Free The Valeditztorian by Alli Curran

anti-motorcycle society, my father ranted like a paranoid lunatic for a good long time. Taking the full brunt of his scorn, I just stood there, waiting for him to finish. Sheesh.
    In light of the motorcycle incident, prolonging Luciano’s discomfort seems like a bad idea.
    “They’re right here,” I say, pointing to my computer.
    With a flourish, I type one additional command— merge —and the final database appears, a collation of the original two, complete with all the data I entered.
    “You finished it?” says Luciano.
    His voice is incredulous .
    “Already?”
    I nod affirmatively.
    “Everything?”
    I shrug.
    “Yeah, but it really wasn’t a big deal.”
    Time consuming, yes, but overall a simplistic process—rote data entry with some minor computer programming. Definitely not brain surgery.
    “Whoo- hoo,” Luciano whoops, giving me a spontaneous hug that nearly lifts me off the ground. “I might finish this project sometime this decade! Fantastic job, Gringa. Let’s celebrate.”
    Before I realize what he’s doing, Luciano detaches my headphones from the computer, causing loud samba music to issue from the speakers, disrupting the entire lab . Peter and Soelia seem happy enough to throw down their work. A moment later they’re partnered together, whirling between counter tops, a blur of hands and elbows that somehow avoids crashing into all of the errant beakers and Petri dishes that are lying around.
    After shouting something in Portuguese which I assume means , “Would you knock it off?!” or maybe it’s, “You people are nuts!” Julia stalks out the door in a huff.
    “Good riddance,” Luciano mutters , in a barely audible voice.
    Graspin g my hands, Luciano tries to spin me around. For a moment I resist, but of course, resistance is futile. Reluctantly attempting to follow his lead, I’m an instant disaster. Unable to keep pace with the Samba beat, which is quick, tricky, and athletically challenging for my klutzy calves, I accidentally slam my foot into Luciano’s shin. Then again, maybe this was no accident. Perhaps my subconscious devised a clever way of warning Luciano to keep his distance.
    “Ouch,” he shouts, grabbing his leg . “For goodness sakes Emma, we’re dancing here, not doing karate. Just relax and try not to hurt me, okay?”
    “Okay . But if I were you, I’d stand further back.”
    “Good point, ” says Luciano.
    When he tries to lead from a distance, the result is comical, and we both start laugh ing. Overtaken by silliness, forgetting my fears, I hijack the dance and begin back leading, albeit ungracefully, throwing in swing steps I learned from a couple of classes in New York, as well as some classic moves from Saturday Night Fever . When Luciano starts grooving like Jennifer Beals from Flash Dance (“…she’s a maniac, maniac on the floor….”), I laugh so hard that I nearly have an asthma attack.
    As the song ends, Luciano leads me into a backwards dip, throwing me off balance. In seconds, I’m flat on the ground.
    “I meant to do that,” I say.
    “Sure you did,” says Luciano between guffaws.
    “Okay, you’re right. I didn’t mean to fall on my ass. I’m just not very coordinated.”
    “No,” he says , “but you are a quick typist.”
    I can’t argue with that.
    Since it’s Friday and everyone feels like continuing our fiesta pequena, we agree to close up early and visit the Pelourinho. Hurrying to the mouse lab, I abduct Grace early. The two of us then jog home, giggling and filling our lungs with that fabulous Bahian air. The weather is perfect, slightly humid, in the mid-seventies, with the sun still high in the sky. For the occasion we dress in our sexiest American clothes, which isn’t saying much. I throw on a hot pink tank top over a pair of cutoff jean shorts, while Grace changes into clean white shorts, a silver sequined tank top, and a nice pair of white sandals. Pulling up my shorts, I’m surprised to find that the waist is