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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Desert Bloom” Down in the Dirt, v185 (the July 2021 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Lockdown’s Over the Down in the Dirt May-August 2021 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2021 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Open Arms

Richard C Lin

    “Ok boys and girls, let’s all get in those lines like we’ve been doing all week so we can pair off quickly!”
    It’s Coach Freely, our PE teacher. He’s the type of teacher so vanilla in color and personality that you would forget he had ever existed unless you happen to be writing a high school memoir. He tries valiantly to corral all the boys to one side of the gym and all the girls to the other. PE classes are typically separated by gender for a good reason. Attempting to instruct one gender on myriad physical exertions is challenging enough. Trying to do so with guys rippling in torn muscle shirts, girls undulating in halter tops and micro-shorts, and everyone heavily breathing in the heady scent of teenage estrus in full flower? Ethan Hunt has missions less impossible.
    Nevertheless, somewhat miraculously, we all get into the prescribed two lines largely on our own. This week’s “sport” has been ballroom dancing. Despite the initial scoffing, and contrary to everyone’s original expectation, we discover that we enjoy it. Earlier in the week, we have already picked up the foxtrot, the cha-cha, the mamba, the samba, and the tango. Coach Freely announces we will be learning the waltz today.
    Immediately, of course, Scott grabs Tim around the waist, starts to spin him around the gym floor, and dips him for an air smooch to the amusement of the entire class. It is quite funny, but I can’t help but recall the two of them calling me homo and fag just a week prior at the MORP. I guess athletes are so masculine that their sexuality can never be called into question, even as they pat each other on the ass and take long hot showers together.
    Every year, the school brings in two specially trained dance instructors to demonstrate the dance’s moves. Each day after we watch their lesson, the girls line up on one side and the boys on the other. Then both lines start moving towards Coach Freely in the middle, who then matches off each boy with a girl. Of course, after a day or two of getting stuck with someone less appealing, all the boys start to jockey for position in the boys’ line to pair with the likes of Angie, Lesley, or one of the other coveted hotties.
    However, the girls are hardly mannequins waiting to be selected, as they too jostle each other while attempting to line up with studs such as Scott, Don, or Dave. Whether it is due to poor counting skills or girls and guys continually shifting positions in each line based on conflicting individual agendas, most still end up with someone other than their ideal.
    Except for me. For once, my Asian math training and a rudimentary understanding of chaos theory come to my rescue socially. Scott makes a grievous miscalculation at the last second, and somehow amidst all the bedlam, I get paired with the object of our affections. He glares at me with a ferocity that, if this were mid-seventeenth-century France, I would’ve had to challenge him to a duel to the death to save my honor.
    “Oh, hey,” Lesley greets me, with a touch of surprise in her voice.
    “Hey,” I respond. Of all the charming utterances I can say at this momentous juncture, this is the most debonair reply in my repertoire.
    Journey’s “Open Arms,” a waltz as it were, begins to play, and I gently sweep Lesley into my arms in a passable version of the dance. As Mom had always taught me to do, earlier in the week, I had asked Coach Freely what each day’s lesson for this week would be. Thus I have been practicing the steps each night alone in the dark of my room. I had also checked out a book at the local library to read up on the waltz.
    “You’re quite good at this waltz thing,” she says, looking genuinely surprised and surprisingly genuine all at the same time.
    “You think? I just sorta picked it up,” I say, in the most nonchalant manner I can muster while exhilaration and anxiety simultaneously electrify my entire being.
    “See, told you you’re good at dancing.”
    “For a girl, you mean?”
    “Yeah, yeah,” Lesley says while smiling. “You won’t ever let me down for saying that, huh?”
    “Nope, never. Do I still dance like one now?” I ask as I lead her around the gym floor, careful to glide us in between the other couples who are haphazardly twirling about to varying degrees of competence. Clearly, none of them have an Asian mom telling them to get the teacher’s lesson plan ahead of time.
    “No, you’re dancing quite manly now, with all this leading you’re doing.”
    “Thanks,” I say. So far, so good. Now to exhibit a touch of what I learned from the library. “Did you know that the waltz originated as a folk dance among the peasants of Austria? It was quite scandalous at first with all its whirling and twirling. Then it caught on with high society in Germany and Austria and spread like wildfire across all the courts of Europe.”
    “Wow. How do you know all this?”
    “I, uh, read.”
    “Oh, that’s novel. Learn by reading. I should try it sometime. No wonder you’re so smart,” Lesley says and laughs as we whirl around the gym.
    I have always been quite fortunate. While the saying goes, “time flies when you’re having fun,” I have always been blessed with the opposite. Time tends to slow to a welcome crawl during the best moments of my life. And at that very instant, it is as if the whole world has stopped rotating on its axis and the only things left spinning are my head, my heart, and our waltzing feet.

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