It was my cousin's first birthday, and my uncle transformed the basement of his apartment building into a dancehall. It was Saturday, and most of the parents had worked shifts at jobs far from home. After long showers and hair salon appointments, they had become glamorous versions of themselves. Gone were the head scarves and grimy uniforms. The smell of L'air de temp perfume and Paco Rabanne cologne wafted through the air, replacing the usual scent of sweat and toil.
A hired DJ provided the heartbeat of the evening, filling the basement with merengue and salsa, some cumbia, a little calypso, and reggae. My uncle, the jovial host, declared, "Let's get this party jumping."
Within minutes, the dance floor came alive. Hips swayed to the syncopated rhythms at the heart of every song. The horns blared, keeping up to the tumbling plah-plah beat that, like a rollercoaster, charged faster, accompanied by a melodic garble distorted by the heavy bass that resonated through the colossal speakers.
The lights were dimmed. The children had gathered at the far end of the room, jumping, sipping copious amounts of Coca-Cola. Little girls fussed with their puffy pink dresses. Little boys fidgeted with their clip-on ties.
Mother danced in her seat. Father looked at her, smiling. He winked, and I pretended not to notice their unique communication. They finally joined in on the dancing. I was left alone in my pink dress. The polyester shined under the faint halo of light. The sleeves were short and gathered over my shoulders. Little pink flowers glued to the bodice. Tonight, I was a flapper from the twenties, young and sophisticated.
The other teenage girls wore tight dresses with their hair curled in ringlets and their lips painted dark. My thirteen-year-old breasts were starting to show, and, according to my mother, my waist was "forming." Still, I felt as young as the little girls who ran around the dance floor, purposely tripping people and then laughing and looking for their next victims.
The teenage boys stood together against a wall, gawking at the teenage girls. One brave boy danced in place. The other boys watched as he pulled a girl by the hand. They moved to the beat of a slow salsa sung by a sweet-voiced singer from Venezuela. The others watched and slowly inched closer to the girls. Not a single boy noticed me.
I waited and danced in my seat, not daring to look over. Naïve as I felt, I was confident that once one of them looked my way, he would be compelled to ask me to dance.
I waited. The itchy fabric of my pink dress grated the skin under my armpits.
I waited and watched every boy take every girl out on the dancefloor. They all knew how to swing their hips and limbs to the beat.
A hand suddenly appeared before my face when I had almost given up hope. "Would you like to dance?" I was so relieved I didn't glance at the hand's owner. I noticed the hand wasn't a young, sweaty teenage hand but a mature, calloused one. Before I could escape, his other hand encircled my waist. Swing, turn, twirl. I finally looked up at my partner — his kinky hair, gray mustache, and slanted bloodshot eyes. I smelled the Budweiser on his breath.
We danced in time to a bachata; the slow rhythm begged my hips to gyrate in small circles, and I fell under a spell. A troubadour's voice sang about heartbreak. We were surrounded by dancing people, and a cloud of cigarette smoke hung over us. Little girls played tag, using the dancers as base. The teenagers were wrapped in each other's arms, swaying to the music, avoiding eye contact.
I let the calloused hand guide me across the space. I so was lost in the spell cast by the music and the flow of my body that I was surprised to see that we had danced our way back to where my parents stood flabbergasted.
"Thank you," I heard the old drunk say.
Father pulled me to him. Mother threw Father's jacket over my shoulders. We marched out of the basement and into the late night. Some of our relatives were smoking outside. Some of the teenage boys were talking to the teenage girls.
Father frowned. Mother exhaled loudly.
"You have no business letting a man like that touch you." Mother said.
I wanted to say it wasn't me. It wasn't my fault. For a moment, I was seduced by the music. I felt the power of my body, but I knew I could never voice what I felt out loud.
"It's the dress," I said, scrambling to find something to blame.
"What?" Father said.
"It's this stupid dress."
Mother didn't say a word because she loved the dress. Father looked at Mother because he knew she loved the dress.
Gessy, I've always loved this one. One of my favorite of your stories. So full of tension, emotion, movement, life!