Two Left Feet

By Pamela Mayer

I have a problem. Two of them, actually. They’re called my left foot and my right foot.

My feet became a problem when I started taking lessons at Keene’s School of Dance. That’s “dance” as in “social dance.” Waltz, rumba, foxtrot, all those geeky dance steps I thought only grandparents needed to know. Mom thought I needed to know them too, especially since my cousin Carrie was being married soon.

“You may want to ask someone to dance at the wedding, Alex,” she said.

“No way, Mom. Who would I ask to dance?”

“Well, Carrie, or one of your other cousins. You’re going to be a junior usher; you should ask the bride to dance!”

Carrie’s wedding plans were making Mom happier than I had seen her for a long time. My dad’s in the Army, and he’s stationed in Afghanistan. He’s been there for five months now. I knew Mom was thinking about him when she talked about dancing at the wedding.

Dad loves to dance. I remember him turning on a CD and waltzing Mom around the house. When I was a little guy he carried me on his shoulders and danced with me, too.

To keep Mom feeling happy, I didn’t argue about dance class. Who knew what could happen? Maybe I’d turn out to be as great a dancer as my dad.

On Thursday afternoon I lined up with the other kids in the basement of the church where Mr. and Mrs. Keene taught their class. I saw a couple of the guys I knew, and some girls from school too.

“We’re supposed to be out playing baseball, Alex, not going to dancing school,” Chris Thompson complained.

“I know.”

I ran a finger under the too-tight collar of my white shirt. The Keenes insisted we dress up for dance class. It was so hot in that room I thought I might suffocate. Mr. Keene turned on the music and Mrs. Keene told us all to make a circle—boy, girl, boy, girl—and hold hands. We had to hold up our right hands and our left feet, like we were a bunch of kindergartners. Then we formed couples.

That was when my feet became a problem. They had no trouble balancing on a skateboard or sliding into first base, but as soon as I started dancing, my right foot tended to go where my left one should.

“Oops, sorry,” I said, as I stepped on Sophia Sanders’s toes for about the fifth time.

“Ouch, that really hurts, Alex,” Sophia complained.

As soon as I came home, Mom asked, “How was it? Do you want to show me what you learned?”

“Uh…not yet.” I ran upstairs to my room and closed the door, wishing I never had to go to dance class again.

Week after week, it was the same. No matter how often Mr. Keene had us practice “back, one, two” or “side, together, side,” my feet had a mind of their own. Most of the time, Mrs. Keene was my partner for some remedial dancing.

“Do you like dancing, Alex?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I lied.

Our last class was the same week as Carrie’s wedding. Mom was so busy helping Aunt Laura that she didn’t ask me about it anymore, and I was too embarrassed to tell her I was the worst dancer in the entire class.

“Feel the music, Alex,” Mrs. Keene said. “If you dance with your heart, your feet will follow.”

“Oops, sorry, Mrs, Keene,” I said, as I trod on her toes yet again.

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The sun was bright blue on Carrie’s wedding day, and being in the wedding party actually turned out to be fun. The reception was all about flowers and food and champagne toasts, and then a band started to play.

Carrie and her new husband, Mike, stepped out on the dance floor. They were followed by Aunt Laura and Uncle Ray, and then a bunch of other people started dancing too.

That’s when I realized Mom was right. I really did want to ask someone to dance. She was sitting at her table, alone, looking all dreamy when I came up to her. I took her hand and led her out to the dance floor. This time I concentrated on her, instead of on my feet.

“Why, Alex, what a wonderful dancer you are!” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. We glided across the dance floor. “You’re pretty good yourself, Mom.”

Maybe I’ll never learn to dance as well as Dad, but for now, my right foot and my left foot were no problem at all.