Page 52 of I Don't Need Your Love

He throws his hands up. “For the love of all that is dance, I’mhere.”

I glare at him. “So are you going to come in or just stand in the doorway?”

“Kind of hard to get in when you’re blocking the way.”

Oh. I turn around and walk deeper into my room. I hear his footsteps behind me, but then he gently grabs hold of my arm, stopping me in place. When I turn around, he says, “Carly, I’msorry I called your dance team corny. I…” He runs his free hand through his hair. “I don’t know why I said it, but—”

“Because you want to mess with me and ruin everything that’s important to me.”

His mouth falls open. “Do you really think that?” He shuts his eyes for a second. “Look, can we just—”

“Dance,” I say. “Let’s focus on dance. The competition is only a week away and we’re no way at all ready. Stand in the center of my room.”

He nods and walks to the center, but then he catches sight of my side of the room. With a smile, he heads to my bedspread. “I remember this,” he says with a laugh. “You still have the same linen you had as a kid?”

My cheeks heat up. It’s pictures of ballerinas. I fell in love with it at the store when I was like eight and begged my mom to get it for me. Every time I sleep in it, I feel one step closer to making my dreams come true.

“There’s no reason to throw out perfectly good linen just because I used them as a kid,” I say.

He shuts his eyes and sighs. “Carly, I’m not making fun of you. I find it adorable.” He moves closer to my bed and traces one of the ballerinas with another smile. “This reminds me of your home and how much I loved hanging out there. Wow, so much nostalgia.”

Again, I’m bursting to know why he preferred to spend time at my house rather than his own, but I’m not going to pry. We arenotfriends.

“Are you ready to start?” I ask.

He tilts his head to the homework piled on my desk. “I can’t picture you poring over your schoolwork.”

“Trust me, my dad can’t either,” I mutter.

That makes him laugh softly. “He knows you’re working hard. Well, as hard as you can,” he teases.

I give him a look.

He laughs again. “Geez, Carly. Am I not allowed to joke with you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have time for this.” I take hold of his arm and yank him to the center of the room. “Take it from the top.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once I play the music, he starts the routine. He does a phenomenal job during the first half, and the beginning of the second half, too. But then he reaches the part he’s struggling with.

“I see what you’re doing wrong.” After shutting the music, I join him at the center of my room and demonstrate how to do the move. He tries again, but he stumbles through it.

“That was completely wrong, wasn’t it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say regretfully. “Try it again.”

He does, but he does the move even worse than before.

“Wrong again,” he says. “One more time.”

He does it a little better this time, but it’s obvious he’s totally messing this up.

“One second. I got this.”

He’s pretty determined to get it right, but unfortunately, he’s not being very successful. He tries a few more times, and he improves a little with each attempt. But he’s still nowhere there.

“Darn it,” he mutters as he runs his hands down his face. “Why isn’t this working?”