The Last Lesson

By J.S. Ramirez

Is it possible to be 'just friends' with a girl?
Absolutely. Best friends. You can even be ballroom partners.

As long as you don't do anything stupid.

FYI: Waking up one day and realizing too late that you're in love with your ballroom girl counts as doing something stupid. Especially if she's head-over-heels swooning for somebody else. Then the best option is to walk away and forget it ever happened. Because nothing did, and nothing will.

But what if she needed you to stand by her?
Really needed you, as her closest friend?
What kind of love would that take?

THE LAST LESSON is about a boy who keeps secrets, a girl with high walls, and the truth about things that matter. A gently bittersweet coming-of-age story about first love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.S. Ramirez
• Release date: Dec 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9798215702086

Book preview

Arguments

Popcorn and fried Spam is a DELICACY, she says to me, squint grinning through the smoke from the frying pan. The microwave beeps and stops as the timer reaches zero.

You are a disgusting person, I say.

She drizzles juice from a jar of pickled jalapeños over the sizzling, snapping mess, delight in her eyes as she watches my horrified face. The eye-stinging haze in the kitchen is even thicker now.

You can't be serious, I say.

The timer on the microwave beeps again, and she pulls out the bag of popcorn.

Oh. So serious. She jabs her spatula at me. And you're gonna have some.

Two out of three times, we disagree. She's a country music girl. I'm an alt-rock guy. She thinks popcorn and fried Spam equals dinner. I think that popcorn and fried Spam equals swallowing with your eyes closed and hoping for death to come quickly.

But we both love ballroom.

See, two out of three. Plus, I think her cowgirl boots are kind of cute, when she wears them. But I'd never admit it.

Before the Facts

Her name was Monique, and I loved her.

I guess you can decide if that makes this a love story or not.

If I could, I'd tell the whole story nicely sorted, line by line, with careful explanations and careful words, all in order and sequence. That way you'd understand everything.

I tried that way, but I don't have a whole story, and I don't understand everything.

I couldn't give something I didn't even have, so I gave up. I will give you the pieces of the story I can, the way they are. Broken, like she was, and a mess, like I was. A jumble of splinters and shards.

Maybe you can sort them out.

Dance

The weekly dance at the local college, to be specific. The local college at the local college town. Monique, Beth and I get in for the regular price: two dollars apiece. The two dollars go to the chubby lady with the money box at the table near the ballroom doors. She's the one who stamps your hand. Today, the stamp is a heart with a smiley face in it. Blue ink, so dark it's almost black. I get mine on the inside of my wrist so it won't get smeared when I hold girls hands.

I'm a ballroom guy.

Yeah, kinda weird.

We walk through the wide doors into the noisy ballroom. The lights are low, and there's a disco ball going, scattering bits of light all over the hardwood floor and college students. It's crowded, and the air is warm with music. Hot, even. There are a lot of people dancing; ballroom night is popular.

Beth, Monique and I all look old enough to fit in with the college students. Even though I'm sort of shy about asking the really hot ones to dance. Sort of. I pretend not to be, though.

The first dance goes to Beth, though.

Shall we, dear sister? I say to Beth, as pompous as I can.

She sniffs, her nose in the air, and holds out a dainty hand. We shall, dear brother!

Beth looks a lot like me, except I'm taller, and she's much prettier and a better dancer. The song is 'Into the Night' by Santana, with Chad Kroeger. An older song. Not my favorite, but it's a good Cha-Cha.

I count, Six, seven, eight! We spring into the dance, fast and full of Latin sway. Except we both start out with a different move, where we were supposed to start the same.

Beth twirls herself under my arm. Who's leading?

I think it's a tie, I say.

Then we laugh. Just like every time we tell that joke. I love my Beth. I hardly go anywhere without her. We probably should have been twins.

The dance ends.

Thank you for dancing with me, Miss Beth, I say, in a totally snooty voice.

You are so very welcome, kind sir, Beth replies.

I lead her off the floor just like we used to do in the old days when we competed for judges and performed for audiences: arm in arm, with Beth's elegant right arm extended and my left firm behind my back. I spin her off at the last moment, and she gives a bow. She plops herself down in the chairs, next to Monique.

The next song is an American waltz. Monique smiles. The waltz is her favorite.

Would you like to dance? I ask Monique.

Yeah! She says it like, Duh!

She extends her hand, and I pull her to her feet. We take a place on the outer edge of the circle of dancers. I take her hand and we close into dance position. Even after so many times dancing with her, it thrills me a little to hold her like this. We find the beat of the song in an instant and we're off, gliding away across the floor.

The slightest touch at her back, the tiniest tap of a finger, even the way I hold her hand and waist. She interprets it all like she's reading my mind.

Have I taught you that one? I say, over the music.

Uh, no? she says, looking surprised.

I'm such a great lead, I say.

Her grin and eye-roll says she knows I'm joking. Of course she knows. I'm good, but I'm not that good.

She isn't standing as straight as she could be, sure. And she has some dizziness problems, but she's working on that. And she hasn't got all the experience I have, the performer's smile and the way to hold your arms and whatever. It'll come with time.

But when it's just her and me?

You know, I say, as we weave between the other couples. When we're dancing?

Monique nods.

We fit each other.

It happens, sometimes, when you dance enough together.

I look right at her, and I feel my practiced performer's grin melting away into my real smile.

What? she says.

I shrug. I guess I don't know what.

You're pretty good at this, I guess, I say, although that wasn't what I wanted to say.

She looks down. Thank you. Still smiling.

Don't let it go to your head, I warn.

She tosses her hair, and lets go of my shoulder to poke me in the ribs. Too late.

Don't get me wrong. It's not a romantic thing. You know, between me and her. I wish it was. But I haven't got a choice.

Drake

Can I ask you something? Monique says one day, after a lesson.

Sure, what?

She fidgets a little. Do you – don't tell anyone. But can you give me some boy advice?

I'm not sure what expression my face is making, but I hope it's blank. I hope that she can't see what's going on in me, the questions I have rising inside.

I laugh. As if I were the one to ask for advice.

Oh, come on, she pushes. I need a guy's perspective.

YouTube, I say. YouTube has everything you need to know about everything. All the world's answers are somewhere on YouTube.

Please stop asking me this. Please don't make me wonder. I don't know if I want to know the answers.

In case you were wondering, it wasn't about me.

His name is Drake.

He wears Wranglers, like Monique likes. He loves country music, like Monique. He lives on a ranch with a bunch of horses. Monique loves horses. It's not his ranch, of course, it's his parent's, but he's probably going to be the one who runs it when his dad retires or whatever it is that old ranchers do. He rides in rodeos and lassos calves and he's tough and handsome and can play the guitar just like the old-school movie cowboys, except he's not an old-school movie cowboy, he's a high school senior cowboy. And (barf) he country line dances. Don't even get me started.

I've never even met this guy. He goes to another school.

She thinks I'm her friend, and she knows she can trust me and she thinks she doesn't have to worry that I'm going to fall in love with her.

I won't. That would be stupid.

She comes to me for advice. And like an idiot, I let her.

He's not her boyfriend. Drake, I mean. She's not his girlfriend either. She's never even said she likes him best out loud. But she does. From the way she glows when she talks about him. You know? That kind of hope thing?

She doesn't glow like that for me.

Anyway.

I hate Drake's guts.

And maybe I hate my guts too.

First Lesson

I have two fingers in the door handle of my car, a Geo Metro.

The windows are rolled down because of the August heat. My Geo Metro has never been so clean, inside or out, which is crazy because I'm not taking her anywhere in it, and besides, it's a piece of crap that would never impress any woman, clean or dirty.

I'm teaching this girl I met at work, Monique, how to dance. In her dining room, I hope. I've never actually been in her house before. The plan is to push the table and chairs to the side and hope that there's enough room for a one-on-one dance lesson.

She'll never even see your car, I say out loud.

I'm only going to do this once. Monique probably has loads of guys after her already, probably has a boyfriend, probably going steady. I don't need to have my heart ripped up. I'm going to go in, enjoy her cute company, and leave. One time. That's it.

I drum the steering wheel while I examine her house. It's a huge white house at the end of a long, asphalt driveway. To the side I see a fenced vegetable garden near a very nice shed. The lawn isn't your normal Idaho lawn. Most lawns around these parts are dry and brown, dead as a doormat. Monique's lawn is a rich, perfect green.

I feel uneasy. I want to drive away.

I don't even know her yet, I say, shifting in my seat.

Deep down inside, though, I'm tired of being so lonely.

I won't get attached, I say.

I shake my head and take a deep breath. I grab my iPod dock from the passenger's seat and shove open my door.

The whole way up to the house, I talk myself into what I'm doing.

One time. One almost-date. I don't even know her last name, for Pete's sake. I'm way over-thinking things, like I always do.

I step up the first stone step to her house.

I'm just nervous. She's a pretty girl, okay? My ballroom skills are rusty. But it'll be fine. The ballroom skills will all come back, like riding a bike.

I place my foot on the top step.

I've already made this arrangement, and it would be wrong to stand her up.

I knock on the door.

There is no sound. I wait.

I look to my left, over the houses and fields and sparse trees.

I'll be fine, I say.

Brother, in a Weird Sort Of Way

We're driving home after the dance, heater going full blast, but it's not doing much more than keeping the windshield defrosted. Only a few minutes ago, we could still see our breath in the air.

Monique and Beth are talking and laughing. I'm driving. My car is a mess, because I'm a slob. I've long since stopped trying to hide that from Monique. The radio is on some annoying country music station, playing some annoying country song. Monique is in the front passenger's seat, feet up on the dash. When Beth is in the front seat (they trade off) then I'm the boss of the radio because Beth doesn't care.

Will you two stop laughing at me? I grumble.

Monique keeps laughing anyway. Nobody ever takes