The children ran for Megan, taking turns squeezing her slender middle in their small arms. A procession of, “Bye Miss Megan!” followed them out of the studio as they finished their hugs, waved to themselves in the mirror, and hopped out the door to find their waiting parents.
Megan took a deep breath and looked over the studio floor. From one end to another in the long, narrow space, the wooden planks stretched, worn smooth with age and use, decorated with bits of colored tape to mark places and bright circles for the children to stand on so they didn’t smack each other accidentally when doing their turns.
In the long row of mirrors, separated by the barre, she saw the table where her students left their bags during class. Today, the table was empty aside from one mint green bunny, lonely and slumped over in the corner.
Megan hurried over -- moving faster on the tips of her pointe shoes than she could on flat feet -- snatched up the bunny, and dashed out the studio door.
“Emily!” she called, searching the pack of mothers, fathers, seven-year-olds in pink leotards, and siblings who were forced to come along for the pickup.
Emily’s mother’s head snapped up at the sound of Megan’s voice, and her face fell into relief. She waved and made her way toward the door, tear-stained Emily in tow.
Megan knelt down and wiped Emily’s tears away. “It’s okay, sweetie. Bun Bun is right here.” She held the bunny out to Emily, who grabbed it and crushed it to her chest.
“Thank you so much,” Emily’s mother said. “We wouldn’t have made it through the night without him.”
Megan smiled as they folded back into the fray, where students were fighting each other to tie sneakers and push through the exit. She watched for several minutes as parents held the hands of squirming toddlers and called to their children to hurry up.
It wasn’t the first time she’d wished she had a bigger waiting room. Twelve chairs and two end tables were crammed into it, and on days when Megan had large children’s classes, the room was always packed with waiting family members. But space in New York City came at a premium, and she had wanted as much of it as possible to be dedicated to studio space. It hadn’t been the wrong decision, even if it made things cramped for the families.
She waved to the last student, Mollie, who was holding tight to her father’s hand, her tiny bun falling out of place on her head, then went back into her studio, enjoying the sudden quiet.
Megan’s favorite cool-down music was a collection of soulful jazz songs, slow and rhythmic, easy to flow to. She pressed play on her stereo system and began her routine. In long glides and slow turns, she forced her muscles to stretch and pull, feeling each one as it lengthened then shortened, moving her limbs gracefully through the space.
She closed her eyes and let the music take her, breathing in deep and releasing slowly. The song came to its close and she stood on one foot, holding the pose for as long as she could without shaking. As the final note drew out, fading into silence, the calm was shattered by the electronic beep beep of her phone.
Megan sighed and walked over to her phone, the tips of her pointe shoes clunking loudly on the floor. Her phone was set to “Do not disturb” mode while she had classes, but she had to handle the business end of things at some point each day. Now the studio emails were coming in, and it was time for her to shift from dance teacher to business owner.
She scrolled through her inbox. Only a handful of emails today: interested parents wondering about signing up their kids, a billing question from one of her adult students, a sales ad from her costume company, and a message with a subject line of, “Urgent Request.”
At first, she thought it was spam and almost deleted it, but something tugged at her curiosity, and Megan clicked the message open. As she read the email, she grew confused.
“I apologize for the late notice, but I am in desperate need. I would like to schedule a private class in beginner’s tango for 30 students, this evening at 8 p.m.”
It was already close to 7 p.m. and Megan had been planning to take the night off—the only evening all week where she didn’t have to pay bills, submit orders, process billing, or do any of the other hundreds of tasks required of her to keep the business going. But just thinking of all the bills awaiting payment made her answer obvious. A private class of 30 would fetch a decent price, and she needed the money. What was a night off anyway? She’d still get to spend the evening doing something she loved, and she’d be getting paid for it.
Megan responded to the email with a confirmation that yes, she could set up a class for 30 for that time. Then she got to work. One hour was enough time to set up, but she had paperwork to process. So many new students meant 30 wavers to sign, 30 new information sheets, and 30 new names to enter into the system.
In her tiny office, Megan printed copies of each form on her black and white copier. While the machine chugged and stapled, she gathered pens and clipboards and carried them into the studio, setting them on the long table opposite the barre.
Once the paperwork was in order, she went into the bathroom, took the large jug from the closet, and held it awkwardly under the sink to fill it. When it was full, she waddled with it between her legs and heaved it onto the table, turning it so the spout was at the edge. She set cups beside the water, then retrieved the bowls from the closet. She filled the bowls with popcorn and a nut mix and set a stack of small plates and napkins beside the bowls.
She stepped back to inspect her work and nodded to herself. Then, she spun to face herself in the mirror. She was still wearing her black leotard and thin chiffon skirt from her day of teaching classes, and her face had on only its healthy glow. Her chocolate-brown hair, which was often unruly, was falling slightly from its place. She pulled out her hair band, shook out her wavy locks, and secured them again in a loose bun.
With a few minutes left until the scheduled start of class, Megan made sure the music was ready to go and started her warm-up routine.
A few minutes later, when her routine had come to an end, she checked the clock on the wall. It was ten minutes past 8 p.m., and not a single one of her expected 30 students had arrived. She double-checked that the front door was unlocked, and made sure the sign still read “Open,” and all the waiting room lights were on.
With a sigh, she went back into the studio and checked her phone to see if there had been a change or cancellation, but there was only the “Thank you” confirmation of the class. She told herself she would wait another fifteen minutes, then lock up and go home. It was only meant to be an hour-long class, and if no one showed up by halfway through it, surely no one was going to.
Megan bent over, resting one hand gently on the barre as her other hand reached high in the air, wrapping around her calf and pulling it closer to fully extend into her standing split. She held the position for a moment, feeling her tendons and muscles relax into the pose, but was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat.
Megan dropped her leg, spinning to face the door.
“Impressive,” the man said.
She smiled. “Took me years to nail that position.”
Megan walked over to shake the man’s hand. He was tall and olive-skinned, his black hair shining in its perfectly tousled arrangement on his head. It looked soft, and for just a split second, Megan pictured herself languidly running her fingers through it.
He was dressed impeccably in expensive black pants and a sport jacket. He wasn’t wearing a tie with his light-gray, button-down shirt, and the first two buttons were open. He wasn’t exactly dressed for the tango, but he clearly only frequented the most upscale shops in Manhattan and either had an excellent personal shopper, or had been raised in money.
But what captivated Megan most wasn’t his clothing. It was the way his tanned skin stretched smooth across his flawlessly chiseled face. Black hair, shaved into a sharp line at his jaw, formed a close-cropped beard. His jaw looked like it had once been a cube of the finest bronze, carved into this beautiful face. His lips were plump and de
ep rose against the black of his beard, his nose slender and gently pointed. And his eyes. They were dark pools of black glitter, shining at her as he smiled and gripped her palm in a firm handshake. His skin was soft and warm, not rough like so many other hands she shook.
“Sheikh Zaakir Al-Hosseini,” he said.
“Sheikh?” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m Megan.”
“Don’t let the title scare you. You can call me Zaakir. Megan Van Lieden, is that right?”
“It is.” She glanced behind him at the empty waiting room. “It seems the rest of the class didn’t get the memo; you’re the only one here.”
“Well.” He tilted his head slightly. “To be honest, I’m the only student who’s going to show up tonight. I need to learn the tango as quickly as humanly possible, but I didn’t think I’d be able to convince you to stay late for just an individual lesson.”
“I guess it’s a good thing that the tango is a fast dance, then.” Megan said with a wink.
He gave her a half smile. “Right. No, actually I’m getting married in two weeks, and I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of my bride and our families. That’s why I chose the best instructor in the city.”
She could get lost in his accent, in the way he dropped his h’s, and his w’s became v’s. If his name hadn’t been proof enough, it was clear in the way he spoke from deep in his throat that he was Middle-Eastern.
Megan nodded slowly as she listened. So, he was paying for a class of 30 to get private lessons and thought he’d be an expert in two weeks. The situation seemed strange to her, but at the end of the day she was a dance teacher, and he was here to learn. Plus, the pay was good, and even if he was spoken for, she figured the Sheikh would make a fine dance partner for the evening.
“Let’s get started, then,” she said.
They went through the formalities of paperwork and wavers, and once the Sheikh had signed everything, Megan set the clipboard on the table and gestured toward the middle of the studio.
She took her place in front of the wall of mirrors as Zaakir removed his jacket and laid it carefully on the table before rolling up his sleeves and coming over to stand beside her.
“There are many different styles of tango,” Megan explained, “but they all have one thing in common: the couple performing the dance must share a fiery passion. The core of the tango is the art of seduction.”
She moved in front of him, lifting her leg high and bringing it down sharply, almost a stomp, then looked back over her shoulder at him with a sultry expression.
“There’s something of a teasing involved. The lovers flirt with the idea of the dance, size each other up, and decide whether or not this partner is worthy of their physical affection.” She stalked back in front of him, holding his gaze. “It’s a fast dance, but it’s also a slow, sensual dance. Some movements are sharp and hard,” she said, moving her right foot in a pointed circle around her left foot, “while others are silky and smooth.” Megan swung her leg out in a circle, gliding along the floor like she was drawing in sand with her toe. “No matter the movement or style of tango, if it’s danced well, those watching will be able to feel the heat passing between the partners. That should be easy enough for a couple united in love on their wedding day, but you’ll still want to practice together beforehand so that you’re in sync with your movements.”
Zaakir kept his eyes on her as she moved, taking in her every motion as if he were recording it for another time.
Megan came to a stop in front of him, losing herself briefly in the sparkle of his eyes. “Any questions so far?”
He shook his head.
“Ready to begin?”
“Yes.”
“Take my hand.” She held out her right hand and he took it, holding it gently. “Now, every move we make, we move together, like you are pushing and pulling me with your actions. You step forward with your left leg as I step back with my right.”
The Sheikh slid his leg forward and Megan moved accordingly. He moved with grace and an elegance that took many dancers years to learn.
“Now, move your right leg to the side.”
He did, and she mirrored his actions with her left foot. As they moved closer, he put his hand at the small of her back, drawing her in.
“And now slide in your left leg.” He did, and Megan slid her right leg. “Okay, now let’s try all the steps together.”
Megan went to the stereo, found her tango playlist, and hit play. She turned to face him as the music began, then stalked across the room toward him.
When she was within reach, he took her hand and pulled her close for the next part of the move. Not only had the Sheikh remembered every move, each step was perfectly timed and expertly executed. When the sequence was complete, he stepped back.
“Are you sure you haven’t had lessons before?” she asked, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively.
“This is my first time.”
“Perhaps you’re a natural, then. Your movements are so smooth; more like someone who’s been practicing for years.”
The Sheikh held up his hands and grinned. “This is my first time, I promise.”
Over the next half hour, Megan took her new student through several more sequences. Each time, Zaakir picked up the steps with ease, leading her through them as if they’d been doing the tango together for weeks instead of less than an hour. Most men had trouble leading at first; they had to know the moves themselves, after all. But not Zaakir. His natural finesse and confidence made him an effortless leader. He was almost too easy to teach. Megan thought he likely could have picked up the moves simply by watching online tutorials at home. She was glad he hadn’t, though, or she never would have gotten to feel his strength as he guided her. Whoever the Sheikh was marrying, she thought to herself, was a lucky woman.
By the end of the hour, they were both glistening with a light sweat.
“Please, help yourself to the refreshments,” Megan said, gesturing to the water and snacks she’d set out for thirty. She turned off the music and used a towel to dab her forehead.
The Sheikh poured two waters and crossed the room to bring her one.
“Thank you,” she said, and drank it quickly.
“How many more classes do you think I’ll need before I’m ready for my wedding day?” Zaakir asked.
“Well, you picked up everything so quickly tonight that I think one more lesson should be plenty. Even if you don’t have time for that, I think you’ll be fine with what you learned tonight.”
“I think I would like one more class—just to make sure. Are you available tomorrow night?”
“Yes, tomorrow night would be fine.”
The Sheikh grinned, looking relieved. “Eight o’clock again?”
Megan nodded. “Only this time, I’ll plan for one instead of thirty.”
“Yes. Sorry about that—”
“You were right, though,” Megan interrupted. “I probably would have turned down a private lesson after the day I had. I’m glad I didn’t, though.” She smiled warmly at him, forgetting for a moment that he was there to learn a dance for his wedding.
“And I’m glad you didn’t turn me down.” He smiled back. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Zaakir retrieved his jacket from the table and reached into an interior pocket. He pulled out several bills, folded them, and handed them to her. “For tonight. Thank you, Megan, for your time and expertise.”
She took the money and watched as he turned and walked out. From the door of her studio, Megan could just make out the street where he climbed into the backseat of a waiting car. No sooner had Zaakir shut the door, the sleek black limousine pulled away from the curb and sped off into the night.
Megan counted the bills in her hand. The Sheikh hadn’t paid for a one-on-one lesson. In fact, he hadn’t even given her what was the cost of a class of thirty. The amount she held in her hand was enough for a class of one hundred students, more than three times their agreed amount. He must n
ot have realized how much he’s given me, she thought. Even if he intended this as payment for the following evening as well, it was still far too much, and she’d have to give some of it back.
She counted out the fee they had agreed upon, then added to it the price for a private tango lesson. She set aside the remainder and tucked it into an envelope once she was back in her office, thinking she’d return it to him and explain her fees the following night. She put the envelope and her earnings for the two classes into her safe box and locked it in the safe.
At least now she’d have enough to pay for the ballet costumes for this summer’s recital, Megan thought. It was a huge order—her biggest expense of the year, aside from the rental of the building for the recital—and it was a difficult payment to make. When the time came to pay the hire charges for the building, the year’s tuition would be paid in full and all of the tickets for the event would be purchased, but the costumes had to be ordered far in advance, and most parents were still making payments on the fees. The payment tonight put her ahead of schedule.
Megan glanced over her stack of bills, checked her bank account, and sighed in relief. For her first year owning a studio, she’d done well for herself. Much better than her parents expected she ever would. She hadn’t taken the more secure path of law or medicine—a decision they still hadn’t let her live down—but had instead chosen to follow her deepest passion and chase her dream. Now, coming to the close of only the first year, Megan’s dance studio had become one of the largest single-teacher studios in the neighborhood. Soon, she’d be looking at hiring additional teachers, and in a few years, she’d have to move to a larger space. Maybe then her parents would see that her lifelong love of dance hadn’t merely been a frivolous hobby, as they’d called it. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she was going to make it.