Episode Six: (Fiction) It’s Just Dancing by Camila Santos
It’s Just Dancing
You know that. I know that. But they’ll never understand. Ok? So you have to help me. You just have to. They’ll ask a million questions. My mom won’t let me speak, even after I explain that I’m all covered up. That I dance in jeans and a t-shirt. My dad, he’ll be trying to calm my mom down, who by then, will be in tears. Not just regular tears—loud tears, hysterical tears. She’ll be all like: you left your family, you left your school, you left your friends, your country. For what? For this? To dance with strange men? And my dad, he’ll have an arm around her shoulders. He won’t make a peep. He’ll just push his glasses up his nose, pat my mother’s hand. But I know he won’t be able to look at me. Not in the eye. Ever again.
And I can explain that it’s just dancing. Salsa, bachata, forró. In fact, depending on the night, I might dance all of those styles. You know how it is: I go to the club and sit at the bar with the other girls. Then, one of the guys will ask me to dance. And we’ll dance. Just like in any other club. Except that when the song’s over, I get two dollars. I’ll dance an entire set for fifteen. And for fifty dollars, I’ll dance the entire hour. And that’s basically it. Didn’t my parents meet at a party? I mean, I’m sure they danced too. When I lived back in Brazil, I’d go out dancing with my friends all the time, we’d stay out all night long. When it comes down to it, what’s the difference? I know my job bothers you a little, but of course it does ‘cause you’re my boyfriend. But my parents? They wouldn’t ever even try to understand.
So can’t you just back me up on this one, amor? They’ll be here in a week. That’s plenty of time to convince your manager at the restaurant. She only needs to pretend that I work there too. It won’t be that hard. I’m there all the time. The entire staff knows me already. Don’t look so upset, it’s just a little white lie. Because once my parents start with the questions, it’ll never stop. And I’ll just have to tell them everything. That yes, it’s just dancing, but once a month, on theme nights, I gotta wear a stupid costume. How every once in a while, one of the men will drink too much and grab my ass. And some of them don’t pay the two bucks they owe me when the song is over and I gotta call the club’s bouncer. And how some of them smell bad. Or leer. And then, there are the nice ones, the regulars. The ones who blow all their hard-earned money on those dances. They even tip us. And a part of me feels terrible. Just terrible. But I gotta earn my money too, so I smile and thank them and even say that I’ll see them next week.
My parents will be here for ten days, love. That’s it. Then, they go back to Brazil. And I still have two thousand dollars to go. Just another few more months of dancing, and then I’ll be able to quit. And go to beauty school. I’ll get my cosmetology degree. On the first vacation break, we’ll take a trip to visit my family. I’ll show you the house I grew up in, my brothers will take you surfing, we’ll drink beers with our feet in the sand. Believe me, you’ll understand when you meet them. You’ll get why I’m asking you to do this for me. Just picture it: one day, I’ll have my own salon, you’ll have your coffee shop. We’ll look back at our time in the city. And I promise you amor, every time you take me out dancing, we’ll laugh about all of this.