The Dance Read Free Page A

the Keys. I heard them a few days ago. They play great dance music. Do you like to dance?”
    “Sometimes, yeah. When I’m drunk enough.”
    She didn’t know how to respond to that. Booze wasn’t allowed at the dance. She stood there feeling totally helpless for the next minute, reading and rereading the label on a bag of frozen cauliflower—“Ingredients: Cauliflower”—while Russ finished with his vegetables. He began to collect his empty boxes, stacking them on his pallet. “I’ve got to go in back, he said.
    “OK.”
    He didn’t invite her to accompany him, but she followed him anyway. Fortunately, there wasn’t anybody else in the back, not beside the frozen-food freezer. Sara could hardly believe the cold rushing out of it or how Russ could work inside it. He began to restock his pallet, his breath white and foggy. He was a superb worker. He never stopped moving. He had excellent endurance. She remembered something she wanted to bring up.
    “I hear you’re going to be in the CIF finals,” she said. It was extremely difficult to even qualify for the CIF—California Interscholastic Federation—finals.
    “It’s no big deal,” he said, going farther into the freezer, disappearing around several tall stacks of boxes. She took a tentative step inside, feeling goose-flesh form instantly. She noted the huge ax strapped to the inside of the frost-coated door.
    “Sure it is,” she called, hanging the strap of her bag around a dolly handle, cupping her fingers together. She couldn’t even see him.
    “Lots of people qualify,” he called.
    “But I bet you win,” she called back.
    “What?”
    For some reason, shouting in the dark—particularly when you were repeating yourself—had always struck Sara as one of the most ridiculous things a human being could do. “I said, you’ll probably win!”
    “That shows how much you know about cross-country,” he said, reappearing with his arms laden with boxes.
    That sounded like an insult, and here she was trying to compliment him. “I know something about it,” she said. She had been closely following his performances in the papers. He had won his last ten races, improving his time with each meet.
    “Sure,” he said.
    “I do.”
    “What do you know?”
    “That if you break fourteen minutes, you’ll win.”
    He snorted. “Of course I’d win if I broke fourteen minutes. But the finals are down in Newport, on the hilliest course in the city. Fifteen minutes will be tough.” He dumped his boxes on the pallet, muttering under his breath, “I’m not going to win.”
    “Don’t say that. If you say that, you won’t win.”
    “Who cares?”
    “What do you mean, who cares? Don’t you care?”
    “Nope.”
    She had begun to shiver. Another minute in there and her hair would turn white. But at the same time she could feel her blood warming—or was it her temper? “What are you saying?”
    “That I don’t care.” He pulled off his gloves, rubbed his hands together. “It’s just a goddamn race.”
    “A goddamn race? It’s the city championship! If you win, they’ll give you a goddamn scholarship!”
    He shook his head. “I ain’t going to college. I can’t stand going to high school.”
    “I don’t believe it,” she said, disgusted. “Here you have this tremendous natural talent that can open all kinds of doors for you and you’re just going to throw it away? What the hell’s the matter with you?”
    He looked at her, frowned. “Why are you always shouting at me?”
    “Shouting at you? When have I shouted at you? I haven’t even spoken to you in two whole months!”
    “Yeah, but the last time you did, you were shouting at me.”
    “Well, maybe you need someone to shout at you. Get you off your ass. The reason you don’t care is because you drink too much. You’re seventeen years old and you’re already a drunk!”
    “I’m eighteen.”
    “You’re still a drunk. I’ve seen you run. If you didn’t down a case of beer every