He looked at me with naive eyes. Here was a man who could waltz—but swing? “I think I do.”
“Couples dance for hours—sometimes all night,” I explained. “The winners are the last ones standing.”
“I’d like to be the last man standing by you,” he said, reaching for my hand.
I could hear band music billowing out from the gymnasium onto Sixth Avenue. Charles and I stood on the sidewalk staring at the double doors, where a crowd of young men puffed cigarettes, wearing shabby suits sized too small or too large.
Charles rubbed his forehead nervously. What was I thinking bringing him here? Surely none of his polo-playing friends frequented the makeshift Friday night dance hall. The men eyed Charles suspiciously as we made our way to the entrance.
“Hey, dollface,” one of them said to me. “Looking for a dance partner?”
Charles held out his hand. “She has one, thank you,” he said, putting an end to the proposition.
“Some broad you got there,” I heard the man remark as we walked inside. His voice was swallowed up by the music. But it was the sight before us that captured our attention. Couples everywhere danced with such energy, such passion. I watched as a man lifted his partner into the air and then brought her down again, whipping her from left to right like a ball on a tether.
Charles’s mouth fell open. “Wow,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“We can go if you want,” I said, looking toward the door.
“No, no,” he replied, watching a man dip his partner so low her hair skimmed the floor. “I’ve just never seen people dance like this. It’s…amazing. I want to try it. Can you do it?”
“Swing? Yeah,” I said. “Well, a little.” I took his hand, but before we could make it to the dance floor, an older woman tapped Charles on the shoulder.
“Did you register?” she asked.
“Register?” I replied.
“A nickel apiece,” she said. “Covers your admission, the cost of the photo, and a bowl of chili.”
Charles looked amused. “And a bowl of chili.”
She pointed to a desk just ahead. “You can pay over there.”
He pulled a dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to a man behind the desk.
“And your change is—”
“Keep it,” Charles said.
“Thank you, sir,” the man said, looking at Charles in astonishment. “Did Alice tell you the rules?”
He shook his head.
“We cut off admission in five minutes, so you just made it. Rules are as follows: No sitting. No eating. No drinking. Dancers must not stop dancing or stand in one place longer than three seconds or face elimination. The last couple to remain dancing wins the kitty here.” He pointed to a glass canning jar filled with nickels. “Photos are just to your left.”
Charles and I walked a few paces and stood side by side against a white curtain.
“Smile now,” the photographer called out from behind his camera with an elaborate flash. It was easy to smile with Charles by my side.
“There,” the photographer said. “If you come back next Friday, the photo will be waiting for you.”
We approached the dance floor timidly. Charles clasped his hands around my waist and began moving his feet clumsily. I smiled, taking his hands in mine and showing him the basic swing step.
“Like this,” I said, moving my feet in time with the music. I waved at Lola, a former schoolmate, in the distance. She looked shocked seeing me in Charles’s arms. Shocked and jealous, maybe.
“This is harder than it looks,” he said, attempting the move again and landing on my right foot. “Sorry.”
“You’re doing well,” I said. It felt good being the one teaching him something.
After a while, Charles got the hang of swing, and he twirled me around the floor with the confidence of an old pro.
“I can see why you like this better than the waltz,” he said, grinning. “It’s a heck of a lot more fun.”
I felt a bead of sweat on my brow. “So what do people like you do for fun?”
He flashed a half grin. “You act like I’m from a different planet.”
“Well,” I said, wiping my brow, “you are, in a sense.” I gazed out at the regular folks on the dance floor—sons of factory workers, daughters of dressmakers. And then there was Charles, the son of one of the wealthiest families in the city, and perhaps in the country, by Caroline’s estimation.
“Oh, come now,” he said. “Don’t you think that’s being a bit dramatic?”
A diminutive figure entered the gymnasium, and I recognized her instantly: