Swingers

I was my usual mixture of terrified and hopeful. I had new shoes on–that was helping.  I snatched them that morning for $5 cash, all in ones. They were old and brown and reminded me of something my Texas-born grandfather would have worn.

The stomping upstairs was unbearably loud. The basement ceiling was shaking, and I wasn’t ready. I could only stall for so long; we would have to join them soon.

“Hannah,” I said, “Are my socks too high?” We were crashing an expert class, and I didn’t know the proper sock etiquette. Suddenly this was all I could think about.

She dodged the question, saying something like, “However you’re comfortable,” and started toward the stairs.

It was time. Ivy looked like she wanted to cry. I felt like maybe I needed to vomit. I decided to ditch the socks.

Ivy and I were in Montpelier, visiting Ivy’s sister, Hannah. Hannah works in environmental policy, and lives in an edgy, one room apartment full of mushrooms. Literally, mushrooms–I’m not joking. But like, they’re cool in a hipster-scientist kind of way. She’s great.

We spent that afternoon blending in with the crunchiest of granola. We went to a folk show, and even though every song sounded exactly the same to me, I deeply respected the band’s dedication to identical, tidy beards, and so I listened to each oompah with rapt attention.

Unfortunately, stylish facial hair couldn’t save me now because Hannah, sweet mushroom-loving Hannah, had taken us swing dancing.

We took the stairs slowly; I, visibly shaking, and Ivy, wide-eyed and pale white. The stomping grew louder–deafing, sickening. I thought maybe I should go back for my socks, that this was my one chance to escape. I turned to tell ivy–but it was too late.

We were standing in the entrance of a large dancehall.

Everyone was spinning.

The room was all flared skirts and bare feet. A band was playing on a stage opposite us. Every one was moving together–holding each other; I was overstimulated, completely captivated, and had completely forgotten about my socks, or lack thereof.

Young men were spinning grey-haired women; a man in a kilt held a small, red-haired girl. Nobody cared.

Everyone was smiling.

We found a corner to hide in where I watched the man in the kilt’s steady progress. A neat braid hung almost to his waist, and swung dangerously as the small, red-hair girl moved in and out of his arms–flickering.

It was called Contra dance–a mix of folk, swing, and line dancing. It was delicate and noisy; messy and beautifully fluid. I liked the look of it immediately.

The song ended and I started to panic. Hannah called someone over–an older, balding man in a track suit. “Gerald!” She gestured to Ivy and I. “It’s their first time.”

“Wonderful” said the track suit.

He took my hand and lead me to the floor.

“I have no idea what I’m doing, Gerald. I’m so sorry.” My hands were sweating a disturbing amount. I apologized several more times before he managed to squeeze in a, “Don’t worry, dear.”

He placed my hand on his shoulder, wrapped one arm around my waste, and took my other hand in his. “Now, when we start swinging, lean back.”

Dear God, what?

Gerald gave my sweaty hand a final squeeze, the music started, and we were spinning.

Everything blurred. The lights seemed brighter–the music, louder. I leaned against Gerald’s hand, and he smiled encouragingly.

We moved with the caller’s steady voice, and my feet found a kind of hazy rhythm. I began to feel easy in my body–a feeling I thought had been lost to me. I moved as if pulled by the air around me. I saw the man in the kilt–a blur at the edge of my vision. I winked.

When the song ended, I was breathless in the best way–tired, but wildly awake. I high-fived Gerald and stumbled dizzily away, finding Ivy and Hannah in our corner. They were smiling and waving-looking mostly proud and only slightly embarrassed.

I started towards them, giving them an obligatory thumbs up. Before I reached them, a boy with dark hair extended a hand to me. “Do you want to do this next one together?”

His name was Aiden. I know because in the nerve-wracking moments of  silent hand-holding, before the music started, I asked. He had a mole by his lip, and kind eyes that I liked immediately. I told him I had no idea what I was doing, and that Gerald–poor, sweet, innocent Gerald–had been my first partner. He laughed, but not unkindly.

He had an easy smile.

“You’ll do great.”