Page 37 of Statistically Speaking
Chapter 15
Six Billion Dance Steps and Three Tired Women
I have just dropped Margie back home when the message from Erin lands on my phone.
I am tired and feeling gray and washed out despite my best efforts. I think Margie enjoyed our trip to an elegant café near the cathedral, where we ate cake and admired the waiters and watched the beautiful people go by.
It was hard, though, to stay chatty and cheerful when all I really wanted to do was retreat beneath my duvet and cry.
Walking back into my flat, that is exactly what I hope to do when I hear the ping. I have already had a message from Karim, checked in and told him I am fine, that I will see him tomorrow. I want the whole world to leave me alone now, but it seems insistent on snapping at my heels.
Come to ours at 7 p.m., the message says,and wear comfortable shoes.I sit down and hold my face in my hands. It is not far from seven now, and the very last thing I want to do is see more people. I have reached the upper limits of my ability to interact socially, and I give at least a few moments’ thought to ignoring it, or replying saying I can’t come.
I take a deep breath, remind myself that this morning I was determined to make changes. To evolve, to move on. I can’t give up at the first hurdle—and I owe it to Erin and Katie to try harder, be better, to at least attempt to make things right, for all kinds of reasons.
I take off my going-to-town shoes and slip on my socks and sneakers. I have no idea what they have planned for me and am too exhausted to even try to guess. I suppose I will simply have to take my medicine and hope it doesn’t kill me.
I drive to their little terraced house, even though it only would have taken fifteen minutes if I’d walked. I need to feel safe, cocooned, and a few minutes in my car gives me that. I park nearby, glancing over at the lavender pots, and force myself up and out.
I knock on the door at exactly seven, and Katie answers. I don’t know what I expect to feel when I see her again, but embarrassed and humiliated pretty much covers it. I feel very much like the child, and she seems very much like the grown-up, standing in the doorway smiling at me.
She is wearing black leggings, a black top, and a hot-pink tutu. I have no idea why, but it works.
“Come in, miss,” she says, ushering me into the hallway, “and don’t look so scared. It’ll all be okay.”
She is comforting me, and I am grateful. She might not be my biological daughter, but she is still a fine and admirable young woman.
Inside the living room, the clutter has been cleared, the sofas pushed back to the walls, and a large space created in the middle of the room. Erin is dressed in black with a pink boa, and on top of her head there is a wig made of glittery strandsof gold. Her blond hair peeks out, and she looks like she could be in an Abba tribute band.
She walks over to me and passes me a beret. It is tartan, red and green, and will look awful with my hair. I wordlessly accept it and put it on. I have no idea what is happening, but none of it feels hostile, which is more than I have a right to expect.
“We’re going to dance it all out,” she says seriously, gesturing at the TV screen. “It’s what we do, Katie and me, when things are tough or sad or complicated. We dance it out. This seems like a situation that could be improved by a bit of sweat.”
“I’m not the world’s best at dancing,” I murmur, feeling apprehensive beneath my beret.
“That’s even better,” she replies, nodding. “It’s like karaoke—it’s not fun if you’re actually good. Now, all we ask is that you give it everything—no half measures, no pauses, no worrying about how you look. The key to successfully dancing it out is commitment. Can you do that?”
I look at her kind eyes peering up at me from beneath her glittery fringe, and at Katie, standing next to her in her tutu. They are completely mad, these two.
“Yes,” I reply definitely. “I can do that.”
“Then we shall begin. Katie, can you do the honors?”
Katie draws the curtains and turns off the lights. The room is dim and quiet, and that all changes the minute she presses a button on the remote control. The TV screen bursts into life, and I see that it is a YouTube video of a band called Blackpink, singing something catchily entitled “DDU-DU DDU-DU.”
She pauses it and explains: “Blackpink is my favorite K-pop band. There are four of them and only three of us, but that’sokay. You’re the one with the dark red hair. Just do your best, copy as well as you can, and remember—it’s all about the oomph!”
I nod nervously, and she starts the video. It is a jaunty tune, and there is all kinds of stuff going on in the video. They are sitting down, then standing up; they are dressed in shorts and boots and then rainbows and sequins and there is a lot of pink powder being thrown around; there is a Chihuahua with super-long ears and there is a pastel-colored cockatoo and a giant chess set, and it’s all pretty damn weird and full-on.
Katie and Erin are flailing around in a vague way—as though they are petting dogs, holding birds, brandishing umbrellas and swords, whatever “their” one is doing on-screen. I try to join in but am completely at a loss until all the women come together on a platform for the chorus and the dance sequence. Boy, can they dance.
There are jumps and kicks, and their hips swivel in ways that no human being should be able to swivel. I do my very best, encouraged by the fact that Katie and Erin are almost as bad as I am, despite having done it before, and I am barely breathing by the time we get a break, while the girls ride sequined tanks and swing from chandeliers and other bizarre actions that we have to imitate without the props.
There is another ferocious dance sequence chorus, another break, countless costume changes, a whirlwind of color and sound and movement. It’s like being on an acid trip inside Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
We all try to copy a sinuous movement where the band members seem to have turned into snakes, and we end up sitting in prim poses while we sweat and pant.
“Again, again!” Erin shouts, and I feel like karate chopping her. Instead I grimace, and Katie presses play, and we do it all over again. It is easier the second time around, not less exhausting but less surprising. My spine will probably never be the same again, but I am learning to count the steps, and finding that helpful in many ways. By the end of the second time around, though, I am done. I am physically fit, but this is a kind of activity my body is not used to, and it has destroyed me. It is a huge relief when the two of them collapse onto the sofa laughing, wiping the sheen from their faces, sucking in air.
