Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa (6 page)

 

Inside, the club is much smaller than I expected. I'm not sure whether or not this is a good thing. On the one hand, it's not that overwhelming. On the other, if I were to attempt to dance—or even approximate a reasonable facsimile thereof—there's really no protective camouflage. I put my hands in my pocket, ten kinds of uncomfortable.

Lucy shrieks and clatters forward toward a group of girls huddled against the bar. They shout right back at her and shimmy in her direction. I quickly scan the uniform—jeans or capris. Unlike New York basic black, they're all wearing very tight shirts in bold, bright colors. One girl is wearing white pants.

If the sum contents of my entire wardrobe were dropped at Rosa's doorstep tomorrow, I'd still have it all wrong. Beyond my dark coloring, there will be no blending here.

As if that were ever a question.

I take a deep breath and cross the Spanish tiles to where Lucy and her friends are now huddled. One of them, a short, dark-skinned girl with masses of curly black hair piled in a high ponytail, steps forward. “
Hola
, I'm Pia.” She smiles. I do a double take. Yep, she is smiling—at me. Can she really be
Lucy's
friend?

“Hi, I'm Emily,” I say. I extend my hand to shake. Pia looks surprised, but she takes it, still grinning. “
Mira
, this is Ramona”—she gestures toward the taller girl with long, straight hair—“and Teresa.”

Teresa is so incredibly gorgeous that I don't know if I can bear to be in the same room with her. She has pin-straight hair so blond it's almost white, and her eyes are Liz Taylor lavender. But she is beaming at me so openly that I can't help but smile back.

“Bienvenida, gringa,”
she says to me. “Lucy says you're here for the summer?”

“Six weeks,” Lucy interjects flatly.

“And you're from New York?” Pia asks.

“Westchester. New York State. It's the suburbs, really. Kind of like this.”

“Kind of,”
Lucy says, her voice thick with what I suspect to be sarcasm. She looks around. “Where are the boys?”

Pia gestures farther down the bar.
“Las cervezas.”

Oh, right. Beer. Cool.

I drink about as often as I smoke. That is to say, never. God, I'm a loser.

No sooner has Lucy asked about “the boys” than a tall, muscular one with close-cropped black hair is leaning over her for a kiss. She obliges, smiling. I can't help but notice that Lucy is really, really pretty when she smiles. I still have no idea what rare form of personality disorder it is that prevents her from smiling at me, but since her friends seem to be immune to it, I can probably get through this night at least.

Bolstered by the warm reception I've gotten from Pia, Ramona, and Teresa, I step toward Lucy's boyfriend. “Hi, I'm Lucy's cousin, Emily,” I say.

He nods. “Right. Lucy mentioned you were coming out. Rafael. It's very nice to meet you.
¿Cómo estás?
How are you liking Puerto Rico?”

“It's great,” I say, realizing as the words come out that I'm sort of lying. “It's beautiful.” That much, at least, is true.

“Yeah, we like it. Bummer excuse for a vacation, though, huh?”

“I, um, didn't really know my grandmother. I mean, I never met her,” I stammer, flushing. I'm mortified to realize that I almost forgot why I was here in the first place.

“Quiero bailar,”
Lucy says, not to me.

Rafael shrugs. “Sure, chica. Ricky's in the bathroom, I think, but he'll be out in a minute.” He looks at me questioningly. “
Tú quieres
? You up for some salsa?”

I bite my lip. “You know, not just yet.” I try to make it sound like it's just a matter of time before I'm grinding on top of the bar. Like I'll be all
Coyote Ugly
(“but without the bar brawls,” my interior Izzy champions) in just a few short moments.

“Are you sure?” Pia asks, sounding genuinely disappointed.

I nod. “Just for now. I'm kind of tired. I'm still, uh, really jet-lagged.”

 

Lucy's friends are kind enough not to point out the total lack of time difference between New York and Puerto Rico. They scamper toward the dance floor, squealing.

I settle back against the bar, grateful to be out of the spotlight. I watch the girls—and Rafael—dance. It's amazing; they're all ridiculously good. And they're dancing for real, not the sort of hip twitching that passes for dancing in New York clubs. They're actually step-ball-changing forward and back, weaving in and around each other with little cha-cha-cha flourishes and sexy hair tosses (the girls, that is; I mean, Rafael is dancing but without any hair-tossing).

“Well, now, if you're not going to dance, you can't just stand here empty-handed.”

A cold bottle of beer is thrust into my hand and I turn. “Oh, um, thanks,” I say.

My benefactor is a curly-haired guy with light brown eyes and freckles scattered across his nose. He's wearing a short-sleeved, linen button-down shirt that's one part school nerd, one part refugee from a Fitzgerald novel.

Somehow, though, on him it works.

“Ricky,” he says.

“You were in the bathroom,” I offer, immediately wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole. “Rafael said,” I finish weakly.

“Well, yes, it's true, but I didn't realize it was my claim to fame.”

I laugh, feeling no less moronic but slightly better about it. “Emily,” I say.

“The
nuyorican
.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I ask. “It's like you've never met anyone from the mainland before.” It feels so good to be talking to someone who is actually talking back that for once I don't seem to have any internal censor.

“Well, you have to know that you're sort of a legend around here,” he says. “At least, your family is.”

“What?” I'm totally baffled. There is nothing legendary about the Goldbergs. Like, my dad tends to win the annual Woodland Thanksgiving Turkey Trot, but I doubt Ricky would know about that.

“You're the New York family, the family that no one's ever met, not since Gloria left for college. That's a big deal. You're like . . . the Loch Ness Monster. Or Bigfoot.”

“Oh, that's a compliment,” I tease.

“Well, you're a source of speculation,” he says. “Lucy was incredibly curious to meet you.”

I must have some sort of involuntary facial twitch because he explodes with laughter. “She's not that bad.”

I don't say anything, just struggle to keep my features neutral.

“Her bark is worse than her bite,” he finishes.

“It's a pretty loud bark,” I say, before I can stop the words from coming out of my mouth. I have to mentally pinch myself, remind myself that he is actually Lucy's friend and therefore probably likes her. Talking trash about her simply will not do.

“Yeah, it's just . . .” He pauses. “Anyway, it's great that you're here.”

It's just
what? I think. I am dying to know what the end of that sentence was, but he's being so gracious about my indiscretion that I don't want to push.

“Ricky,
baila conmigo
!”

It's Lucy, smiling brightly and beckoning for my newfound ally to join her on the dance floor. Her lips are stretched tightly—too tightly—across her teeth, and I have to momentarily wonder if she's ticked that he and I are being so chummy. It's an ugly, suspicious thought and I push it away.

“You're not going to dance, are you?” he asks me, and I find myself incredibly relieved that he seems to get it.

I shake my head.

“Are you going to be okay over here?”

“Yeah, no problem. You go.” I wave him to the dance floor.

“All right. But I'm coming back after one song.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Two songs, max.”

We drive home with all of the windows down, Lucy fanning at herself frantically. “Shoot, shoot, my hair reeks,” she says fretfully. “
Tengo problema
. I need to quit smoking!” She's usually so self-possessed, seeing her discombobulated is unsettling for me. We turn into her community and she lowers the headlights, gnawing on a fingernail and clutching the steering wheel like Mr. Magoo. She leans forward and peers out the windshield, squinting.

As we approach her house, she sighs. “She's asleep.” Meaning Rosa, obviously.

“How can you tell?”

“Her light is off.” She points toward Rosa's bedroom window, which is indeed dark. “She doesn't usually wait up, but you never know.”

I can
not
get over how different Lucy's life is from my own. I've never, ever had a curfew, which may explain why I can't fathom the idea that she is willing to risk sneaking out, and being caught, night after night.

She pulls into the driveway and kills the ignition. Now I panic, praying that the noise from the car doesn't wake Rosa.

“We're going in the back,” Lucy whispers. “That way we don't have to walk past her bedroom.”

She leads me through the fence and into the backyard. We tiptoe to the door off the kitchen. Lucy's got this down to a science, I see. She slides the key into the door and rattles it just so, pushes the door open just enough to squeeze herself in. After I'm through, she gently guides it back into the door frame. I'm impressed; this is some serious stealth. She takes off her shoes and motions for me to do the same. At this moment I allow myself the thought that Lucy and I are partners in crime, accomplices—especially what with how we've gotten away with it. But then Lucy turns to me shortly and mouths simply, “Good night,” and pads off to her room.

I sigh. I make my way carefully to my bedroom—Lucy's bedroom, of course. I would love to talk to my mother about this, to whine about curfews just to hear what she has to say on the subject, but she's out cold when I get to the room, sleeping in a tight coil against the wall, leaving space for me even from the deep recesses of REM stage. I sigh and feel around in the semi-dark for my pajamas.

The real truth is that if Mom were in any shape to talk about things like curfews and clubbing, then we wouldn't even be here to begin with.

 

I sit straight up, heart thudding dully in my chest. The sheets are twisted underneath me, my shorts ridden up and sticky with sweat.
What?
I reach my left arm across my body to grab at my alarm clock and am surprised when my fingertips scrape against the wall instead. I run my fingers through my hair.

It was a dream, of course. Isabelle and Adrienne are back in Westchester. They leave—for Yellowstone, among other places—sometime this week. I think Wednesday. I idly wonder how much time they ultimately decided to allot to that leg of the adventure.

Me, I'm still in Puerto Rico—tropical temperatures, spotty air-conditioning. Tía Rosa's house is equipped with the modern amenities, but climate control in Lucy's room comes in the form of a ceiling fan that traces lazy circles above me, stirring the humidity rather than alleviating it. God, if I'm hating this room as much as I am, with the heat and the two to a bed, I can only imagine what it's like for Lucy, stuffed in across the hall with her three sisters.

The fact that I'm in bed alone means, obviously, that my mother has already woken. I trade my pj's for my track pants and a tank top—that clothing package
needs
to arrive soon—and wander out.

I find my mother at the kitchen table, idly stirring a cup of coffee. “Good morning, sweetie,” she says when she sees me, as if on autopilot. “Did you sleep well?”

“Uh-huh.” No point in mentioning the dream. If it has any great significance, I can't figure out what it is. I drift to the refrigerator, pull out a carton of orange juice.

“
Ay
, there's a glass set for you at the table.”

I nearly jump out of my skin. Tía Rosa is behind me, pointing toward the table and the glass in question.

“Right, thanks.” I take a seat.

“
Qué quieres comer
? We have eggs, cereal, toast, bacon. . . .”

“Oh, um . . . I guess cereal's fine,” I say. She offers me a veritable buffet, three different choices. I pick the one with the highest sugar content and dig in. “Where's Lucy?” I ask between munches.

“Taking a shower. She has to drive the girls to church. Their summer school starts today.”

“I'm so excited!” offers Dora, who I realize now has been sitting patiently at the end of the table. It's pretty cute, actually.

“You're so excited, but you're going to be late if you don't get dressed,” Rosa warns.