|bal-ter|
verb
1. to dance or tread clumsily.
If someone had told Becky she would end up being friends with Tobey McCallister III, she would have told them the definition of absurd and left it at that.
The idea was simply ludicrous at the time. They barely tolerated each other's presence, and Becky couldn't fathom how someone so blatantly arrogant and destructive would end up as a genuine companion. It was even harder to appreciate any decent qualities of his when she was often at the receiving end of his robot's metal fists. Their relationship had been stagnant; a story colored in black and white. He was the villain trying to reduce Fair City into rubble, and she was the hero who had to stop him.
But people, like words, couldn't just be defined by a single core trait. They had layers and meanings and origins. It was just a matter of uncovering those things, and peeling away the fanciful caricatures that made up their personas. One day she found him tearing up the city and pushed for an answer, only to find that he was vexed over a party that neither of them had gotten an invitation for.
For the first time, she'd empathized with him. Maybe not with the way he expressed those frustrations, but she could relate with the tangled ball of envy and disdain that had curled up in her stomach. It made her want to hit something, too. When he'd stormed off to wreck the party, she'd flown after him, hope dying in her chest – had talking not helped at all? Was he forever rooted in spite, unable to learn or grow in the way others had?
But then she'd watched in awe as Tobey – the boy who had smashed a candy factory into smithereens over an aching cavity, the boy who had attempted to create a time-ceasing robot to prolong summer, the boy who had created an automaton to take his mother's place during teacher-parent conferences - raised one enormous robot foot over the decor-laden table and hesitated .
At that moment, she'd added another unlikely attribute of his in her head: sensitive.
The whole ordeal had shocked her so much that agreeing to go out for ice cream with him might have been the least surprising of them all. Wordgirl would've been lying if she'd said she hadn't enjoyed it. She had nothing to do for the rest of the day and wanted to see more of this Tobey, whoever he was.
There were things she'd known about him before, like his infatuation with robotics (no surprise there) or his excitement about the new Princess Triana novel coming out soon (they were both avid readers of the series.) She learned that he loved chocolate to an addictive extent and wanted to try every type of tea the world had to offer. He vaguely brushed upon his father and how he missed his company, rambled on about how boring daily life was (his accent slipped when he talked too fast, and she was not keeping track of how many times that happened) and passionately gushed about one of his latest projects.
When she'd dropped him off at his house later that day, the sun was setting. They had talked for hours on end, and she felt strangely bare, like everything there was to know about her had been laid out in the open; berries plucked off a shrub. Wordgirl was a secretive figure shrouded in mystique, and now it seemed that the only thing separating her from him was the helmet protecting her identity.
That should've been a wake-up call. Careless actions like these would be dangerous in the long run, even more so with Tobey, who'd already nearly discovered her identity thrice. She should've flown away and pretended this entire afternoon had never happened. She needed to dim the vibrant colors between them, sully those serendipitous shades back into dreadful white and black.
But when he asked her if she would like to have ice cream again some other time, Wordgirl couldn't bring herself to say no.
She'd always been able to say no before, but now she found herself inching to say yes . Yes, another day of flying through the clouds, conversing and talking and laughing. Things she'd never thought she'd wish to do with him but now ridiculously yearned for. It was stupid, and this was stupid, and the curiosity-fueled yes dancing on her tongue and popping into the air like a summertime bubble was by far the most stupid.
Wordgirl promised to herself that next time would be the last time. They'd go out for chocolate fudge and sweet pea cones, talk a bit, then they would go back to their usual dynamic. She recited what she would say to him when the time came, practicing in front of a mirror and avoiding her own dejected gaze.
They'd gone for a stroll in the park, and when Tobey let out a jaunty laugh at something she'd described, the thought vanished.
He asked her out for ice cream again, she said yes. Again.
The next hangout (not a date) began at the library. After borrowing a few books, they'd sat down at his house, sharing a banana split and reading a novel together, huddled under a blanket and poring over the characters, setting, and plot. She remembered laughing over Priscilia's crush on Knight Tremblar with him, arguing about why the villainess of the story had the strangest motivations, and groaning when Tobey's predictions for the end of the story came true. Night fell faster than she could've dreamed, and with a somber grin, she told him she'd have to go soon.
Despite that, she'd levitated outside his bedroom window, exchanging sweet nothings and awkward, wobbly smiles until he asked her yet again if she would, perhaps, like to do this again.
Yes , she replied. Again, and again, and again. Maybe the close contact with a villain was questionable, but she wasn't really sure if he was a villain anymore. He'd ceased his pointless rampages and instead spent more time inventing new, helpful gadgets. He still held a temper, but whenever it seemed like he was about to pull out his remote and yell for his robots to attack, he would pause, sigh, then pocket the remote and save his pride with a sarcastic quip. She'd even heard from other villains that he'd stopped attending conventions and, as it were, ceased any crime-related activities.
When she'd brought it up over mango-peach sorbet the other week, he'd grown flustered and deflected, saying how it was all thanks to her that he'd changed. She hadn't expected the show of humility, but Tobey was turning out to be a lot of unexpected surprises.
It made her excited to see him again, something she'd never thought she would think. Tonight was another ice cream meet-up (not a date.) Tapping her chest, she transformed in a flash of gold and zipped out of her bedroom, soaring over the bustling cityscape. Tobey's robot, gargantuan as it was, stuck out alongside the lanky skyscrapers. It stood over a grassy hill overlooking the city, in a sweet-smelling glade tucked beneath a canopy of tree leaves. She lowered herself to the ground next to him, raising one confused eyebrow.
"Interesting location, Tobey," she remarked. "And here I thought you hated nature?"
"I do," he scoffed. "But I am prepared to make sacrifices, since you adore this unruliness so much."
She tilted her head. "Unruliness?"
"Indeed. Just look at this place! Grass growing out of control, tree branches not pruned, bugs skittering everywhere..." he shuddered. "It's a monstrosity."
"And I love it," she added teasingly. "Why, is the great Tobey McCallister III afraid of bugs ?"
"I am not," he denied swiftly. "I simply believe that they have their rightful place – away from me ."
Wordgirl snickered at his dramatic behavior before noticing the cartons of ice cream next to him. "Which flavors this time?"
"Coffee fudge swirl and marzipan maraschino cherry," he piped, pulling out a scoop and two bowls. Before, they'd always chosen what flavors they wanted, sticking to tamer ones like chocolate or vanilla, but recently they'd started randomly picking ice cream, just for the fun of it.
"Sounds delicious," she complimented.
"Delicious?" he tutted. "Such a dull word."
"Delectable."
"Succulent."
"Appetizing."
"Enticing."
"Decadent."
Tobey paused, lips pursed in thought. "...heavenly?"
Wordgirl placed her hands on her hips. "That's not a synonym for delicious."
"Why not? I think it perfectly describes ice cream." He pushed a bowl of it towards her for emphasis. Pale, buttercream yellow scoops dotted with dark, tart cherries filled her vision.
"Hmph," she muttered, sticking a bite of the cool, sweet treat into her mouth. "I'll let you off the hook this time."
He ignored her and dug into his own ice cream, sighing happily. "It tastes just like I remember it."
"Remember it? You've had-" she squinted to read the label - "coffee fudge swirl before?"
"I had this flavor once, at a conference my mother once dragged me to. Easily the highlight of my night, considering how boring the whole affair was. Adults talking, mostly, and some horrific dancing."
Wordgirl winced. "Did you have to dance?"
He shrugged. "I did, with one of the other kids who had to go with their parents."
"You can dance?" she asked.
"I am a man of many talents," he boasted, rubbing a hand on his collar.
She snorted. "I figured you just stayed in your room all day, reading books."
"You've just unknowingly described both of us, Wordgirl," he pointed out. "And you say that as if it were a bad thing."
"Maybe not," she admitted. "I can't dance at all."
"Who ever heard of Wordgirl being bad at something," Tobey remarked dryly.
She rolled her eyes. "I'm bad at lots of things. Dancing just happens to be one of them."
"You would think that with your physical prowess, you would be good at dancing."
She scraped the last, mellow dregs of ice cream from her bowl. "Super strength does not equal super grace. Or talent."
Tobey hummed. "I'm sure you can't be that bad at it."
"Don't say that. You haven't seen me."
"That's true, I haven't." He stood up, abandoning his bowl and offering her a hand.
She stared up at him quizzically. "Have I mentioned that you don't want to see me dance?"
"Have I mentioned that I do?"
She bit her lip. "I don't know..."
"You won't know until you try," he urged. She groaned, knowing this would lead to her inevitable embarrassment. She was rather curious to see what he could do, and acted against all common rational, placing her gloved hand in his. He pulled her up with a gentleness that she'd never felt from him before.
"Alright," he began. "What dances do you know?"
She offered a nervous grin. "The Cha-Cha?"
He resisted dragging a hand down his face. "Okay, none. Can you identify any basic dance steps?"
Wordgirl shrugged. "I usually just go with the flow – or, well, the music."
Tobey snapped his fingers. "Right! I almost forgot. Music!"
A pair of speakers extended from the robot's torso at his beckoning, and a charming piano medley poured into the forest like a golden stream of lilting notes. The song was faintly familiar, as if she'd heard it in the background of someplace but wasn't sure where or when. Each tinkle of keys rustled through the branches overhead, melted into the running creak nearby like gold; wove itself into the Earth and all of its sounds.
"It's beautiful," she whispered. Tobey nodded, silent as the music washed over them; a tidal wave of melancholy.
"You have the music. All you have to do now is dance."
He made it sound so simple, but maybe it was? She might have been overthinking it. Letting her eyes flutter close, she basked in the deep, doleful notes. Every tap of piano set off a flare of passion in her heart, like she could leap and tear right through the fabric of the universe in one jump. Without realizing it, she let the music guide her; a phantom puppeteer manipulating a marionette. There weren't steps or instructions, just the glass-shattering crescendo exploding like a supernova, and the soft, tinkling sounds that followed, reminiscent to the trill of a triangle, or the twinkle of a star. Her leg jutted out, her hair cape fluttered behind her like a pair of wings, and she felt born to fly, fly, fly-
"Pft-!"
Her eyelids snapped open. Tobey had one hand over his mouth, but the color in his cheeks and pure mirth dancing in his eyes said everything. An awkward second lapsed between them, and like a water balloon filled to the max, he burst into laughter.
"Oh- oh my god ," he wheezed, bending over. "You had your – your arms outstretched like a bird and-"
Wordgirl's face burnt, and through clenched teeth she asked prettily, "Did I?"
"-and you had one leg sticking out like you were about to kick something-"
"I'd really like to kick you ."
"You really don't know how to dance," he cackled. "I thought you were perhaps exaggerating, but no-" He coughed, sending himself spiraling back into an endless fit of hysterics.
She hovered in a sitting position, eying him with meticulous disdain until he eventually cleared his throat. Straightening his tilted glasses and swallowing the rest of his sniggering, he fumbled with the remote on his robot and paused the song. The stark quiet that filled the wood was even louder than the music itself, and it wedged another block between them.
Tobey cleared his throat again. "Let's try again. Clearly, your... natural intuition could use some work."
She glared at him. "And what, Dance Master Tobey, do you suggest?"
He scowled at the name but plowed through. "Do you know how to do a box-step?"
Her face lit up. Finally, something she was at least slightly familiar with. "Oh, yeah! I remember learning about it at sch – home!" she faltered. "Home...with my dad. Yup, my dad!"
He fixed her an unimpressed look. "Of course, your father. Now, could you demonstrate how to do a box-step?"
She chuckled nervously. "I said I remember learning about it, not that I actually remember how to do it."
He sighed. "Give it a try, would you?"
"And who's to say you won't start laughing again?"
"I probably will," he mused, "but you should try anyways."
Wordgirl groaned, but pushed herself onto her feet. She wasn't sure why she was so keen to learn how to dance – she'd never cared for it before. Her mentality was that there were just some things people were bad at, and even now, as she poised her feet on the grass floor beneath, part of her wondered why she was doing this if she knew she would utterly fail (and that Tobey would probably have a ball pointing out all the ways she'd utterly failed.)
She placed her left foot in front of the other and then swept it sideways like it was a pendulum gone askew. Already, she could feel Tobey judging her.
"What is that you're attempting to do, Wordgirl?" Tobey inquired, a teasing smirk on his face.
"Humor me," she grumbled.
He perched himself against the thumb of his robot's lowered hand. "An elaborate mating dance?"
"Ha."
"Semaphore, but without the flags?"
"Try again."
"A girl trying to skip over the cracks in the sidewalk?"
"All incorrect," she deadpanned. "You'll never guess – I'm dancing."
"Oh!" Tobey cried out in mock delight. "So that's what that was."
"Are you done making fun of me now?"
He skipped up to her, smiling coyly. "For now."
Wordgirl was sure her entire costume – red as it was – had gone up in flames. She was a marshmallow burning on a stick – her conscience gooey and melted, every part of her burning red. The humiliation was one thing, but Tobey's hand in hers as he led them through the proper steps was something else. She'd never been this close to him – he smelt of coffee and ice cream, and his voice was soft, a complete opposite in comparison to the harsher, rude tone he'd used months ago, before they were...before they were friends.
Her face flared again and she pointedly avoided his gaze, instead focusing on the setting sun behind them. Golden light settled onto the leaves billowing past their feet, setting everything into bronze. The wooden trees held a lacquered, glossy shine; their pale ice cream bowls now gleamed like marble. Tobey's steps began to align with hers. They moved in sync. There was no music, no sounds except for the gurgle of the brook and the whistle of the wind, and loudest of all, her heart, skipping a thousand frantic beats behind the star-shaped shield on her chest.
"Wordgirl," came Tobey's voice, still unbelievably soft. She didn't know how to act, or what do to, and the lighthearted quip on her tongue crawled back down the abyss of her throat.
"Yes?" She winced at how shaky her voice was.
"We can stop, if you'd like."
If you'd like. The whole phrase was foreign, spoken in another language. "No, I'm fine, it's just...really hot out!"
"There's a shallow breeze," he noted. "Very cool out."
"Heh, really?"
"Wordgirl."
"Sorry, sorry. I'm just nervous."
"I could tell that much," he chided. A dusting of blush coated his cheeks, and he kept his eyes on the curled brown locks of her hair. "This is harder than I thought."
A grin slid between her cheeks. "What happened to Dance Master Tobey?"
" Dance Master Tobey has long been dead," he retorted. "And I didn't mean the dancing specifically. I meant the...close proximity."
"Ah." She must have blended in with her suit by now.
"Eating ice cream was easier," he admitted.
"Agreed. But..." With bravery she must have pulled from the stars themselves, she faced him. "But this isn't so bad."
He blushed. "Oh, well, erm-"
She laughed, burrowing her face in his chest. His heart was skipping rope, beating mercilessly against his ribs. Her own heart expanded until it grew too big; a balloon that needed an open sky.
Pulling away, she swung him around, a giddy sense of childlike playfulness drifting over her like glitter. He let out a shocked gasp and scrambled to hold tightly, their poised and structural dance thrown off course. The world spun like a top, and the one thing that remained still was Tobey and his stupid smile before she let go and he careened into a patch of grass, still laughing.
Wordgirl giggled, falling down next to him, the tree branches dancing languidly in her dizzy vision.
"Oh, goodness," he muttered. "What was that for?"
She shrugged, unsure. The tension wavering between them had melted, and all that was left was a sense of reckless abandon. "Box-step is pretty boring."
He looked like he was about to protest, but gave up before he managed to say something in defense. "Okay, yes, it definitely is. What you just did, however, was not dancing."
She crossed her arms. "Then what was it?"
Tobey placed a thoughtful hand on his chin. "It was more akin to flying. There's a freedom in it that wasn't present earlier."
"Huh." She blinked, a little surprised – though by now, that was to be expected. "So you liked it?"
"It severely lacks the tact and eloquence that the box-step has."
"...and?"
"I loved it!" he cheered. "Let's do it again."
Wordgirl felt something uncoil inside – a fear that had never been there before, but had now unraveled. She stood up and took hold of his hands, spinning them around and around and around, the world dissolving and their woozy, feverish laughter ringing through the air.
By the end of the night, when they'd said goodbye and she'd flown home, Wordgirl decided that she rather liked dancing.
Especially with him.
