Free Whiskey & Charlie by Annabel Smith

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    In week two, they waltzed. One two three, one two three, rise and fall, rise and fall. Charlie spent most of the lesson counting under his breath. He felt awkward about the strange triangle he and Anneliese were part of, which made it difficult to concentrate on the steps they were learning. Charlie didn’t know if Anneliese was counting the beats in her own head, but she made no attempt at conversation either. He found himself wishing Whiskey’s scheme had been successful, thought how much more comfortable he would have felt dancing with Karen.
    In week three, they learned the cha-cha. Their first Latin dance. According to Mr. Randall, it was all in the hips.
    One, two, cha cha cha
    One, two, cha cha cha
    Charlie noticed that Anneliese seemed to pick up the steps more quickly than he did, that when it came to dancing, she seemed to be something of a natural. Though Charlie did not consider himself anything more than average when it came to sport, at least when he was playing soccer or cricket, his arms and legs seemed to go mostly where he needed them to be, without him having to think about it too much. Ballroom dancing was a different proposition entirely. Suddenly none of his limbs seemed willing to do what he asked of them, and certainly not all at the same time. Often Charlie found himself stepping left when he had meant to step right, back when he wanted to go forward, turning in the wrong direction, moving too late or too early. And on the rare occasions when he managed to get control over his feet, inevitably his arms were all wrong—his elbows too slack or too rigid, his grip on Anneliese too tight or too loose.
    â€œAre you wrestling a bear?” Mr. Randall asked him once, adjusting Charlie’s arms.
    â€œShe’s not your prisoner!” he said on another occasion, loosening Charlie’s grip on Anneliese’s shoulder.
    The week of the samba, Anneliese came home from school with Whiskey for the first time. She was sitting on the couch watching Full House with Whiskey when Charlie got home from Marco’s.
    â€œYou know Anneliese,” Whiskey said dryly, without looking up from the television.
    â€œHey, Anneliese,” Charlie said uncertainly.
    â€œHey, Charlie.” She smiled at him for the first time. She was still in her school uniform, her hair in a ponytail, and Charlie thought she looked about as pretty as a girl could get. Lucky Whiskey , he thought to himself as he dragged his bag down the hallway to start on his homework.
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    The fourth dance they learned was the fox-trot.
    â€œWho knows the story of Fantastic Mr. Fox ?” Randall asked them before he showed them the steps.
    Charlie raised his hand. When he was younger, it had been one of his favorite books.
    â€œWhat about Chicken Little ?” Randall asked. More hands went up.
    â€œWhat’s the fox always trying to do in these stories?”
    â€œEat the chickens?” one of the girls suggested.
    â€œExactly! And that’s what this dance is all about—stealing chickens. We’ve got to be cunning as foxes, quick and fast and light on our feet. Otherwise we won’t be getting any dinner.”
    Charlie didn’t know what it was about the fox-trot, but it was during that class that he began to feel he was at last getting the hang of ballroom dancing, gaining control of his elbows and hips, hands and feet, finally beginning to lead Anneliese instead of the other way around.
    That same week, Anneliese started saying hello to him when she saw him around the school, although Charlie did not know if this was because of the dancing or because of whatever was going on between her and Whiskey. The week of the fox-trot was also the week when some of the guys started asking girls to the prom. As expected, Sasha Piper got snapped up pretty sharpish, by the student body president no less, and Charlie’s second choice, Shantelle Simpson, wasn’t far behind, also poached by a