Free Ms. Taken Identity by Dan Begley Page A

glancing at the clock, startled by how much time has passed, and frightened that I’ve forgotten someone else at the airport.
     But I haven’t. In fact, I have no obligations except for my comp class on Wednesday, which I skate through as fast as I can,
     and I’ve begged off doing anything with Bradley, so that by Thursday evening I’m feeling good. I have a plot: a down-and-out
     second-tier model (pajamas and jeans for Target and K-Mart—the Marie type) gets discovered by a bigwig, then—
poof
—instant makeover, and she’s off to Monte Carlo with her wacky group of friends, led by a Rosie-type, where it’s fast cars
     and yachts and all sorts of superhunks and paparazzi chasing after her, and tons of exotic food and sex. I have an outline:
     sixty pages and counting, complete with beginning, middle, and end, and ideas for dozens of scenes. And I have another date
     at the studio. And that’s where I’m getting ready to go when the phone rings. It’s Scott. He’s shaken and out of breath.
    “Dad had a heart attack.”
    “
What?
When?”
    “This afternoon. He was out at the course and having chest pains and blacking out and they called the ambulance and got him
     to the hospital. He just got out of surgery. Emergency bypass.”
    “And…?”
    “It went fine, thank god, as far as they can tell. But he’s still unconscious and in intensive care. I’m on my way there now.”
    I don’t say anything.
    “Mitch, are you there?”
    “I’m here.”
    “Do you want to know what hospital?”
    “Uh, sure.”
    “Jesus. You’re not even coming, are you?”
    “You said he was in intensive care. He’s unconscious. What can I do?”
    “You can come out. You can give some support to Leah and the kids. He might even come around tonight.” His voice is much louder
     than it needs to be.
    “What, and see my face hovering over his sickbed? You want him to have another heart attack?”
    There’s sputtering on the other end, just a collection of sounds and half words, and none of it English, till he finds what
     he wants to say. “You are fucking unbelievable.”
    My brother doesn’t often curse; this one got him.
    “You handle it your way, I’ll handle it mine,” I tell him.
    But I do get the name of the hospital, just to humor him.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    T he crowd at the studio hasn’t changed from Monday night, but I have. I’m official now, legit, one of the group. I’ve been
     in the trenches with these people, sweating, swiveling my hips, counting it off—quick/quick/-s-l-o-w, quick/quick/-s-l-o-w—distributing
     my weight on the syncopated beat, providing a lead that’s not too rigid, not too noodly, and minding all the other nuances
     of chin placement and shoulder squareness and toe pointing, and they see it and appreciate it. Plus, I’ve harmonized portions
     of “Come on Eileen” into a beer bottle microphone with them. I’m in.
    We review the basics from Monday night, and they all come back with surprising ease, then we move on to more complicated steps
     and holds and turns. I get these, too, at least the stepping and holding part, but there’s a problem with the new turns; they’re
     sharper, quicker, and my rubber-soled tennis shoes keep sticking to the floor when I try to spin or pivot. Not only does this
     have a tendency to throw my timing off (timing, for all you non-dancers out there, is what dancing’s all about: even if you
     know nothing about dance, you can still look at a guy and say, “This guy’s got it,” or “What a clown”), but it also creates
     a high-pitched squealing noise that would be commendable at varsity basketball practice (“Way to hustle, son”), but here gets
     me looks. I do my best to smile and shrug, but I can tell I’m in danger of earning a nickname like Squeaky or Screech or Chirpy.
    After the lesson, when everyone else is sitting on chairs changing their shoes and I’m sitting on a chair not changing my
     shoes, Marie addresses the problem