Free The Unexpected Waltz by Kim Wright Page A

BFE.”
    “BFE?” I ask blankly, watching another clump of people come through the door. A slim black man in a newsboy cap, two women in jeans, one of them stunningly tall. A gaggle of teenagers.
    “You know how when men go to call girls they can pay extra and get the GFE?” she says, bending so close to me I can smell her tropical shampoo. “That means if you like double the price or something you get the girlfriend experience. The whore will go to dinner with you and kiss you and pretend like she likes you. I figure when I get to dance with Nik on Wednesdays, he’s my boyfriend experience.”
    I doubt Nik would appreciate the analogy. “So you take private lessons?”
    “When I can,” Isabel says, “but I have to put it all on plastic. Group’s my regular fix. I mean, Quinn teaches most of them and the guy students suck, but sooner or later Wednesday’s here and Nik puts his arm around me. Money well spent. And who knows? I might sell a kidney and compete at the Holiday Classic down in Hotlanta. You going?”
    “God no,” I say. I haven’t heard anybody call Atlanta “Hotlanta” in thirty years. “I just started.” From across the room Nik gives me a little wave, like he’s glad that I’m here.
    A few others drift in. A chubby and prematurely bald man whom Isabel introduces as Harry, evidently another regular, and a pretty young girl named Valentina who greets Nik and Anatoly in Russian. “Bought and paid for on the Internet,” Isabel whispers. “Her husband’s about a hundred but she’s real sweet.” One of the women in jeans retreats to the back couch, where she pulls knitting out of a big sack, while the tall one leans down to put on her dance shoes. “Lesbians,” Isabel whispers. “Jane’s the one who dances and she takes most of her private lessons with big, bad Anatoly, who likes to whip his ladies around and make them submit, you know what I mean, to his throbbing, masculine will. The other one just sits there knitting and watching him work her over. Makes you wonder what happens when the two of them get home, doesn’t it?” It’s all I can do to keep from laughing, but I’ve got to admit, Isabel’s an absolute gold mine of information. I should just bring her to Carolina’s room tomorrow, sit her down on the bed, and pull her string.
    “Okay, let’s get started,” Quinn says, walking to the center of the room, and the regulars fall into a line. I stand at the end. Quinn tells us a few things I already know about the jive—quick, sharp movements and lots of bounce—and then the door opens and Steve strides in. Maybe he planned it this way, making his big entrance after we’re already lined up, but Quinn gives him the same sort of smile Nik gave me: Thanks for coming, for being a team player. She takes us through the jive basic—a three-step shuffle to the right, then the left, ending with a rock step. Everyone seems to know that much at least, so she quickly adds on a little turn that ends with the couple in a sweetheart pose, shoulder to shoulder with their arms around each other’s back. It doesn’t seem to be a terribly hard step, but it’s cute and it does require the man and woman to be quite close when they rock back. She teaches us the women’s part, which is almost always the showiest and most complicated, and we practice on our own while she walks the men through their steps.
    Then she says, “Here’s what the whole thing looks like with a partner.”
    Apparently the highlight of group class is when the instructor chooses a student to demonstrate. In theory, the student is pulled from the line at random but I don’t think any of us are clueless enough to buy that. The instructor is going to choose a student who he or she thinks can demonstrate the sequence with ease; otherwise you risk destroying the confidence of the remaining pupils before they even begin. The logical thing for Quinn to do is choose Steve, who not only takes plenty of private lessons but