“Pa?” I called softly, so as not to wake Lisa. “Pa?”

He wasn’t anywhere in the apartment.

I hurtled downstairs without my shoes on, the steps stinging my feet with cold. I had vague notions of throwing open the front door and calling for help. As I got close to the ground floor, I felt a draft. I slowed down then, afraid that a burglar had broken in and was lying in wait for me. The door to the backyard of our building was open.

I froze. Pa was on his knees in the moonlight, beating something to death against the ground, with the metal bucket we used for sacred burnings still smoldering in front of him. No, he wasn’t beating an animal to death, it was a plastic slipper he had in his hand and he was whipping it against the concrete with all his strength. Parts of the slipper had already broken off.

“Be gone,” he wailed, his breath coming in white puffs, “evil spirits of petty people, be gone from our lives!”

I was used to Pa’s superstitions: the grapefruit skins he used to ward off evil, making sure that we were always wearing a bit of red for good luck, but this was of another order altogether. I’d never seen him show so much passion. I felt guilty, having caught him in this moment of private emotion, and I quietly snuck back upstairs, hardly daring to inhale. This was his way of trying to help Lisa.

I recognized what he was doing. I’d seen it performed by wailing witches and people in Gossip Park as well. It was a ritual called “Beating the Petty People”; the Vision must have told him to do it. It was supposed to repel attacks from those who would hurt you. When he finally slipped back into the apartment, I pretended I was asleep. I hoped for Lisa’s sake that it would help.

—

On Tuesday, I walked into the studio and saw Simone and her student Keith having an intense talk in the corner. From Simone’s exaggerated hand gestures, I could tell she was excited about something, but even with all her enthusiasm, her movements were controlled.

Nina was doing her usual stretches in front of the mirror but skipped over to me as soon as she noticed me. “Charlie, take a look at this!”

She grabbed my arm and dragged me back to the reception area, where the clipboard was. I peered at the poster hanging there. I saw a photo of a smiling older man in a Latin suit and it read, “The Paul Rosenthal Dance Scholarship. A check of $15,000 shall be awarded to the best Pro-Am couple in American Rhythm/International Latin. The talent of both dancers, the professional and the amateur, shall be judged.”

At this I stopped and stared into Nina’s eyes. Each person would then receive seventy-five hundred dollars.

“Keep reading,” she said.

I looked at the poster again. “Two couples, each made up of a professional woman and an amateur man, may compete from each Avery Studio in New York City. The couples shall perform a show number based upon one of the rhythm/Latin dances. The team of five judges, to be chosen and headed by esteemed adjudicator Julian Edwards, will be looking beyond technical ability. Rather, they will be searching for the qualities that Paul embodied in his life: enthusiasm, passion and authenticity.”

“I wish I had a shot at this,” Nina said, rolling herself up and down on her toes. “I had this wonderful guy but he moved back to Sweden last year. I don’t have anyone really good right at the moment. My competition students now are all kind of stiff and scared to be on the floor. But I’m going to do my best to convince someone to do this with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This is a private scholarship, which means they can set up the rules however they like. I called my friend at the West Side studio and heard it’s being funded by the guy’s daughter. He’s just passed away. It looks like the daughter’s trying to re-create what he used to do: Latin dances, with a professional woman. This prize is a huge deal. It’s so much more money than a normal competition and every Avery Studio in New York is going to want to participate for the honor of it.”

“So who’s going to represent our studio?”

She wrinkled her nose at me. “I’d put my money on Simone. If her Keith wants to do it, and I’m sure he will, the studio will support him.”

I knew from my scheduling days that Keith came in three times a week for two lessons each time. “What about Katerina?” She had many competition students.

“She’s not a Latin dancer and none of her students compete seriously in those dances. If it were international standard, she’d smoke it but it’s not.”

“So it’ll be between you and Simone. I really hope you win.”

“I’d kill to get this.”

—

The only classes I taught in that month of December were the beginner classes. I noticed when Evelyn and Trevor had lessons with Nina. Ryan didn’t appear, though. I couldn’t believe I was getting paid when I was hardly making any money for the studio.

“They’re investing in you,” Irene said. “My boy always knew how to do business.”

I liked sitting in the receptionist’s area with her when my feet hurt too much for me to take another step. Thank goodness Nina had taught me how to tape my feet. Even so, they were so sensitive and sore by the end of the evening that I changed back into my old dishwasher shoes when I left the studio. Now I understood why no one wore even the slightest heel when they changed to go home. Everyone put on the most comfortable shoes they could find.

Irene seemed to fit into the studio as if she’d always been there. She was like a mom to all of us, especially now that Adrienne had left the studio until after the baby was born. As it neared Christmas, the studio was decked out in Christmas trimmings and all of the music started to have holiday overtones.

Irene made mistakes behind the desk as well. Once, I heard Simone complaining to her about another booking mistake on her agenda and Irene said, “Too bad for you, honey. Suck it up.”

But I also saw the other dancers pouring their hearts out to her.

“My parents want to meet my girlfriend,” Mateo said. “They’re pressuring me to bring a date for home for Christmas. I don’t know what to do. I just barely got through Thanksgiving alive.”

“Don’t hide who you are. They are your parents, they will love you no matter what.”

“You don’t know the culture I grew up in.”

“You’re a professional ballroom dancer. Believe me, they already suspect.”

“Some of the guys aren’t gay.”

“But they don’t know that. They probably think all of the male dancers are gay. How did you get away with this for so long?”

“I convince random women to go home with me.”

Nina said, “Oh, thanks a lot. Now I’m a random woman.”

“You did a great job, Nina. So good that they kept pressuring me to marry you. That’s why I had to tell them our relationship was over.”

Irene said, “You’ve been pulling the wool over your parents’ eyes. It’s awful to lie to them. Just tell them.”

This made me think about my own Pa, and how I was lying to him every day. He had no idea I was working at a dance studio, let alone that I was now a dancer. How long could I keep up the charade?

—

“We need to do something about your hair,” Nina said, craning her neck to read the menu on the wall of the pizzeria. “You have a good face”—by now I was getting used to everyone at the studio commenting on every part of me—“but the hair is a disaster. Whoever cuts it, and I do not want to know who that is, you must never let them do it again. Is that clear?”

I rolled my eyes. Nina, Mateo and I were in line, waiting for her and Mateo to order. I’d started going out to lunch with them, even though I always brought my own food. They must have known that I couldn’t afford to eat out but they never commented. That morning, Nina had looked exhausted. I understood she’d had a rough night with Sammy. Even so, I saw the guys behind the counter checking her out. She didn’t notice.