Page 91 of Just Playin'
Although I can’t see his mouth, I know he is smiling. His twinkling eyes give it away. “We’re going to your recital. Skylar had them slot you in for the final performance of the night. ”
My first thought is excitement, but it quickly switches to dread.
“Francesca has already performed. I’ll look like a copycat if I use the routine she stole from me.”
“Then do something else,” Skylar suggests, like it’s as easy as baking a pie.
“It’s not that simple. Finding the right choreography takes weeks. You can’t just throw something together and expect it to look good.”
My eyes stray to Elvis’s when he says, “You can, Will. Just listen to the music like you did in my condo.”
“That was different. That was a private performance for you, not in front of hundreds of spectators. . .”
My words trail off when Elvis suggests, “Then pretend you’re performing for me.”
When I huff, more in disarray than anger, he cranks his neck back to peer at me. I’m panicked we’re seconds from crashing, but Danny’s quick thinking saves us from getting friendly with the cars in front of us. He leans across Elvis to take control of the wheel. His lack of surprise makes me wonder if this is something he often does.
My eyes bounce between Elvis’s when he says, “You don’t need music or a routine. You need to listen to the beat inside of you. The one that wouldneverlead you astray. You need to trust yourself.”
His words floor me. Excluding my parents, no one has ever had such faith in me before. Realizing he is getting through to me, Elvis strengthens his campaign. “A beautifully stubborn lady once told me ‘the only time someone fails is when they don’t try.’” Tears burn my eyes when he delivers my dad’s favorite Winston Churchill quote, “Success isnotfinal;failureisnotfatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” Nothing but honesty rings in his tone when he says, “You’ve got this, Willow. You have too much passion not to have it in the bag. You just need to dance from your heart instead of your head.”
Now his team’s decision to play tonight makes sense. They could have made it to the finals without any effort, but they wanted to earn it instead of having it handed to them.
“Okay.”
“Yes?” Elvis double-checks. My voice was only a whisper, so he could have misheard me.
“Yes,” I repeat, louder this time.
Skylar’s squeal will ring in my ears for the next twelve months. I just hope the favor I am about to ask her doesn’t take me as long to repay.
NERVES TAP DANCEin my stomach as I make my way to the wings of the stage. Elvis is already in his seat. The late hour of the performance didn’t hinder his wish to get the best seat in town. He has a prime position—as front and center as you can get.
The butterflies in my stomach settle the instant the drums start banging in Toni Basil’s one-hit wonder “Hey, Mickey.” As the song breaks into the first verse I clap in rhythm to the beat, encouraging the audience to follow suit. I can’t see them through the blinding light illuminating the stage when I dart across it, but I can hear the claps. . . and a handful of wolf-whistles from the dads in the audience when I leap, bound, and cartwheel across the stage in a super-short pleated skirt and Skylar’s beloved skintight 69ers jersey.
They cheer even louder when the spotlight following my gymnastics routine zooms in on Elvis in the middle of the stage in his full football getup. Just like he did during my performance in his house, he is sitting on a dining chair. The smile on his face when I use his thighs as a balance beam encourages my impromptu performance. I shimmy and shake my ass across the stage while using his body as a prop. I grind against him, pivot around him, and use his impressive height to wow the audience with how much leverage I get from the ground when I do leap splits.
It’s a fun, invigorating performance that reminds me why I begged my parents to take dance classes when I was only three. I love dance because it frees me from everything around me. It is the one place where I am me and the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It doesn’t matter if you are a size two or a size twenty-two, anyone can dance, and they can do it well.
By the time my performance is over, I’m straddling Elvis’s lap, sweating like a pig, and I have the biggest smile plastered on my face. With my excitement at an all-time high, I forget there are hundreds of spectators behind my back, watching my every move. I’m only alerted to the fact when they break into uproarious applause. They stomp their feet on the ground like Elvis’s fans do every time he charges onto the field and shout my name like I’m the only superstar in their midst.
“Go and soak it up, buttercup, cause your ass is mine for the rest of the night.”
Elvis’s grin turns blinding when I jest, ”What is it with you and asses? Anyone would swear you’re obsessed with anal.”
I vomit a little when he replies, “Only if it’s your anus.” His shoulder touches his ear when he shrugs. “Too much?”
“Just a little.” I hold my index finger and thumb an inch apart before curling my hands around his bristled jaw so I can line up our lips.
After kissing him long enough my heart rate returns to the crazy tempo it beat when I somersaulted across the stage, I stand to accept my praise. I curtsy to the audience, then thank the judges with a dip of my chin and a smile before shifting on my feet to face Elvis. When he waves off my silent gesture for him to join me, I drag him front and center.
I tug on the hem of my skirt when wolf whistles break across the room. My worry that I’m flashing my panties is pushed aside when I realize the squeals of jubilation are coming from the female attendees.
My eyes bug out of my head when I shift them in the direction the women are gawking. Just like he was the first time I performed for him, Elvis is hard. I don’t just mean a little outline his football pants can conceal. He’s making every seam bulge and sending more than just my head into a tailspin.
“I guess we’ve taken care of your underwear modeling catastrophe?”
With a giggle, I seize his hand in mine before sprinting for the wings of the stage. His response to my impromptu routine is too good to give up, and I’ve finally realized that so is he.
