Two-Step - Stephanie Fournet Page 0,21

see the outline of his shoulders, the spread of his stance—and the way his butt excels at the art of wearing jeans—because he planted himself right in front of me when that junkie recognized me.

He didn’t even let that guy put a toe on the porch steps, and I’m grateful.

Even if he doesn’t much like me—and I’m not a big fan of his—I’m grateful. And maybe I can remember that if Mr. Hebert can’t teach me for a while. Besides, what choice do I have? I’ve got to learn these routines. At least the dance scene is one of the last to be filmed, thanks to Moira and her negotiating skills. So I have two months to get it together, and if Beau Landry is the one who’s going to get me there, I’ll have to make the best of it.

The Uber driver pulls up to the emergency room entrance. I thank him and get out, texting Ramon to find out where to go. But my phone rings before I even step through the automatic doors.

Moira.

I slink to the side of the entrance and answer. I’d rather take this out here instead of in front of an audience.

“Why did you hang up on me?” Her voice could shave glass.

“I didn’t hang up on you. I told you I had to go.” I just didn’t tell her it was because a street person was hassling me.

“What was so urgent that you couldn’t answer my questions?”

“What was so urgent? Moira, we’re in the middle of a medical emergency.” I think I learned to deflect when I was about four. The skill has served me well over the years. “I’m standing outside the hospital right now. Can we talk about this later?”

The line goes silent. Uh oh.

“Where’s Ramon?”

I have no idea where Ramon is. Or Sally. Or Mr. Hebert. Or even Beau Landry. But I can’t go with that. “He’s parking the car.” I learned to lie when I was about two. I don’t like to do it. I’d rather act. But desperate times and all that.

Dropping me off somewhere and parking the car is something Moira would approve of Ramon doing. So, as far as she is concerned, that's where he is. Who knows? He might really be parking the car. I’m sure he had to park it at some point, I rationalize.

“Where’s David?” At first, I don’t know who she means, but then I realize she’s talking about Mr. Hebert. I don’t get how she could refer to him by his first name. He’s like someone’s grandpa. The kind of gentleman who makes you realize why you should respect your elders.

But Moira doesn’t respect her elders. She respects money, and I don’t think Mr. Hebert has too much of that.

“Uh, I think he’s inside.”

“You think?”

Shit.

“W-well,” I stammer, “in admitting, I mean. Not in the actual ER yet.” I think this is right. It sounds right. I mean, if you’re not, like, bleeding out or in cardiac arrest, they make you go through admitting, right?

I’m taking a gamble that Moira doesn’t know for sure either.

She sighs with such audible annoyance, a reflexive apology rises in my throat. “At least he has insurance,” she drones.

“Oh?” That’s good. “How do you know?”

She tsks. “Well, I wouldn’t work with someone who wasn’t insured, now would I? What do you take me for, an amateur?”

“I—No, of course not.”

“I mean, my goodness, what if he’d hurt you instead of the other way around? Then where would we be?”

“Well—”

“Of course, knowing you, I should probably stack a few policies for liability,” she says sourly. “I hope he’s as simple as he seems, or he could sue the pants off us.”

“He’s not going to sue us, Moira,” I say, my voice dropping. I steel my courage. “But if he has insurance, I’d at least like to cover his co-pay.”

“And let him think we’re made of money?” Her voice approaches screech levels. I wince. Screeching Moira is the stuff of nightmares. “Once he gets a whiff of that, he’ll sniff around for more.”

I’m thankful she can’t see my massive eye roll. A gold-digger is the last thing Mr. Hebert is.

“I think it’s the right thing to do,” I say. “It was my fault, after all.”

She snorts. “Well, there’s no proof of that. Besides, he’s old, Maybe he just fell.” I can hear her smiling, dreaming up this new alternate reality. It makes me a little nauseated. Then the humor leaves her voice. “Wait. There really is no proof, right?”

“Huh?”

She tsks

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