Awakening (Book One of The Geis) (10 page)

A week later, I stood in the gym with my mom, who insisted on meeting Rourke before she agreed to him teaching me lessons.

“I’m Maggie, McKayla’s mother.” Mom extended her hand to Rourke. “Thank you for teaching my daughter.” He bowed low over her hand, straightening with a charming smile. The ornery janitor had disappeared, and in his place stood a gentleman.

Rourke wore black slacks and a grey t-shirt, a change from his usual overalls. A silver pendant hung from a chain around his neck. He put his fingertips to his chin, and then opened his hand to my mom.

“He says you are welcome,” I told Mom, rolling up onto my toes to stretch. “We’d better get started, mom.”

“Zoey, watch out!” Mom warned, motioning Zoey away from where she crouched in front of Rourke’s lizard.

“What a cute little dragon. Can I touch him?”

“It’s a lizard Zoey, not a dragon.” I didn’t know why she wanted to touch the creature.

Rourke limped over to Zoey. He knelt on one knee and placed his hand on the lizard’s back. Mom and I moved toward Zoey at the same time.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Mom said, but Zoey was already stroking the lizard. “Will it bite?”

Rourke shook his head and motioned for Zoey to touch the lizard.

“There now, you’re a pretty thing,” Zoey said, stroking its back.

I couldn’t tell if the lizard was asleep, or if it closed its eyes out of contentment. When Zoey pulled her hand away shimmery dust fell to the floor.

“It’s like glitter. ‘Kayla, come feel.” Zoey said.

I shook my head. It seemed harmless enough, but there was something about the lizard that made me uneasy. When it focused one eye on me like that, I wondered if it could see right through to my every insecurity. I turned my attention to Rourke.

“Please keep us informed about McKayla’s progress,” Mom told Rourke. He bowed to Mom and she looked flattered. As Rourke straightened, he looked past her to the door.

Mom and I followed his gaze. Zoey had opened the door behind us and was trying to shoo the lizard outside behind the school.

“Be free, go on.” Zoey motioned with her hands. The lizard didn’t move.

“Zoey! What on earth are you doing?” Mom hurried to stand behind Zoey, putting her hands on her shoulders. “You can’t let Mr. Rourke’s lizard go.”

“He says he want to be free.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mom said to Rourke. “Zoey has an over-active imagination. ”

Rourke regarded my mom with an amused expression. I didn’t want her to change her mind about letting me study dance with Rourke, so I grabbed Zoey’s hand and pulled my mom toward the door.

“I’ll be home in an hour mom, and don’t worry—I already finished all of my homework.” I said. Christa ran in the door, slipping off her flats and dropping her bag to the floor.

“I want to take dance lessons.” Zoey whined.

“Zoey, we’ve discussed this already. Let’s go.” Giving one last smile to Rourke, Mom gave me a pointed look. “You girls stay together. Have fun.”

Zoey’s protests followed Mom out the door and into the parking lot. Christa raised her eyebrows at me and I motioned for her to sit next to me on the bleachers. Neither of us dared say anything. I slipped my feet into my tap shoes.

Rourke broke the heavy silence with music. He turned the volume up until it filled the gym with sound. Motioning for us to come out onto the floor, Rourke waited until we reached him, and then pointed to our shoes with a flicking motion.

“No shoes?” I asked.

Rourke didn’t respond. He sat on the floor and stretched.

I raised an eyebrow at Christa and removed my tap shoes. Christa shrugged her shoulders and sat on the floor, her bare feet together and her long legs forming a butterfly.

A stringed instrument, maybe a harp, lilted in the background of the music, overlaid by a flute that played a tune so like a story that I strained to detect the unheard words. I pictured emerald green fields dotted with lavender flowers, like a photo I saw once on a postcard.

As my muscles warmed, I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with air, content to do what I loved. Using my body to express myself felt natural and fulfilling.

A clap brought my eyes open. Rourke waited until he had both of our attention, and then he tapped both hands on his chest, an exaggerated smile on his face.

“Happy?” I guessed. Although I had been studying my dictionary, my sign language was still limited.

Rourke nodded the affirmative. He pulled a small remote control out of his pocket and picked the next song. A violin cut the air, a lonely voice of desperation. Rourke placed both hands in front of him and brought them straight down, the middle fingers of each hand pointing inward.

“Sad.”

Rourke shook his head and pretended to wipe tears from his eyes. Then he motioned that the first sign was more than sadness.

“Hopeless?” I offered. He rotated his hand as if to say kind of.

Another song played, this time a joyous romp punctuated with a hollow-sounding drum. Rourke let us listen to the song, and then turned it off.

Dance,
he said with a motion I recognized.

“He wants us to dance,” I told Christa.

“What should we do?” It was the first time Christa had spoken to Rourke, and her voice wavered.

Dance
, he motioned again.

Christa looked at me with wide eyes. Neither of us were good enough dancers that we could make up a dance on the spot.

Dance happy
, Rourke urged, and started the music again.

I crossed my legs in fifth position and pasted a smile on my face. I pointed my toe and danced the most recent ballet piece that Ms. Slannon was teaching us. Christa saw what I planned to do and followed along.

The routine didn’t quite fit the music, and I stumbled through it, hoping that my smile was convincing.

Rourke stood with his feet apart. He had retrieved a cane from near the sound system, and now he rested his hands on it. When we finished, he turned on the sad song and resumed his watchful stance.

I didn’t have time to consider what I should dance next, so I danced the same ballet routine. This time I didn’t smile, and I tried to make my movements appear mournful to match the sadness in the music. Christa followed.

Before we could finish, Rourke cracked his cane on the wooden floor. Startled, I spun around to see him advancing on us. Christa backed away.

When he was right in front of me, he put his hands on his hips. His eyes flashed with an intensity that reminded me of the night I had first seen him dancing in the same space where I now sought his approval. I was surprised to feel curiosity and amusement radiating from Rourke. His expression carefully guarded his feelings.

Rourke’s fingers flew, and he signed so quickly that I could not read anything he said. His face was red with frustration, and his lips silently scolded. He turned to where the lizard stood like a guard by the door, and threw his hands toward it in a gesture of defeat.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered, “I can’t understand what you are saying.” Christa clasped her hands behind her so tightly they were drained of color. Irritation welled up inside of me and I stepped forward.

“You can’t expect us to dance like you can on the first lesson. We don’t even know what you want.”

Rourke had his hands on his hips. I went on. “I saw the way you danced, and I know you’re good. I am trying to learn sign language, but I don’t understand much yet. Show me what to do.”

Rourke paced back and forth in front of the bleachers. Then he turned his back to us and motioned for us to watch him. I exhaled a breath I did not know I had been holding. Christa stood so close to me that our elbows touched. He danced a basic movement—similar to the shuffle we drilled in tap class. I imitated him, my bare foot swinging forward and backward to the beat. When I thought my muscles would cramp with the repetition, he switched feet.

When he stopped, he faced me again. This time his fingers moved slowly, and I felt more than understood what he was trying to say.

Where I come from, we dance from the heart.

The rest of the hour went by in a similar way. Rourke would show us a drill and we’d repeat it until our muscles ached. When the clock showed eight, Rourke stopped the music and pulled his MP3 player from the stereo. Christa and I applauded for Rourke as we always did Ms. Slannon. He raised his head in surprise and then stood tall, bending at the waist in a bow.

“Thank you.” I paused at the door on my way out. Rourke nodded.

Christa and I rushed outside, zipping up our jackets against the brisk night air. I looked at her and she burst out laughing.

“Is he for real?” Christa asked.

“Wow, I guess I didn’t know what to expect,” I said.

“I don’t think he has ever taught before. Did you see how he practically threw a tantrum? I was tempted to run out the door.”

“Yeah, he’s a little intense.”

“I don’t think I want to take lessons from him again,” Christa said.

Josh waited for us in the car. I stopped Christa before she opened the door.

“If you don’t want to take lessons from Rourke, I don’t blame you. But I can’t get the image of him dancing out of my head. There’s something about the way he dances. I have to learn how to do that.”

“He’s too weird, McKayla.”

“That’s just it, my mom won’t let me go if you aren’t there.”

Christa stretched her arms over the hood of the car. “I’ll still come with you. But I won’t dance.”

After the first lesson, Rourke wasn’t so scary. Christa came and sat on the bleachers, her homework spread out around her like a shield. I worked hard to please Rourke. Most of each lesson was spent dancing to music with different emotional undercurrents, and I found myself loosening up. I pieced together some of the new dance steps Rourke taught me, stringing them to match both the beat of the music and the emotions it made me feel. School and homework flew by, and I could hardly wait to get to dance practice.

After overhearing Taminy talk about an upcoming competition, I looked it up on the Internet. I practiced at home, pushing myself to learn this new style of dance. If I could get Rourke to approve, maybe I could enter in the competition and see how I compared to the other dancers.

Rourke acted excited at my progress. At the next lesson he tapped his cane on the floor in rhythm with my jig.

Good,
he signed when I finished. He lifted his chin and looked down at me over his nose.
Now your turn,
he said.
You pick
.

“Can we work on a hornpipe?”

Rourke looked through his music for a song.

“I’ve been working on one at home.” I took a deep breath. “I want to go to a dance competition.”

Rourke was walking off of the floor to let me dance, but he stopped when I spoke. He kept his back to me, and I couldn’t see his reaction. I began again.

“There’s an Irish dance competition in Jackson two weeks from this Saturday. I want to enter a hornpipe that I taught myself.” When Rourke didn’t turn around, I tried to think of what else I could say. Christa stopped chewing on the end of her pencil and gave me a sympathetic look.

Rourke limped over to me.

You don’t need to ask me,
he signed.
You can dance anywhere you please.
He folded his arms over his chest.

My heart fell. He reacted exactly how I thought he would, by closing himself off again.

“I know, but I need you to help me. I can’t do it on my own.” I moved toward him.
Please help
, I signed.

In my land, dancing is for healing of the soul and the body, for compassion and service to others. Competition holds no value for me.
Rourke started the music.
Show me.

I prepped, and then launched through my hornpipe. The sound echoed in the vast room.

Rourke watched my feet, and when I finished, he nodded.
You put more emotion into that dance then I’ve ever seen you do.

“Does that mean you will help me with it?”

He nodded.

I grinned at Rourke. He dismissed me with his cane, stifling a smile of his own.