Abroad by Katie Crouch Page A

free. ”
    By eleven, I’d had three shots. We migrated to the dance floor in a circle. It passes the time, dancing. Grifonia was a place, musically, that signaled no era: the DJ played Gnarls Barkley, Gem, Madonna, the Rolling Stones, the Birds, Wham!, Morcheeba. I’d drifted to the side to watch how the Italian boys patrolled the floor, always in pairs, turned out in pressed shirts. Never endearingly awkward like the English and American boys, but instead smooth and treacherous as rising water.
    Jenny was getting a little sloppy. She tripped, fell, got up again, yelped.
    “Whatever happened to dance cards?” I yelled.
    “What?”
    “You know—Jane Austen? Romance? Balls?”
    “Did you just say balls ?”
    A man approached, cocking his head. He was tall, with tan skin, heavy eyebrows, and hair tipped in blond dye. I’d seen him often, standing outside the Albanian bar on a small street that bled down to the university. Up close he smelled heavily of bad cologne, but I didn’t want to stand by myself anymore. He drew close, moved my curls from my ear, and yelled that his name was Ervin.
    I followed him to the dance floor, feeling the eyes of my friends on my back. Ervin began to move in a natural, graceful manner. His clothes—a Spanish football jersey and baggy jeans—were reassuringly familiar. He tried to talk again, but it was impossible to hear anything, so he shrugged and danced on, and I copied.
    Given more time, I think, I might eventually have become a truly great dancer. The kind that mesmerizes. Like my sister, for instance. On the street, she’s far from beautiful, but when she dances, she hovers inches from her partner, looking into his (or her) eyes with just the right sort of challenge and promise. But at that point in life, it was all too intimate for me. I could do the moves, sure. I had even inherited a certain sort of grace. My mother, years before, had spun barefoot on a dance floor in Jaffa, catching my father’s eye. He had never seen anyone so alive, he once told me. So yes, I knew how to dance. I just wasn’t able to look at the person I was dancing with. A sort of glass cage fell over me, in the form of a distant, distracted smile.
    Ervin grabbed my hand, then pressed into me. There , I thought. See, Jenny? I’m with someone. But good Lord, this song was lasting years. How long could I keep this up? His face was so close to mine. Did my breath smell? What if he saw the clogged state of my pores?
    Suddenly, Anna was beside me, tugging my arm.
    “Taz,” she said. “Jenny’s bought us some drinks.”
    I looked at Ervin apologetically. “I’ll be back.”
    He shrugged, turning away. I followed Anna, a bit deflated that he’d been so passive at my departure.
    “Don’t want to dance with an Albanian wanker for too long,” Anna said.
    “He wasn’t so bad,” I said, my voice lost in the din.
    “Taz!” Jenny shouted. “Shots!” She handed me another Enteria special, which turned out to be vodka, blood orange juice, and a dash of absinthe. “Good Lord, look at that girl’s skirt. I can see her fucking Brazilian.”
    Anna moaned in disgust.
    “I told you girls all to get them,” Jenny said sternly. According to her, that was yet another B4 requirement. “Taz, have you gone yet?”
    “Not—”
    “Jenny, stop it,” Anna said. “Here, Taz. Have a drink.” I obeyed, relishing the burning in my throat. “Don’t worry. You can’t be expected to succumb to every one of Jenny’s ridiculous whims.”
    I smiled gratefully and followed her back to the dance floor. Within minutes, another group of boys had enveloped us. I moved side to side, letting the alcohol numb whatever self-conscious thoughts were left. Then, an unmistakable wave came over me, and a web of thick saliva began to form in my mouth.
    I broke away from the new boy and moved to Jenny, who was dancing nearest to me with a large dreadlocked white guy.
    “I’ve got to get out of here,” I shouted.
    Jenny