Sam Dorsey and His Dirty Dancing

  It was a couple of weeks ago and Jake asked me to help him with calculus because his dad was getting onto him about his grades. Of course, I agreed to help. I didn’t want to go to his house and risk any kind of encounter with his father (even though the chances of him being home at any given time are slim). And I didn’t want to invite Jake to my house either. It just wouldn’t feel right having another guy in my room, especially knowing good and well that the two of us have a little bit of romantic history, if you can call it that. So I decided we should meet in the school library instead. That is pretty much neutral territory, right?

  The only problem is that in the afternoon hours we were completely alone in there––well except for those days when my friend Emily was staying late finishing one of her many books––but even when Emily was there it didn’t stop Jake from flirting with me. And I’m no expert on flirting, but I’m not stupid, I know for certain that’s what he was doing.

  He would always sit right next to me, making sure our thighs touched, constantly trying to make eye contact––he has these beautiful ocean-y blue eyes that belong on the cover of GQ or something––and he would repeatedly bite or lick his lower lip, which is something that drives me crazy, as I’m certain he full well knows.

  One day he even put his hand over mine. It seemed like it was an accident, but I’m sure that it wasn’t. He just left it there, warm and soft, hovering just above my skin like a whisper or a promise. Emily happened to be walking by at that particular moment. She didn’t say anything about it, but she definitely noticed. She always does.

  “Oh, I was just heading home,” she said. She was looking right at us and Jake made no attempt to remove his hand, nor did I move mine out from under his.

  “Okay, see you tomorrow,” I mumbled.

  “See you,” she said, not unkindly.

  I pulled my hand from under Jake’s and pretended that it never happened.

  I’m not sure what I am supposed to say to him. I can’t ask him to stop flirting with me, can I? What if he told me that he wasn’t doing any of those things intentionally? I can only assume that he has a crush on me, even though my assumption is strongly supported.

  I tell myself that I’m keeping my assumptions secret to spare Mitch’s feelings, but the enormous amount of guilt I feel speaks otherwise. When it comes down to it, I’m just selfish. It’s what’s weighing on our relationship.

  But it’s not the only thing.

  This morning Mitch said the words, “I love you,” and not for the first time either. I haven’t been able to say it back. I want to; I can feel the rightness of it in my heart, but every time I go to say it it’s like I’m choking on desert sand. I don’t know. I just can’t do it. Mitch hands out his love and smiles and kindness to me like they are nothing more than the endless streams of soda spilling out from the machine in a sleazy burger joint. To me, those things are special. They’re sacrifices. Little pieces of myself that may seem insignificant on the surface, but are truly indicative of my state of mind. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I want to be whatever it is Mitch wants me to be, which I imagine is an adoring more kind and loyal version of myself, but molding myself comes with a whole new set of problems.

  That’s what this weekend is all about. I really need a breather. It’s my birthday after all. I’m allowed to have one weekend to sort out my priorities, right?

  I mean, I’ve been so damn good this past year. I’ve been good my whole life actually. I’ve been a loyal friend to Melissa, constantly comforting her and trying to cheer her up after her horrible break-up with Tom Riley, and to Kenan, unceasingly telling him that he too will have a boyfriend one day. I’ve also been a good son, and I’ve been a good boyfriend to Mitch. I mean, as I’ve just gone to great lengths to tell you, I am by no means perfect, but I’m trying to be. I do absolutely everything in my power to make Mitch feel happy and appreciated. I actually do that for most of the people in my life, now that I think about it...

  I tap my fingers to the rhythm of the song blasting from my crappy stereo as I pull into the parking lot at the resort and silently promise myself that I will deal with all of these problems as soon as my weekend retreat is over. For now, all I want to do is forget they even exist.

  3

  So, I arrive at Crest Hollows. It’s a beautiful place, as I’ve already mentioned. Looking at it, I can practically quote passages from the brochure:

  “At the eastern end of the range, the mountains begin quite dramatically with an escarpment jutting up from the valley. The western boundary is far less certain, as the mountains gradually decline in height and grade down into the rest of the plateau.”

  “When you plan a vacation at Crest Hollows prepare to experience a wonderful array of mountainside luxuries which will undoubtedly thrill and delight.”

  “Detail oriented, dedicated staff members are available around-the-clock to fulfill your vacation needs, while an impressive list of amenities are laid out before you for both convenience and comfort.”

  Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?

  The main complex of the resort, which includes two dining halls, numerous spas, a huge swimming pool, and an administrative wing, is sitting at the foot of a mountain and overlooking the lake on one side and a dense copse of pine trees on the other. Scattered downhill from the main complex are the various kinds of suites, and of course stuff like gazebos, a couple of golf courses, meadows, the lake, the boat house, etc.

  I park my car in the employees’ parking lot and get out of it. I draw in a lungful of fresh mountain air, luxuriating in the thick scent of pine. Above my head the sun is shining brightly in the clear blue sky.

  I make my way across a big green meadow which is dotted with wildflowers of many different varieties. On the other end of that meadow are the employee suites. Each employee suite contains three comfy beds, a sitting room with a TV and a plush couch, as well as a bar, not that we ever use the bar, and of course, an off-shooting shower cabin.

  I share my suite with Melissa and Kenan. We all have jobs in the dining hall. Mainly we work as waiters and sometimes as dishwashers, and occasionally doing whatever the chef tells us to do. The job is not the most dignified job in the world, but it pays well, and it totally beats fast food!

  Walking into the suite, I hear the same argument I’ve been listening to for the past two weeks; the Eric debate.

  “No he didn’t! You’re making stuff up, can’t you see?” Melissa responds to whatever ridiculous postulation Kenan just made.

  “I’m not making anything up!” Kenan huffs. “He was looking at me, and not in the way a regular guy would be looking at me.”

  By “regular” he means straight.

  “That guy is clearly intelligent,” Kenan adds. That’s the term he uses to deem someone gay.

  “He’s not gay!” Melissa shouts.

  I roll my eyes dramatically, but secretly, I find their banter amusing.

  “I need to take a shower. It’s getting hot out there,” I say and head for the bathroom. We’re so used to each other by now that we don’t even bother to say hello.

  “Sam, tell this idiot that he’s totally wrong, would you?” Melissa says, turning to me. I continue my plight to the bathroom without a word, locking myself in once I get there.

  Melissa doesn’t hesitate to knock.

  “Sam? Open this door!”

  “I’m taking a shower.”

  “So what? Open the door,” she persists.

  “I can’t, I’m naked,” I lie. I’m not really naked. I just want to avoid getting involved into that stupid argument again. I’m not a good liar and I don’t lie on a regular basis, but this one is justifiable, or so I think. It’s a small lie and it’s for the good.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she says, “now open the door!”

  “I’m not gonna,” I say, turning on the water.

  “Sam!!!”

  “I can’t hear you!” I shout in a sing-song-y voice.

&nb
sp; A couple minutes later Melissa lays off my case and the two of them return to their childish argument.

  Meanwhile, I take a good look at myself in the mirror. I fix my hair. I look okay I guess. My eyes are clear, my hair is done, and I don’t have any zits for whatever reason. I brush my teeth meticulously and shave that little hint of a mustache off of my upper lip before applying my new cologne. I bought it in the local gift shop after getting my latest paycheck last week. I like having things that I bought with my own hard-earned and well-deserved money. Also I think it smells nice even though it’s kinda cheap. Then I change into my uniform, a white-collared shirt and black slacks, and survey my reflection again, mussing over each tiny detail of my appearance until I am satisfied.

  I like being tidy and I take my job very seriously, but that is not actually the reason why I’ve just spent twenty minutes in front of a bathroom mirror. The actual reason is Eric.

  Eric is the fourth dining hall worker on our team. Obviously he’s not living with us in our three-person suite, but he is the same age as all of us. He goes to Westwood High in the outskirts of my hometown. None of us has ever seen him before coming to work here. Hence; fresh meat!

  Eric is shorter than me, but more fit and rather on the slender side, which I like. He has beautiful blond hair, short and styled in a way that perfectly suits his round face, accompanied by striking aqua-colored eyes and the kind of skin tone most people can only get from frequent trips to the beach. In other words, he’s a total dreamboat.

  “I bet you a hundred dollars, he’s gay,” Kenan yells.

  “Well, I accept the bet,” Melissa gushes. “Get ready to lose a hundred ‘cause he’s not gay!”

  I shake my head, disgusted. They are being completely ridiculous now. How can you bet on something like that? Eric is a person, not a thing. But if I had to bet a hundred dollars on it myself, I’d say that he’s gay.

  Melissa and Kenan both think that Eric was flirting with them, but the thing is, at the risk of sounding conceited, I think he’s actually flirting with me.

  Eric’s flirting is not as blunt as Jake’s, but it’s there nonetheless. For instance, whenever Eric and I stay late to wash dishes he’s always careful to make sure our fingertips meet at every opportunity and then studying my face to see if I notice. And the look he gives me whenever our bodies brush together in the narrow hallway...yeah, definitely flirting.

  It’s things like that, subtle things, that give away his true colors. Plus, he mentioned that he’s never had a girlfriend before, and doesn’t really want one. I think we “intelligent” people are all pretty familiar with that line.

  “Sam, get out, I need to use the shower!” Melissa shouts and starts banging on the door. Glad that they’ve stopped fighting, I vacate the bathroom willingly and make my way towards the main complex. It’s time to get to work now. It’s almost noon and people are getting hungry. Lunch service is about to start.

  This time of day the dining hall is filled with smells of fish and bacon being fried in the kitchen. After hours of hiking and exertion out in the open air, people want their food fried, and they want it now. Which is where our efficient little crew comes in.

  We greet them, seat them, and take their orders. Then, we rush into the kitchen and grab the pre-prepared meals and deliver them to the appropriate tables. The job is not particularly complicated, but it requires the level of skill nonetheless. Over the first couple of days I worked here, I dropped and smashed against the floor about fifteen plates and ten glasses. Now though, I think I’m finally getting the hang of it.

  CRASH!

  Shit! I must’ve spoke too soon. No wait, it’s not me. It’s gotta be the birthday curse rearing it’s ugly head. Well, I just need to man up and pull myself through it. One broken dish is not the worst thing that could happen.

  I pick up the broken pieces and retreat into the depths of the kitchen.

  “Sorry,” I say to Chef Alan. He’s a 45-year-old man with a very kind face, married with kids, very fatherly and understanding. He is also not without a sense of humor; all in all, a great man. He is not angry with me, of course, but I am.

  “It happens,” he says, knowingly. “Just take another one.”

  I take another dish and go back to the dining hall again. There are a lot of orders to take. Birthday curse or no birthday curse, people are hungry!

  The good thing is that the dining hall is quite spacious and beautiful. There’s lots of fresh air too because the hall opens up into the outside terrace, from which you can clearly make out the trees, and behind them, the clear blue waters of the lake. It’s quite stunning. I really can’t complain.

  So I work.

  There are about two hundred guests enjoying the resort at any given day during the springtime and there are only four of us to handle all of the customers. Lucky for us, we have a system. We divide the tables evenly, take turns with the difficult customers, I’m talking VIPS and families with dozens of small children, and we clean as we go along.

  Towards the end of my shift I cast one last glance over my section to be sure I haven’t missed anything and my eyes catch on a familiar sight.

  Ugh. Why today of all days?

  I scrunch my eyebrows together and saunter on over to the table Jake has occupied all by his lonesome.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, giving him a look.

  He looks up at me. There is no surprise on his face and not a single facial muscle of his twitches at the sight of me. He knew I was going to be here.

  “I’m trying to get something to eat,” he says with a sly grin. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “I mean how did you get here?” I amend. I’m not exactly in a joking mood.

  “Well, I got into my car, merged onto the interstate, and then about 48 minutes later I turned left at the sign that said Crest Hollows,” he says, deadpan.

  “Jake!” I shout.

  He just smiles.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say, Sam. I’ve been spending every other weekend here since I was like seven. I’m a regular.”

  “What are you talking about? This is the first time I’ve seen you around,” I say exasperatedly.

  “Well, maybe you just weren’t paying attention,” he mocks.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Come on, sit down,” he smiles, avoiding my question. “Have lunch with me.”

  I shake my head and sigh, but sit down nonetheless. There is no way I’m gonna get the truth out of Jake anyway. He is a skillful liar. I mean, he’s been in the closet for so long now that I guess it just bleeds into other parts of his life too.

  But he is happy to see me. I can see it in his eyes.

  “What are you really doing here?” I ask again, softening.

  “Vacationing,” he says plainly toying with the edge of his menu. “A good friend of my father’s is a stockholder here. We’ve had a cabin reserved for our family for ages.”

  “And…?” I prompt. What I really want to know is why it so happened I stumbled into him this particular weekend, my birthday weekend.

  “And I wanted to be here for your birthday. What did you think?” he dons a mockingly pained expression. “You didn’t even invite me. I thought we were friends.”

  I can’t help but crack a grin at his display.

  “I’m sorry,” I say truthfully. “I was preoccupied by some other things.”

  “Oh,” he says good-naturedly. “And what, dare I ask, would they be?

  I remain silent.

  “Aww, come on! Don’t leave me hanging.” He grins.

  I bite at my bottom lip anxiously and decide to tell him the truth, well part of it anyway.

  “I want to go to the Film Academy in Boston next fall,” I tell him. “I’m saving up for tuition.”

  He takes a second to digest the news, but no emotion shows on his face.

  “Okay…” he begins. “But why can’t your parents pay tuition or something? You said they wan
ted you to go to college, right?”

  “The college of their choosing, which Film Academy is not,” I say. “They want me to major in something respectable, like economics. They would gladly pay for something like that, but definitely not film school.”

  He nods. I know he can relate. “That’s great, man. I mean, you should follow your dreams.” He lowers his gaze.

  It’s moments like this that make me feel for Jake the most. When he’s vulnerable; no doubt thinking himself weak for not being able to defy his parent’s whims like I am.

  Well, my parents are nothing like his. If I was in his place, I probably wouldn’t be very brave either. I put my hand on his hand and give it a little squeeze. He looks up at me and I try to convey it through my eyes that it’s okay and there is nothing he should feel ashamed about. Words would be no good here. Words would only humiliate him. So I have to make do just with my facial expressions. I think I’m doing a good job though because he seems to relax a little and his smile reappears.

  “How much money are you making here exactly?” Jake asks after a small thoughtful pause. I cringe. It must be painfully obvious that I’ll never make enough to cover tuition working here even in a million years.

  “Not enough,” I admit. “There’s actually another way I was hoping to get the money I need.”

  “What is it? Oh wait…” he looks at me with a widest grin I’ve ever seen on his face. “You don’t mean…”

  I nod.

  “The Dance Off? No way!”

  “I can dance just fine, thank you,” I proclaim at his chuckle.

  “Okay, okay, don’t be mad,” he says, struggling to work his facial features into something calm. “I just never thought of you as a dancer. And I certainly didn’t think you would be good at it.”

  “I’m good,” I say simply and I actually am. I never expected to be though, so I understand Jake’s surprise. It came as a surprise to me as well.

  It was Melissa who put me up to it. She’s been attending dance classes since she was four, and she’s really gifted too. Basically, she heard about the annual Dance-Off months before we started working here and wanted to apply. That’s actually how she found out that the resort also had job openings. After we were all sitting pretty with our new-found jobs, Melissa also proposed the idea of one of us being her dance partner.