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I stop at the middle one. Imaginary spotlight clicks on.
I really wish Bobby was here.
Feeling inspired, I pull out my phone—Bobby still hasn’t seen or responded to my pic, too busy at the movie theater, I guess—and tap on my music app. Soon, my favorite beats fill the giant gymnasium from my tiny phone. I face that mirror proudly.
Then, on the eighth count: Snap!—my body moves.
And I’m dancing.
Pop! I hit the beat right on-time, twist my body to perfection, then kick the floor, sending me right into the next move.
I’m improvising every twist, pop, and snap of my feet. I let the music take me away, bobbing my head, curling up my lips with attitude, and stank-facing the mirror.
Music is attitude.
Dance is my armor.
My body is the weapon.
With every hit, I attack the space. I attack that stupid feeling of loneliness in me. I attack all my awkward moments and also my proud ones. I attack every label that tries to stick to me like a bug. I attack all the sidelong looks, all the glances and whispers, and all the giggling from girls at nearby tables in restaurants.
As long as I’m dancing, nothing can touch me.
When I’m one with the beat, I become completely unaware of myself. I’m not some guy who went to this high school. I’m not the younger brother of some local football legend. I’m not best friends with Bobby Parker—or anyone, for that matter.
I’m something completely different.
I’m something that can’t be contained with—Why isn’t Bobby looking at any of my texts?—achievements and desires and—Did I do something wrong?—lifelong plans.
I’m something beyond the definition of a person.
I’m—Bobby, would it fucking hurt you to simply acknowledge me, see my text, give me a laugh or a hello or a selfie back?—the weapon and the armor and the attitude, rolled into one.
I’m invincible when I move my—Seriously Bobby, what the fuck? We could be enjoying this moment together right now. We could—body to the music. Damn it, Bobby.
… until something goes wrong with my foot.
“FUCK!” I cry out as I twist like a snake, drop onto my ass, and grab my ankle with a hiss squeezing out of my clenched teeth.
In an instant, fuck all that shit I just said: I’m Jimmy Strong.
The idiot who just danced too hard.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, what did I just do?
My ankle throbs and screams at me.
Nerve endings send a flood of telegrams up to my brain, each of them louder than the last.
Has anyone ever mentioned that the ankle is the hardest part of your body to hug when it hurts?
Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.
“SHIT, PISS, FUCK, GOD-DOG!”
The tunes play on obliviously—suddenly sounding obnoxious and mocking somehow—as I struggle to hold and nurture my poor ankle like a precious, crying baby. I inspect it, checking it on one side, then the other. Is it sprained? Did I just fucking sprain my ankle? Did I break it? Did it come off? What the fuck was I even doing that was so strenuous that I injured it?
Was I even paying attention to my dancing?
Is it bad that I don’t even know which move I did that made my leg go all wrong? Did I kick into the floor at a bad angle?
I look off to my left, then to my right. Suddenly, the gym feels vast and empty and dangerous. Every shadow looks suspicious. All the walls look far, far, far away.
I stare ahead at the mirror—at the reflection of myself curled up on the floor and clutching my ankle, my phone sitting off to my side, still blaring the music, careless of my plight.
“God-dog-it,” I let out, angry. Your ankle is fine, I tell myself right away—my defense mechanisms kicking in. You’re fine. Just get up. Walk it off. You just landed on it wrong. No big deal.
Despite the throbbing, I brace myself, then rise with all my weight on my good leg. I let my throbbing ankle hang for a second, staring down at it with mounting skepticism.
After a breath, I gently set it down on the ground and apply a tiny bit of weight.
Pain.
Ache.
Throb.
PAIN.
I wince, sucking in air through my teeth. “For fuck’s sake,” I let out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck me, fuck.” I try a little more weight on it, determined. It throbs just the same. I take one tentative little step.
I nearly fold myself in half.
“FUCK!” I shout out, lifting my bad foot from the ground.
I shouldn’t have left the house. I should’ve stayed home.
I crouch down carefully, all my weight on my good leg, and swipe my phone off the ground. With a resentful jab of my thumb into its screen, the music is silenced at last.
This is Tanner’s fault. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come.
I let out a steeling huff, then proceed to hop across the gym.
This isn’t Tanner’s fault. This is your fault, Jimmy. You’re a reckless dancing maniac fool.
