“The girls in your class?”
“Yeah. They’re your typical pain-in-the-butt teenagers most of the time, but they’re good kids. A lot of them wouldn’t get exposure to quality teaching if it weren’t for the community center.”
“And you’re the quality teacher?”
“I didn’t mean it like—Well, I’ve been dancing my whole life, so I guess I better be a good teacher by now.”
“I taught you something about singing today. Maybe you could teach me a few moves for my next video?”
We both laugh because that’s just ridiculous. He may have transitioned from classical piano prodigy into modern rock star, but he never strays too far from an instrument and a microphone. The idea of him doing any of the moves I’m about to teach my girls is hilarious.
“I’d like to see that. We’re learning a routine inspired by Beyoncé today. You doing those moves . . .”
“You’d make a pretty penny selling that footage to some tabloid. Believe me.”
He laughs, but there’s less humor than before.
“Have you . . . well, has anyone ever done anything like that? Sold a video or whatever?”
“Let’s just say I’ve learned to be really careful about who gets close to me.”
I angle a wry smile up at him.
“Maybe you shouldn’t offer rides to strange women.”
The smile drops from his mouth, but lingers in his eyes.
“Some risks are worth taking.”
Some aren’t. He stands about a foot above me in height, but his success positions him in another stratosphere. I know there are girls who would do everything they could to get as close as they can, but I’m not those girls. As good as it feels to talk to him, to share those loaded looks, to laugh with him and see those protective layers he wears fall way, that’s the opposite of what I want. To take advantage of him to propel me forward. I’ll make it on my own, or not at all. He’s a distraction, and a risk I’m not willing to take.
“Thanks again.”
I smile and take off toward the locker rooms. Even though I know he’s still there and that he’s watching me, I don’t let myself look back.
LET THE RECORD SHOW I TRIED.
After that warning look Grady basically fired at me before we left the house, I was determined to keep Kai at arm’s length. Not to go any further with whatever this thing is that keeps flaring up between us. I was downright rude in the car. Completely silent. She started talking to me. She was the one who shared personal, adorable things that only served to increase her desirability rating.
I mean, come on. Kai Anne, she said. Like the pepper. Like your car. You can’t make this shit up.
So it’s basically her fault that I faked a piss so I could see her in action. I’m actually not to be held responsible for the fact that I’m hovering outside the small studio where she’s teaching, just beyond her line of vision, barely keeping her in mine. She’s definitely to blame for my semi-stalkerish behavior. Talk about the irony. I’m hiding behind sunglasses and a hat so I’m not recognized as a celebrity while trailing a girl who no one would know from Adam.
She stands in front of about ten girls. She changed from the cargo shorts and T-shirt she wore earlier and now wears some leotard thing that shows the lean muscles of her thighs and the ridiculous curve of her ass. A tiny YOLO T-shirt looks like it’s been cut in half, hitting just below her high, pert breasts and hanging off one shoulder. She’s built like a cheerleader or a gymnast. A dancer. She has an athlete’s graceful body, one that has obviously been disciplined into delicate strength.
Over the giggles and squeals of the girls, her voice reaches me in the hallway.
“Okay, chicas.” Kai claps a few times. “The majority has spoken, and we’ll be doing a routine inspired by Beyoncé’s ‘711’ video for the talent contest.”
More squealing. Laughing. High-fiving. Thank God I’m not in high school anymore. I fought so hard to go to school with “normal” kids my age. It was a great experience, but once was more than enough. I figured out pretty quickly that I wasn’t missing much.
“I’ve choreographed a routine that I think you’ll like. I know a lot of you are interested in cheering. The video has some of that, and I’ve included those elements.” She walks over to a music system against the wall and plugs her phone in. “I’ll show you the whole thing once all the way through in real time. Then we’ll start breaking it down piece by piece.”
Beyoncé’s voice invades the room. I’ve heard the song on the radio. Then I forget about Beyoncé. I forget about the girls. I forget that at any moment someone could realize who I am and ask me to sign a boob or take a selfie. All I see is Kai.
I realized something pretty early in life. When we’re doing that thing we’re made to do, it transforms us. Elevates us. The high I get from creating and performing has a lot less to do with the applause and fame or money, and so much more to do with me feeling like I’m doing exactly what I was put on this earth to do. That’s what I see when Kai dances. A confidence shines from her eyes. Even her posture changes, straightens. Her movements are crisp and then mellifluous. One moment tight and controlled, but the next, as fluid as water. The routine melds ballet, hip-hop, modern dance so seamlessly, moving from swan to swagger in heartbeats.
When she’s done, the girls run forward and cluster around her, laughing and mimicking the snippets of the routine they caught on to. Kai laughs with them for a moment, her face glowing and alive. Then she claps twice, shooing them back to their positions. For the next hour they slice this elephant of a routine into manageable bites. Manageable for them, at least. All my rhythm is in my fingers. I couldn’t dance my way out of a paper bag.
As class breaks, I don’t think about all the things I could have done with the last hour and a half I forfeited to spend more time with Kai. There’s pressure to write my next album. I’m producing tracks for a few artists. Not to mention needing to check on my investment into Wood, the studio one of my buddies opened not too long ago. All of that seems pretty pale next to this girl’s vivid presence.
She’s a star.
Grady’s hinted before that Kai has the potential to be the next J. Lo or Katy Perry. I’ll go a step farther. She has “one name” potential. Madonna. Cher. GaGa. I’ve only heard her sing a scale and dance one routine, but her potential is glaringly obvious. And it’s not even just her talent. She’s magnetic. That “it” people talk about is so strong in her I can’t believe she’s still processing Grady’s invoices and teaching dance to high schoolers in a community center. There’s nothing else you want to look at if she’s in the room. I know this from personal experience. The right break would catapult her into the fulfillment of all that potential.
While I’m contemplating all of this, the girls one by one drift past me. I slump and drop my eyes to the floor, tugging the brim of the baseball cap lower over my hair. Once the last girl is safely out the door, I walk into the studio. Kai is looking down at her phone with her bag slung over one shoulder, and she doesn’t notice me for a few moments. Then she practically walks right into me.
“Oh.” Her tilted eyes, which I now know are a legacy from her Korean mother, widen, and I see surprise all over her face. “What are you—I thought you . . .”
She peers up at me, a frown settling between her thick brows.
“Rhyson, why are you still here?”
Truth? Lie? Okay, split the difference.
“Well, after I used the bathroom,” I say, leading with the lie and easing into the truth. “I saw your class starting and hung back to watch. Looked like fun.”
The frown doesn’t disappear completely, but she does add a tiny smile.