Page 8 of Not Strictly Ballroom

“Darcy, Nick!” Claire’s voice cuts through the weight of tension that hangs between us, cleaving it so cleanly I can feel the sharp edges catch on my skin, raising goosebumps. I gulp a breath in like I’ve been starved of air for a week. I turn away. I can’t face Darcy right now, scared he’ll see the shame of my thoughts written there.

“Oh, there you both are,” she says brightly. “Nick, are you staying?”

“I—I can’t. I have to—to go,” I stutter, my mind scrambling as I grasp desperately for a coherent sentence. “I have to go do a thing, for, erm . . . my gran.”

I walk to the kitchen, not looking back. I grab my hoodie and exit through the back door, allowing my legs to carry me as my brain spirals in a loop that I’ve just fucked up big time.

“What just happened?” My sister’s words barely register.

“Huh?” All I can think is that Nick is leaving and there’s a Nick-shaped hole in the shimmering space he just occupied.

“Dad says dinner is ready.”

“Huh?” Coherent thought clearly isn’t happening right now.

“Food. Darcy. Dinner.” Claire stands right in front of me, and as she slowly comes into focus, the sluggishness in my brain diminishes. I shake my head, trying to clear the last of it and concentrate on what she’s saying, ignoring the chilling feeling creeping through my body that whatever caused Nick to leave is somehow my fault.

She gives an exasperated sigh and practically drags me upstairs. By the time we reach the top, I can almost function again. Enough to pass without too much comment at least, though I can still see Claire glancing at me, and I don’t think I can get much past her. I could be headless and my mum wouldn’t notice, and it’s not like I’ve been the most dynamic person all week. But this feels different from the heavy ache that’s been gnawing at me since Julia’s news. The ponderous uncertainty of my future. This is sharp and spiky and has hooks that snag at my organs with every breath I take.

Luckily, given the activity of the day, I’m not required to comment much, but my mother has an opinion on all the dancers. Whether it be that they’re too tall, too short, too old—my sister sniggers at that one—or just that they can’t dance well enough. I don’t have a great aversion to any of them. It’s just that none of them felt right. There wasn’t that spark I needed to feel in order to truly love what I do. To give myself over to the rhythm, to feel the beat in my soul. Today I was just dancing; I might as well have been teaching a class. That was, until I put on our song, the dance Nick and I made up together. I want that feeling when I dance, the exhilaration of every cell in your body working in harmony. The rhythm becoming the pulse that flows through your veins. That’s what I need if I’m going to win the Nationals, but no one I’ve danced with has come close.

“I have some news,” Claire announces over dessert, cutting Mum off from launching into another round of disparaging dissection of the day’s potential dancers. I’m starting to get a headache and mouth a thank you to my sister.

“I’ve mentioned that Seven Hills Media is covering the Nationals.” She waits until she has the attention of all of us. Seven Hills Media is the company my sister works for and they’ve been contracted for the competition. “Well, the project manager has gone on maternity leave earlier than expected. And . . .” She pauses for dramatic effect. “I’ve been promoted to take her place. That means I’ll be in charge of all the publicity and marketing on the day.”

“That’s amazing!” I gently punch her arm in a brotherly way, as I’m too far away to hug her.

“That’s great news. Well done,” Dad says, looking proud. He’s a staunch supporter of my sister’s decision to do something else with her life. A stance that made for a tense time in our household for a while, as Mum couldn’t conceive of anything other than that her children were going to dance. I don’t think it was the only reason my sister moved out, but I know it was a contributing factor. I can’t blame her for wanting to distance herself and concentrate on her own studies, but it wasn’t an option for me. I also wanted to dance, and I was well aware having Sheila Franklin as my mother was an advantage in the dance community, even if there was a price to pay for that.

“So you’ll be at the Nationals.” Mum looks up. No congratulations that, after just a few years working for the company, my sister has been given a managerial position at a prestigious event. No, my mother only thought of herself. “You could dance with Darcy. Why didn’t I think of that before?” She was in full flow now. “That will be perfect. You two can dance together, as you’ll be there anyway. And how exciting, to have both my children in the Nationals.”

“Mum! Have you been listening?” Claire shouts to make herself heard. “I’m the project manager. I’ll be far too busy to dance, even if it were allowed—which it isn’t because we are the ones organising the media. Any involvement or taking part by any of the employees would be considered an unfair advantage. And even if it were allowed, or I wasn’t involved. I’m. Not. Dancing. Not with Darcy, not with anyone. I don’t do that anymore!”

“Well, I think you’re very mean.” Mum sounds peevish. “I was just asking you to help your brother out. This was his year. And think of me. Am I going to have no children dancing at the one event I couldn’t win? It’s all I ever wanted for you and it’s here in our city. It was all supposed to be so perfect.” She descends into a wail, resting her head in her hands and rubbing her temples. I’m reminded that this too was a reason Claire moved out; they often locked horns, usually over the dinner table.

“Urgh.” My sister pushes her chair back from the table and rises. “Now I remember why I didn’t come back.” She storms out the kitchen door, the force of her exit causing it to bang an exclamation mark to her outburst before it swings back into place.

My dad rises to fetch my now-snivelling mum a glass of water. In the ensuing uneasy calm, the air hangs, cloying and oppressive. I don’t want to go out onto the balcony where my sister is no doubt pacing, because I’ll be treated to her thoughts on the subject—like mother, like daughter—so I retreat to my room.

I curl up on my bed, trying not to feel anything and feeling far too much. I have a family at war with each other, a dream that will never happen, and a friend who . . .

Who, what?

The clash of the last few minutes has at least successfully prevented me from pondering Nick, but now that I’m alone, the events from earlier flood back to me.

I felt alive when we danced. Maybe it was because it’s familiar and comfortable to me, but somehow, it felt different. Maybe it was just a welcome relief after dancing all day with indifferent partners, but it also felt much more than that. It was something ethereal that I couldn’t grasp, like chasing fireflies, the meaning just beyond the tips of my fingers.

I replay the last few moments of the dance in my head. We’d finished dancing and, I don’t know how, but I felt the same sensation as I had the other night in the park. I hadn’t been able to look away from Nick, lost in his aura. My fingers had tingled where they’d touched his. My mouth had dried out, and I’d swallowed, trying to moisten it. I’d been about to ask something; I can’t remember what it was now. Then Claire had appeared and Nick had left like he couldn’t stand to be in my presence any longer. I don’t know what I did, but the feeling still digs its claws into me.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Go away,” I croak, but it’s my sister, so she ignores it.

“Hey.” She enters the room and sits down on the bed next to me. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, picking at the fur on Bearlero, only now aware that I’d been squeezing him tight for comfort.

“I’m sorry about that.” She jerks her head towards the door, referring to the earlier argument. “But you know how she is and I couldn’t stand it anymore. She just wasn’t listening.”

---