The Merchant of Venice Beach Read Online Free PDF Page B

a touch of magnanimous pity for them—they clearly didn’t get the memo. She also noticed that many of the students were just wearing street shoes. Well, perhaps they were not as serious about this as she was.
Suzanna tended to latch onto anything that would bolster her ego when she felt her self-confidence lagging, and while she was well aware that feeling superior to other people because she had the right shoe was pretty pathetic, she did recall reading that bouncers at fancy clubs often decided if they were going to let a particular person inside the velvet-covered chain based on whether he or she had the right shoes. If nothing else, she had the right shoes to get into the club.
A man and woman who were taking a private lesson in an adjacent glass-enclosed room practiced a tango. A year ago, Suzanna wouldn’t have known what name to attribute to the dance, but Dancing with the Stars had changed all that. The couple was young and obviously learning a choreographed dance for their wedding. A few years ago, Suzanna wouldn’t have known that, either, but there had been about a million wedding showers at the Bun, so she was now in the “first dance” loop, big-time.
The groom-to-be was clumsy, stiff-limbed, and looked miserable, but appeared to be a good sport. His bride-to-be was lovely, but seemed to be seething with impatience at her man’s lack of grace. The instructor, an agile-looking fellow with an earnest smile, tried to show the couple what they were doing wrong. He took the woman in his arms and danced effortlessly around the studio. The bride-to-be was glowing as her fantasy dance was fully realized . . . except for the fact that it was being executed with the wrong man.
Suzanna made a mental note not to get caught up in any such foolishness. Once she got the attention of her instructor, she was going to keep it real.
Almost by magic, everyone in Suzanna’s section of the studio settled down and turned their attention to their instructor—her instructor—who had silently entered the room. He hadn’t even spoken, and yet the command he had over the room was evident. Chills ran up and down Suzanna’s spine as he began the class.
“Hello, everyone,” he said in his slightly accented English. “I’m Rio.”
Suzanna was about to say, “Hi, Rio,” the way they do at summer camp, but realized that there was an ultra-cool vibe going on in the room and that chirpy greetings probably didn’t work here.
He continued, “. . . To anyone who is new . . .”
He stared right at Suzanna with his liquid-mercury eyes.
“You’re new,” he said.
Suzanna was disappointed that he didn’t mention their interlude in the Wild Oats parking lot, but maybe he thought it would be rude to bring it up. Maybe he thought it would embarrass her.
Or maybe he just doesn’t remember.
Suzanna was about to say “Yes, I am new,” when she realized he had not asked if she was new. Since he had stated that she was new, his comment did not require a response, although making no response seemed unfriendly and closed off. Fernando had often accused Suzanna of overthinking, which, she had to admit, was what seemed to be going on at the moment. Suzanna shook her head and tried, as Eric would have said, to be “in the moment.” She felt tongue-tied, but was relieved to see everyone smiling at her. In the midst of her tumultuous inner chatter, Rio threaded his way toward her and put out his hand. She extended her hand to shake his, but quickly retracted it when she noticed that his hand was offered palm up.
The entire class was watching and Suzanna had no idea what to do. Instinct (what instinct? . . . is there a salsa instinct?) told her to just lay her hand, like a delicate tropical flower, in his hand.
Apparently, her guess was right because, her hand in his, Rio led her to the middle of the floor. Suzanna was so happy she almost started floating toward the ceiling again—she floated in times of euphoria as well as anxiety—but