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When the woman spoke, her mouth remained fixed in a frown. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I opened my mouth to speak when the woman said, “I knew your parents, you know. We used to spend family holidays in Puerto Dolores. You and Isabela could have been friends.”
She walked away, snagging another drink off of a tray while she left me in the barren wasteland, also known as a dark corner. I stood there, feeling somewhat out of place and more than a little embarrassed. Two more parents commented how rude it was that I hadn’t been asked to dance before Santiago Flores Jimenez made his way through the parting crowd.
His general facial features had lost their look of entitled superiority, but he still looked bored enough to cry himself to sleep. His light hair was coiffed perfectly in silky waves in the dim lighting of the room.
He stopped at my side, a respectful handful of paces away from me. He inclined his head toward me. His face wasn’t flushed from drinking, he seemed perfectly sober when he extended his hand and said, “¿Quieres bailar conmigo?”
I swallowed hard. Did I want to dance with him? I doubted I would perform well.
But then I saw Isaac watching me from across the room and my blood heated. He had ignored me repeatedly, and I was ready to play his game. So I smiled and took Santiago’s hand. His skin was smooth, but cold.
The song playing now was a little faster than the previous one, and Santiago made an excellent show of parading me around the room. I saw his parents watching us from the corner, beaming in a way that had my insides bunching up in clumps of misery. It must’ve been nice to have two people so proud of you. I thought of Maestra Cecelia, and how our relationship had shattered into misery.
I had watched the other couples, so I knew how to parade around with one arm elongated while I carefully maneuvered the short train on my dress. Santiago was an extremely practiced dancer, and I had no problem following along with his easy pace. A suitable partner always made a world of difference.
About halfway through the song, when we were pressed close by dictates of the movements, my nerves doubled down. I usually talked when I got anxious, one glance at Santiago told me that he might not hate the idea either.
“Did your parents make you come ask me?” I asked flatly.
His hazel-eyed gaze snapped down on me. He twirled me around before answering, “Yes.”
I laughed, which startled him a little. Talking was undeniably making this experience easier to stomach. “It’s good to know that I really looked that pathetic in the corner. How does it feel to be dancing with the only orphan in the room?”
It was true. Everyone else was here with perfect families.
He arched his eyebrow. “About as bad as it sounds.”
Cheeky. “Oh? It didn’t sound bad to me at all.”
He hummed in a way that told me he didn’t agree. Though I had a clear view of him on display all evening, like everyone else, this boy kept to himself. The sarcastic aftertaste was a pleasant surprise.
“At least you are good at dancing,” he grumbled faintly.
I smiled. People were staring at us, but the one that caught my eye the most was Isaac. There was a glowering jealousy painted so clearly across his face that I couldn’t help but smile. It was a small taste of power that was sweeter than anything else I’d ever known—sweeter than oranges and twice as juicy.
Santiago’s expression fluctuated. “I think you and I share a common friend.”
I smiled. Isaac, likely.
Moves and countermoves, Isaac.I was tempted to wink at him, but that felt too much like acknowledging the game we were playing. Maintaining the upper hand was of paramount importance.
Or maybe it wasn’t? Was I even winning at this game anymore?
Santiago and I spoke very little for the rest of the dance. At the end, he hesitated a half second before stepping away from me.
“Would you like to dance again?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. I think we’ll be separating now.” He hesitated. “Maybe you should check in with the staff to see if there are any messages for you.” Then he was off, retreating to his parent’s side.
The staff? Why? I wasn’t sure what he meant about separating until I realized the cantante who had been blessing us with her enchanting voice had stepped down from her small stage.
Artistas differed from Trabajadores, but I felt a peculiar kinship to her. I went out of my way to catch her eye and smile before she left, but the gesture wasn’t really returned.
A few seconds later, Señor Flores spoke. “Thank you all for such a wonderful night. Suffice to say, my wife and I are in awe of such a talented group of people. We will retire to our separate rooms now. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Thinking that he was referring to us heading home, a rush of relief washed through me. I’d forgotten about the after-party. Foolishly, I thought I only needed to find Antonio and we could finally leave. I let the men and women pass in front of me, breaking off in clumps of understanding and shared tradition.
Then someone grabbed my hand and pulled me into the nearby doorway.
