Page 108 of What You Wish For

But now I was smiling. The idea of Duncan as a dance instructor was too funny not to.

“You don’t believe me,” he said, shaking his head.

“I believe that you once had that job. I don’t believe you were good at it.”

“I wasa legend. In the Chicago-area bar mitzvah community, I was a god. A dance god. That’s what I’m saying. It’s been almost ten years, and kids still do this dance. It’s everywhere. It’s popping up in California and Florida and New York. Kids are doing it at clubs.”

“Why would you make up a dance called ‘the Scissors’?”

“I made up hundreds of dances. It was just to keep the room going. Seriously—anything that popped into my head. The Palm Tree. The Blender. The Seesaw. The Get Over Here. The Don’t Look at Me. The Gummy Bear. The Stub Your Toe. The ThighMaster.”

Now I was smiling. “Those can’t be real.”

“I’m telling you, they are.”

“Why didn’t you just do regular dances?”

“I didn’t know any regular dances. I fell into that job by accident.”

“And now you’ll forever be known as the inventor of the Scissors.”

Suddenly: a voice came through the loudspeaker. “Great news, folks. The tracks are clear, and your ride will recommence as soon as we reboot the system. Please be patient a few more minutes.”

“Oh, shit,” I said, the panic revving back up in my voice. “I don’t want the ride to recommence.”

I started feeling cold and hot at the same time, and a rushing sound welled up in my ears, and then for a second I thought the ride was shaking, but then I realized it was just me, breathing in and out in staccato bursts—way, way too fast.

Duncan was peering at me. “You look really green.”

“I might be about to faint.”

He grabbed my hands and enclosed them in his. They felt big, and warm, and strong, and dry—not clammy and moist and pathetic like mine. “Hey,” he said, “look at me.”

I turned and looked at him, at those eyes fixed on mine in an intense way I’d never seen from anybody before.

“I’m going to help you breathe.”

“I know how to breathe,” I said, panting.

“Not at the moment.”

Next, he put a hand against my face to hold my gaze right on him. “We’re going to breathe together, and you’re going to start to feel better.”

He made me look straight at him—into his eyes—and breathe in for five counts and then back out for four. Then again, and then again. We breathed in together and out together, in sync, while he counted in a quiet voice. I watched his mouth moving. I heard his breath rustling the air. I let my hands stay wrapped up inside his.

What was it about eye contact that was so intense? Or was it just that face of his? Something about the shape of his nose, maybe, or the line of his jaw, or the plumpness of his bottom lip. I didn’t know. I might never figure it out.

“Just keep your eyes on me,” Duncan said.

No problem.

I liked being that close to him. I liked having his full attention. I liked the curve of his neck and the way that long, vertical tendon pressed out and curved down and around as he kept his head turned to me, face to face, focused in a way that people never, ever are—unless they have a reason to be.

I was a tiny bit glad I had a reason to be.

Everything had its upside.

And that’s when the Iron Shark revved back up, and we started to move.

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