Dancing with the Bars
The study room was usually a place for academic desperation, but today it felt more like a logistical battlefield. Amelia, ever the group’s self-appointed administrator, stood at the head of the table with the posture of a school principal.
“Before we start, I’d like to have a preliminary powwow—or a prelimi-wow—about what I’m calling our library’s back door conundrum,” she announced.
Elvis didn’t look up from his notebook. “Sounds like a porno with Kate Winslet.”
“Elvis, ew,” Amelia winced. “The door on the back side is locked after five, which means most of us have to walk all the way around. Now, if we were to move our meetings to four-thirty—”
“No,” Tyrone interrupted instantly. “I have a regular class at that time. It’s like… Math. Or other regular classes.”
“Yeah,” Christina added with uncharacteristic rigidity. “I have something unimportant that can’t ever move.”
Amelia sighed, tapping her pen against her chin. “Well, maybe one of us could stand by the back door and let the rest in? I nominate Wilson. Where is he? I haven’t seen him all day.”
A collective beat of silence followed. The group exchanged glances, the realization sinking in that Wilson Firestone was unusually absent.
“Has anyone called him?” Sharon asked, her voice tinged with a grandmotherly concern.
“I did,” Elvis said. “Several times. He never returned my calls.”
“Oh, no,” Tyrone whispered. “The last thing I said to him was, ‘Suck it.’”
“Me too,” Christina added.
Just as the air in the room turned somber with the thought of Wilson’s potential demise, the door swung open. Wilson strolled in, looking remarkably vibrant for someone they had just mentally buried.
“Good morning!” he chirped, flashing a grin.
“Oh, thank God,” Sharon exhaled.
“You thought I was dead, didn’t you?” Wilson asked, his smile turning into a smug smirk.
“No,” Chase lied.
“I did,” Elvis admitted.
Wilson’s face fell. “Do you people have any idea how emasculating that is? I’m not Mickey Rooney. You don’t have to cross your fingers to see if I’ll show up. You know, when I was thirty, people used to wish I was dead to my face. That’s called respect.”
As Wilson grumbled his way into his seat, Christina’s eyes narrowed at Chase’s shoulder. She reached out and plucked a long, dark strand of hair from his expensive wool coat.
“Who is the lucky brunette?” she teased, holding the evidence aloft.
“Last name Beeswax, first name Nunnuyuh,” Chase retorted, snatching the hair back and tucking it into his pocket.
“Oh, my third wife was biracial,” Wilson offered helpfully.
“Stop it,” Chase said, his defensive walls going up. “I am trying to keep you out of trouble. What if the next girl saw these?”
“Chase, you’re sleeping with a woman you’ve already slept with?” Sharon asked, her eyebrows arched.
Chase replied, “Can’t I be the friend in the group whose trademark is his well-defined boundaries? Like Privacy Smurf, Discreet Bear, or Confidentiality Spice?”
“Why would you keep her a secret?” Amelia asked. “Don’t you want us to meet her?”
“We have an agreement to keep it low-key,” Chase said firmly.
“Obviously, it’s a guy,” Wilson muttered.
“You’re wrong, Wilson,” Elvis chimed in. “It’s two guys.”
Chase rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I do wish you were dead.”
“Thank you,” Wilson beamed.
The halls of Orangeside were a labyrinth of secrets today. Tyrone moved with a furtive, athletic grace, checking over his shoulder as he headed toward a part of the campus the rest of the study group rarely frequented: the dance studio.
He greeted the other students with a practiced nod, quickly shedding his outer layers to reveal a sleek black leotard. As the music started—a rhythmic, pulsing beat—Tyrone joined the line, his body moving with a fluid precision that had nothing to do with football.
“And step into place,” the instructor, Madame Poundstone, commanded. “Six, seven, eight, and reach! Two, three, four, pose!”
Tyrone reached, his mind finally at peace. Here, he wasn’t the star quarterback or the guy who got made fun of for liking Yugi-Oh. Here, he was just a dancer.
Meanwhile, Chase Wright was engaged in a different kind of choreography. He was leaning against the wall outside Professor Scarlett Finch’s office, waiting for the hallway to clear.
“Professor Finch, quick question,” he said as she approached.
“You know the answer,” she replied without stopping. “I don’t date students. Even if you are no longer in my Statistics class.”
“I’m actually kind of seeing someone right now, thank you very much,” Chase said, following her into the office.
“Really? How’s that going?”
“Fine for now,” Chase said, closing the door behind them. “She’s smart, pretty. But sometimes I feel like she’s just waiting for me to stop talking and take off my pants.”
Finch turned, a playful glint in her eyes. “She is.”
They moved together, the professional veneer dissolving instantly. “I’ve never been someone’s dirty little secret,” Chase murmured between kisses.
“I’ve never had a dirty secret,” Finch countered. “It’s so unprofessional. But the sneaking does make the sex thirty-two percent hotter.”
“Wow, you really do like statistics.”
Their moment was shattered by the frantic rattling of the doorknob. They sprang apart just as Dean Starmer burst in, clutching a stack of papers.
“Chalk!” Finch stumbled out, looking around wildly, and Chase was fumbling for vaguely academic phrasing.
“Professor Finch, there’s that transcript you wanted. Chase! I didn’t expect to see you here. Hopefully I’m not interrupting.” Dean Starmer slyly said.
Chase and Finch gave a nervous laugh.
The Dean paused, his eyes darting between Chase’s slightly ruffled shirt and Finch’s flushed face. “You know, we laugh, but the fact is, student-teacher relationships do happen. And they are a magnet for lawsuits, so we do stay vigilant. In fact, physically attractive students and faculty are actually placed on a watch list.”
“You rank people by how hot they are?” Chase asked, incredulous.
“You got it, Number Two,” the Dean said, pointing at Chase.
“Um, Dean..” FInch started.
“Yes Professor Seven—uh, Finch?”
“I’ll return this tomorrow.” She finished.
The Dean lingered in the doorway, his gaze lingering uncomfortably long on both of them. “Two people of your rankings in this small a room, with this type of lighting… and his upper body and what her heels and hemline are doing to enhance what were already quite a few favors from God… it’s all the more important to keep it tasteful.”
He finally retreated, leaving a heavy, awkward silence in his wake.
“I think he might have ruined it,” FInch said.
“It’s dead,” Chase agreed.
In the dance studio, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of resin and exertion. Tyrone finished his final pose, chest heaving, as Madame Poundstone clapped her hands.
“I can’t wait for the recital,” she beamed. “You were all wonderful. Especially you, Tyrone.”
“Thank you, Madame Poundstone,” Tyrone replied, grabbing his towel. He turned to the other students, his expression suddenly hardening into a mask of jock-like intensity. “And if any of you mention my dancing outside of class, I will break off your legs and use them to smash in your friends’ cars.”
He turned to leave and nearly collided with someone entering for the next session. Christina Puhr stood there, clutching a pair of tap shoes, her jaw dropping.
“Tyrone?”
Seeing each other in leotard sparked a laugh from both of them. Until they both realized what it meant.
“Oh! Huh! Oh, my God,” Tyrone stammered, looking down at his leotard as if he’d just realized he was wearing it.
“Tyrone, since when have you taken modern dance?” Christina asked, her voice a mix of shock and dawning respect.
“Since last semester,” Tyrone admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Coach told me it would help with my coordination. And I fell in love with it… in a very straight way.” He shifted uncomfortably noticing Christina’s eyes moving to his crotch area, “I’m going to have to ask you to keep your eyes UP here.”
“I should have never dismissed you as a shallow jock.” Christina apologized. “Then again, we haven’t really spent much time together,” Christina noted.
“That’s because you don’t play football or have fun,” Tyrone retorted.
“I have fun tap dancing,” Christina said, holding up her shoes. “I started last semester too. It was always something I wanted to do, but it was too embarrassing, so I never told anyone.”
“Same here,” Tyrone said, a wave of relief washing over him. “Christina, nobody can know about this.”
Christina shook her head, her activist spirit flaring up. “Tyrone, who are we kidding? Look at how much time and energy we’re putting into hiding something that we’re passionate about. We are leading a double life. I am spending a lot of money on breakaway clothing.”
“We should look at this as an opportunity to come clean,” she continued. “We could invite the group to the dance recital on Friday.”
Tyrone hesitated, the image of Wilson’s mocking laughter flashing in his mind. “Man, I don’t know. Let me think about it.”
Back in the library, Chase was trying to focus on his notes, but his eyes kept drifting toward Professor Finch’s office. He jumped when she appeared at the glass wall of the study room, beckoning him.
“Mr. Wright,” she called out, “would you come to my office? We never finished our… intercourse.”
Chase winced, glancing at his friends. “I have study group right now. And nobody uses ‘intercourse’ to mean anything other than sex.”
He followed her behind a stack of bookcases, out of the direct line of sight—or so he thought.
“Look, this is a wall of windows,” Chase whispered as she leaned in. “My study group’s right behind it.”
“I know,” she murmured. “As soon as we touch, the blinds will open and six annoying but lovable misfits will be staring at us. Come on, what are the odds?”
She kissed him, and for a moment, the world of Orangeside disappeared. That lasted exactly three seconds before a frantic tapping sounded on the glass. Chase pulled away to see Wilson’s face pressed against the window, gesturing wildly.
Chase sighed, smoothed his hair, and walked back into the study room with Finch in tow.
“You all remember Scarlett Finch,” Chase said, his voice flat with resignation. “She’s the woman I’ve been seeing lately.”
“Why are they looking at me like I’m a zoo animal?” Finch asked as the group stared in stunned silence.
“Chase acts as sort of the dad of the group,” Elvis explained. “So, emotionally, this is like being told you’re our new mom.”
“But you know it’s nothing like that, right?” Finch asked, looking at Chase.
“Absolutely,” Chase said.
“You cook shells with hotdogs?” Elvis asked, his eyes wide.
“I have,” Finch replied energetically.
Elvis replied “That’s my favorite.”
“The important thing,” Chase interrupted, “is we all understand Professor Finch and I need this to be our little secret.”
The group murmured their assent, though the energy was decidedly awkward. Finch made a quick exit, leaving Chase to face the music.
“Well, Chase,” Wilson said, “you’ve taken a big step in knocking down the barriers between students and teachers. It’s like Rosa Parks.”
“I don’t think it’s like that,” Chase said.
Sharon leaned over to Christina, “Are you going to be able to get over this?”
“I will do my best to survive this life change event,” Christina replied half sarcastically.
“Speaking of secrets,” Christina said, grabbing Tyrone’s hand and pulling him forward. “Tyrone and I have something that we would like to announce.”
Amelia let out the sound of horrified shock.
“No, it’s nothing like that,” Christina said catching Amelia’s shock.
Tyrone froze, his eyes darting toward the door.
“There is a dance recital on Friday,” Christina announced proudly, “and I would be honored if you guys would attend. Because since last semester, I have been taking a tap class.”
The room didn’t erupt in applause. Instead a stuttered laughter started.
“That’s funny,” Sharon giggled.
“Well, I don’t know how funny it is,” Christina said, her confidence wavering.
“Come on,” Chase said, “we’re not making fun of you, but obviously you kept it a secret because you saw the irony too”
“Irony?” Christina asked.
Elvis interjected, “You’re not a typically vulnerable or feminine person. And the act of dancing is considered both.”
“I disagree,” Christina said, looking to Tyrone for backup. “What about Fred Astaire?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Amelia shrugged.
Chase added, “There are exceptions to the rule, but even when Jerry Rice went on Dancing With the Stars…”
“JERRY RICE!?” WIlson said in shock, “I liked him.”
“Tyrone, what’s your secret?” Sharon asked.
Tyrone looked at the laughing faces of his friends, then at Christina’s expectant gaze. He felt the weight of his “starting quarterback” reputation crushing his chest.
“My secret…” Tyrone gulped, “is that I knew Christina’s secret.”
Elvis took in a shocked breath hearing this.
“Yeah. I saw her in her dance outfit and she looked… ridiculous. So I helped her protect her shame.” Tyrone finished.
Christina’s face went white.
“Bravo, Christina,” Tyrone said weakly.
“Thanks.” Christina said defeated.
The moment was interrupted by the Dean sticking his head in. “Mr. Wright! Just got word of your relationship with Professor Finch.I’d like to see you both in my office.”
Chase looked around confused, “Nobody here left the room, how is that even possible?”
Dean Starmer added, “Well, for one thing, it’s all over X.”
While Chase was figuring out how his relationship got leaked, WIlson was slyly putting his phone back in his pocket.
As the group filed out, Christina caught Tyrone’s arm. “What the hell? I thought we were supposed to come out together.”
“I changed my mind,” Tyrone said, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Well, they’re going to find out at the recital” Christina argued.
“I’m not going to BE in the recital…I’m dropping the class.”
“Oh my God, how could you do this to me, I’m so disappointed in you.”
“YOU can’t talk to me like that, YOU are NOT Sharon…and Sharon isn’t my Mom.”
“Christina, it’s not like were even in the same situation. Girls are supposed to dance, that’s why God gave them parts that jiggle. But I’d be going from starting quarterback to a guy that twirls around in tights. I’ve got way more to lose going up on that stage because I’m a man.”
“A real man doesn’t bail on his friends,” Christina spat. “You’re a dancer, Tyrone. It’s who you are.”
“Not anymore,” Tyrone snapped, turning away.
Christina stood alone in the hallway for a moment, the sting of Tyrone’s betrayal vibrating in her chest. She jumped when Sharon appeared at her side, wearing a look of profound, maternal pity.
“Whoa. Come on,” Sharon said, gently steering her toward a bench. “Upset about Chase?”
“No,” Christina sighed, rubbing her temples. “I am upset about something I can’t talk about.”
“We could talk about anything,” Sharon offered. “Politics, medicine… Chase.”
Seeing the wide opening given, Christian said, “Did you hear about the Shroud of Turn, how it’s fake?”
Ignoring Christina, Sharon continued. “Here’s the thing about Chase. Chasing after you made him a better person because you always call him on his stuff. All this time, you’ve been warming him up and stirring in sweetener, and making him just right. And sure, you weren’t ready to take a sip yet, but it didn’t mean you want somebody to snatch him off the counter and guzzle him down in front of you.”
Christina blinked. “Sharon, I did not warm Chase up. Nobody ever will. Do you think Professor Finch is getting flowers right now? Or that they’re going to the movies to hold hands? No. The only thing keeping them going was the thrill of the secrecy. Now that it is out, it is over. Believe me.”
Sharon looked at her with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Can I just ask, as a divorced, black housewife? What part of being a single, white slacker makes you people so jaded?”
“Ooh,” Christina said, a spark of life returning to her eyes. “‘You people’? What do you mean, ‘you people’?”
“I cannot believe I got to say that!” Sharon giggled, clapping her hands. “It’s the little things, isn’t it?”
In the Dean’s office, Chase and Finch sat in mismatched chairs while Dean Starmer gleefully brandished a clipboard.
“Okay, well, now that your secret is out there, I’m just gonna talk you through this teacher-student relationship form and then you two can be off on your beautiful people way,” the Dean chirped.
“We haven’t even admitted to being a couple,” Chase reminded him. “This is all based on something worse than hearsay, Wilson’s X account. The X account in which he says he’s forty-seven and teaches a women’s-only Pilates class.”
“Chase, it’s okay,” Finch said, surprisingly calm. “It’s out. And you know what? It doesn’t bother me. I’m happy.”
“Sweet,” Chase muttered, though he looked like he wanted to crawl under the rug.
“First question,” the Dean read, leaning in. “How long have you been doing it? Oh, not it. I mean, this… dating.”
“A few weeks,” Finch answered.
“And how long have you been doing it?”
“We don’t have to answer that,” Chase snapped.
The Dean scribbled something down. “Now, this is just hypothetical… might you ever consider spending the night with a third person?”
“That’s not on there,” Chase said.
“Wow, it’s on there,” Chase noted, peering at the form.
Dean Starmer noted, “No agenda! Just exploring your options.”
“I’ll put ‘TBD,’” the Dean whispered. “Next: Would you describe yourself as boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“Yes,” Finch said firmly.
“Eh—” Chase stammered at the exact same time.
Finch’s smile vanished. “What?”
“Oh, boy,” the Dean murmured, sinking into his chair to watch the drama unfold.
“It’s semantics, really, isn’t it?” Chase tried to pivot.
“We’ve slept together every night for the last three weeks,” Finch said, her voice dropping to a dangerous chill. “How would you describe me?”
“The… best friend ever?”
Finch stood up, the chair screeching against the floor. “Oh. Well, I guess I’ve had the wrong idea about us. You know what? This is good. I’d be better off dating an adult. See you around, Chase.”
As she stormed out, the Dean slowly reached for a different stack of papers. “Rowr. I’ll get the breakup form.”
Chase caught up to Finch in her office.
“I got freaked out by that boyfriend label,” Chase admitted, sounding like every cliché he usually mocked. “I’m afraid of commitment.”
“How original,” Finch deadpanned.
“Look, the biggest truths aren’t original. Truth is ketchup. It’s Jim Belushi. Its job isn’t to blow our minds, it’s to be within reach. I get claustrophobic when things get official.”
“You’re acting like I’m a Venus flytrap,” Finch countered. “I didn’t want or need anything more.”
“Then let’s get back to it, should I get the door.”
“I can’t now, you took it to the ‘friend-zone’, so unless there’s something I need to know about the lunch lady, or that blonde in your Computer Science class with the infinite supply of leather jackets, somewhere between our 9th and 11th sleep over most people would call us more than pals.”
“Yeah, but as soon as you say it, it can get complicated and messy.”
“How?”
“Because when you say it, later on, you might have to unsay it.”
“Whoopee-flipping-ding, Wright,” Finch sighed. “It happens fifty million times a day. It’s the Jim Belushi of sexual commitments. It barely means anything, and it grows on what’s there over time.”
“Wow, that guy is really taking a pounding in this conversation,” Chase noted.
Finch looked at him for a long moment. “I’ll see ya when I see ya Chase.”
Chase started to leave, but froze. “I really liked what we were doing. And if the ratio of work to pleasure can really stay at that same level, I don’t care what it’s called. I’ll do it.”
Professor FInch gave out a huff and stood up opening the door. Chase started walking out, when she slammed the door shut and gave him a smile.
“Ok, looks like we’re doing it,” Chase followed up, feeling a genuine, terrifying rush of victory.
The night of the recital arrived. Backstage, the air was thick with hairspray and nervous energy. Christina peeked out from the curtain to see the theater fill with people.
“Elvis is REALLY good at inviting people, we are all here to support you.”
“Chase even brought his girlfriend,” Amelia added.
Christina paused, her eyeliner hovering. “Oh, she’s his girlfriend now?” Christina laughed, “I can’t wait till he hears about it.”
“Oh, he knows. They even had to file paperwork with the Dean. It’s pretty serious.”
Christina’s heart sank, but she forced a nod. “Oh. Break a leg, Christina,” Amelia said, squeezing her shoulder. “I have no idea how someone could do what you’re about to do.”
Out in the audience, the lights dimmed. Chase sat next to Finch, their hands intertwined. Wilson, Sharon, and Elvis sat nearby, Wilson already providing a running commentary on the quality of the set design.
The music for “Tea for Two” started. A group of students in teapot daffodil costumes wobbled onto the stage, crouching into their positions. Christina followed them, dressed as a teapot, looking stiff and utterly terrified.
On the stage she ‘watered’ the flowers. It was going smoothly, until Christina looked out into the crowd and saw them—her friends, laughing, and Chase, holding Finch’s hand.
She froze. The music continued, but Christina remained motionless, a petrified pot in a garden of spinning flowers waiting for water.
Suddenly, a shadow emerged from the wings. Tyrone, wearing only his dancing tights and a look of sheer determination, leaped onto the stage.
“What’s going on?” Amelia hissed.
“Plot twist,” Wilson whispered, leaning forward.
Tyrone reached Christina, taking her hand and pulling her out of her trance.”
Madame Poundstone ran to the pianist and said, “Play something modern!”
The dainty piano music cut out, replaced by a heavy, rhythmic beat. Tyrone began to move, his modern dance style clashing wildly with the tap setting, but his confidence was infectious. Christina found her rhythm, shedding her “tea-pot” persona and moving with him.
It was strange, it was culturally unacceptable for the venue, but it was, as Wilson would later describe it, “theatrical dynamite.”
As they finished their final pose, the Orangeside audience erupted. The study group stood up, cheering the loudest.
After the show, the lobby was full of hugs and congratulations.
“That was really cool,” Elvis said. “I wish I knew how to tap dance.
“Thanks Elvis,” Christina said, “it takes a lot of hard work, you can always take a class.”
Elvis thought about it for a nanosecond, “Pass.”
Tyrone walked up and Christina pulled him in for a hug, “Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” He looked at her for a moment, “I mean, you looked so pathetic up their, me going up was the most masculine option.”
Wilson walked up to Tyrone and patted his arm. “Tyrone, what you did up there really took guts. I’m impressed. And such a creative way to tell the world you’re gay. Good job.”
“Thank you,” Tyrone said, deciding not to correct him.
Chase found Christina near the exit. He was holding a slightly wilted bouquet of flowers. “Flowers. Yeah. Is that… that’s what people do, right? I was gonna throw them on stage, but I thought they might catch fire.”
Christina smiled, taking them. “No, this is good. Thank you.”
“I heard you guys are official now,” she added quietly.
“Yeah, I guess,” Chase said. “You actually had a big part in that. I mean, if I can handle having a girl for a friend, who’s to say I’m not ready for a girlfriend?”
“Makes perfect sense,” Christina said. “See you Monday.”
As the theater emptied, the study group gathered one last time by the stage. Elvis lingered behind, watching them leave. Once the room was silent, he hopped up onto the wooden boards. He took a breath, looked at the empty seats, and began to tap dance with a precision that suggested he’d been practicing a lot more than he let on.