seen with the side dishes we’re passing to one another and managing by our own abilities, but she’s a nurturer by nature and likes taking care of people. Even while she’s piling the food on our plates, she narrows her eyes at my reply. "What came up?’

I pick up a fork and focus on my food because I’m way more comfortable staring at the meal than making eye contact with any of the present company during this conversation. I don’t know. He just said ‘some stuff.’

When I gather enough courage to glance up, I see she’s frowning, and it makes me nervous. I’ve done a decent job of convincing myself I have nothing to worry about, that if luck favors me, David’s feverish and clutching at his stomach in misery. But if Dana’s concerned, maybe I should be worried.

No. David must’ve had a good reason to cancel, and just as acceptable of one to not tell me the first reason.

Your dance audition’s tomorrow, right? Mark’s a stout guy. He’s past six feet tall by three or four inches, and his eyes are as dark as his nearly black hair. The overall package is undoubtedly intimidating. Believe me. I know. My first encounter with him involved Halloween night, an opening door, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups lying abandoned in my panicked dash down his driveway. Three-year-old me was quite traumatized.

If I’m honest, I never completely forgave him for the candy incident even though he didn’t do anything other than open the door and look at me. But he should’ve anticipated his size would terrify me and sent his more petite wife out, right?

Regardless, we’ve developed a truce.

More than that. He’s become like an uncle to me, one who can sense when I’m uncomfortable and wanting a subject change. I take the bait, and not only because I’m uneasy. Honestly. It would be rude to not respond. And I don’t want to be rude. Or feel awkward. Yeah. We’re dancing at the auditorium in front of the judges. If we get a high enough score, we go to the state competition at the end of May.

And you have to rumba. Jacob is smirking. Besides Trent, he’s probably my best friend, and he knows all kinds of random facts about me, including my opinion on rumbas. He brushes his blond hair back from his green eyes—he favors his mom way more than his dad—and stuffs a bit of stir fry into his mouth.

Yes. I groan. Rumba. But at least the choreography turned out well, even if I’d rather stab myself in the neck with my toothbrush than dance it.

Dana raises her index finger at me, amusement tugging the corners of her lips upward. No mutilation-talk at the dinner table.

Yes, ma’am. I let out a wistful breath, then take a drink of my water. I really want a Pepsi, but with the competition around the corner, I’m trying to be stern about my diet. Sometimes that sternness pays off. Other times, junk food and caffeine force me into submission. I just hope it goes well tomorrow.

It’ll go fine, Mark assures me. It always goes fine. And in May, we’ll be in the crowd to cheer you on.

This time, I smirk. Just as long as it isn’t another rumba.

We all laugh, and the front door opens. Seconds later, Austin strides into the dining room with a self-satisfied expression on his face. It’s a handsome face, I’ll admit. Actually, he’s a handsome guy. He’s about an inch shy of six feet, brown hair cut short, hazel eyes, and a build that lets you know he’s spent time in a gym. Which makes sense, since he’s a linebacker for the school’s football team. If he looked like a twig, I don’t think he’d be that good at his job.

He’s beaming while he plops into the chair next to mine. Hello, family. Glancing at me, he waves his hand dismissively. Munchkin.

I roll my eyes good-naturedly. We played together as kids, and we’ve been sharing the same house for more than a year. Granted, we’re not as close as we could be and there are a lot of things we don’t bother knowing about each other, but he doesn’t dislike me as much as he pretends to. We all realize it. That’s why no one jumps to my defense. The fact that he used the ridiculous nickname he made up years ago reinforces the harmless-theory. That endearment gets funnier every time you say it.

And your comebacks continue to astound me. His attention leaves me so he can focus on the food. What are you eating?

Chicken stir fry, Dana replies. You want a plate?

No. I had a date.

And you took her to eat? I blink at him innocently, false surprise on my features. Dollar menu?

He glares at me and crosses his arms over his chest. For your information, I took her to DiCicco’s.

That place is out of your budget and your zip code, Jacob retorts.

Austin shrugs. I’ve been saving up money and wanted to take my girl somewhere nice.

I can feel my lips purse, and my confusion’s legitimate in this round of commentary. Can you even pronounce the meals on the menu?

What are you insinuating? I have no class? When I lift my right eyebrow, he chuckles. I might’ve stuck with an individual pizza.

I snort, covering my mouth with my palm to make sure no food goes flying out. Unfortunately, my snort becomes a coughing fit, and I’m sitting there for maybe a full minute, trying not to laugh while I struggle to regulate my breathing. Once the coughs finally stop, I turn my red face toward Austin. That sounds more like you.

But I don’t get it, Jacob comments. Why bother going if you don’t like it?

Because she likes it, Austin answers. She likes those kinds of things.

Yeah, but what about what you like? When Austin grins in a manner that isn’t completely clean, Jacob snickers. "I mean restaurants and movies, genius. You know, you can have a girl who likes the same things you do. It’s kind of better that way."

I like her. She likes me. Austin stands, still staring at his brother. That’s enough in common, if you ask me. He kisses Dana on