A Time To Dance Part 23

Now he's an old man sitting in the commentator's box.

"Call him and apologize," Chandra advises.

"It must be hard for you to relearn dance, Veda, but it's not his fault.

Don't fight with him. Flirt with him."

"He's too serious to flirt with, Chandra."

"Too serious? Who do you think you are? Ms. Frivolity?"

Chandra lifts another spoonful of froth.

I watch the bubbles burst like weak excuses.

"But the new leg is good?" Chandra asks. "Jim is helping?"

I swirl my teacup so fast, chai slops on the table.

"Chandra, I was so stupid.

I-I-I went and told Jim that I liked him."

Chandra laughs. "Nice try, Veda. I almost believed you."

She starts mopping up the spilled chai.

Her disbelief makes me feel worse.

"I'm not kidding, Chandra.

Jim was shocked at first. Then really nice about it.

So nothing creepy happened.

I just feel foolish."

Chandra gapes.

Finally, she says, "I'm sorry.

That was crazy but it took guts.

More guts than most of us have."

She hugs me. "It'll be okay.

Maybe it's even a good thing you said it.

Gets it off your chest.

Jim was cricket practice; Govinda's the real match.

Match. Get it?"

She looks so pleased with her pun, she makes me smile.

REACHING.

OUT.

At home, I dial Govinda's number.

Hang up after two rings.

Silly, silly. I'm not calling to ask him out.

I rehea.r.s.e my speech: Govinda, this is Veda. I'm sorry I shouted at you.

I dial and don't hang up. A woman's voice answers.

I a.s.sume it's his mother, then realize it's the maid because she calls me "ma'am"

and I hear her in the background addressing Govinda with respect: "Govinda, sir."

"h.e.l.lo?" His voice is just as musical on the phone as it is face-to-face.

"Govinda, this is Veda. I'm sorry I shouted at you."

"That's okay."

"See you in cla.s.s tomorrow?"

"Sure." It's a short word.

Too short for me to tell if he's pleased or not.

"Thanks."

"Sure."

Later I wonder what it's like to be rich and have a live-in maid who answers the phone.

I ask Ma if it was hard to give up her wealthy way of life when she married Pa.

"Giving up money wasn't hard," Ma says.

"But though I was never very close to my parents or siblings, it was hard that they cut off contact altogether.

Still is."

A SENSE.

of

NORMAL.

Jim invites Ma and Pa to come with me to meet one last time at his office and go to his farewell party.

"h.e.l.lo, kiddo." Jim looks as friendly as when we first met.

No awkwardness at all.

The grat.i.tude I feel toward him deepens.

He introduces me and Pa and Ma to the kind-eyed Indian lady who'll be taking over his "cases,"

though he says, "You're doing so great, kiddo, you'll only need to see her for a few checkups until you've worn out your leg."

Then he walks us over to a large hall filled with his other patients who've gathered to say good-bye.

I meet a girl who says she kicks the soccer ball better with Jim's leg than her own.

A middle-aged woman makes me laugh as she expounds the virtues of being one-legged: "Cuts pedicure bills in half."

At this party, celebrating the legs Jim will leave behind, two-legged people are in the minority.

We amputees are the norm.

Jim says, "When you're on your first dance tour in America, kiddo, call me. I'll be in the front row."

My throat feels as rough as his hands which hold mine for what might be the last time in this life.

"Thanks, Jim.

For everything."

FEAR.

of

FALLING.

When I see Govinda, he says, "Sorry we fought.

I agree you need to try and master whatever your leg doesn't prevent you from doing.

But I hope someday you'll learn to move the mind and heart, not just your body."

We pick up where we left off: try to balance in the full-sit, try to lunge without stumbling.

On the ground after my thirteenth fall of the day, I pummel the carpet in frustration.

"You look like my kid sister throwing a temper tantrum," Govinda says.