Take Me Dancing

Chapter One

Do you believe in love at first sight?

I certainly didn't. It just never made sense to me. 

For one thing, I never actually believed in love. I knew what it is (well I think I do), I've seen it, read it, heard it. It sounds bitter, but I don't know. Maybe it’s the fact that I've never been in love. Not once in my life. Well, I love my parents, occasionally my big brother, and my best friend, but that’s the different kind of love. It's, like, required. But being in love? Nope, never happened.

Some occasions, I really thought that was the case. But I was twelve, even younger. 

It was the first day of summer. The day right after graduation. It was the usual scene: politicians and their congratulatory posters hanging off electrical cords, littered confetti on the streets, discarded necklaces made of flowers, and the occasional toga.

I didn’t really understand how someone could just leave that thing lying on the street.

But anyway, like I said, it was the first day of summer. The air reeked of firecracker powder and of alcohol. Somehow almost everyone on my street had a graduating child. My parents, being all supportive and stuff, let me throw a party at this very house. They were coming back today since we were going on a road trip to Arizona where my grandparents and cousins lived, and we stayed there for the summer every year (my parents grew up in Arizona. They were neighbors, so it was easy to get around from Grandparents and Cousins A to Grandparents and Cousins B). And now as I opened my eyes and scanned the room, I knew I was in for trouble.

People were slumped on the brown leather couch, legs thrown over each other, some were half naked (some people just don’t have decency). The stereo was still blaring. There was spilled punch on the coffee table and on the floor—good thing my parents had the carpet washed and it was at the laundry shop—and packs of junk food spilled contents all over the appliances. There were bodies on the floor, under the sofa, huddled against the corners.

The kitchen looked the same. The fridge was open. My dog, Max, a cute little Labrador, barked at me as I closed the ref. I giggled and picked her up. She was trapped behind the door all night.

I set her on the floor, and she started to bark at everyone. It was cute, but her efforts were no good. It was only six a.m. and these people didn’t wake up until noon.

I skipped over the sleeping bodies and tiptoed my way outside. My parents weren’t coming until six p.m. tonight and I had all the time in the world to drive these people out of my house and clean this mess up. I never liked chores, but I didn’t have a choice.

The big lawn behind our house welcomed me with its untrimmed grass and weeds and overgrown shrubbery. This place was usually a spectacle and my parents took pride in this certain part of the house, but now that they were retired and were busy with their various businesses, the lawn became unnoticed. My brother suggested billions of times to hire a gardener, but my parents refused. They’d rather spend their money on other things.

Max followed me outside, skipping merrily with her tongue out and her tail wagging. Max was a gift to me from my parents when I graduated high school; and it was the best gift I ever got. Her chocolate brown coat gleamed in the morning sun.

I located the little stone bench that was near the end of the lawn and sat down, marveling the scenery. I used to paint when I was in grade school, but after my art teacher insulted my works and said they were hideous—nasty old woman, but thankfully she didn’t flunk me—I got discouraged and stopped. I used to paint sceneries. They were my favorite things to paint, and this certain part of the lawn was my favorite place. That was how I learned to wake up at six every morning; sometimes to draw, or paint, or simply stare at the sunrise. I never attempted to paint after that.