The Dance

3 - "Old Man"

I walk home like I normally do. It's only when I walk up to my house when I remember what's in my bag.

Right. That douchebag's fancy shoes.

I sit down on the swinging bench in front of the house and pull out the shiny shoes. What did he want me to do with them? I try to remember exactly what he told me, although the thoughts don't come easily because my mind would rather focus on how embarrassing the whole thing was. Thankfully I was able to have a normal-ish day for the rest of the school day, but this morning... Not my brightest moments at Du Pont.

Still, I was now in possession of these fancy pancy dancing shoes, and I kind of had the obligation to un-scuff them for the dick, even if it was an accident. I remembered some sort of store or something the guy said for me to go to. Now, what was the name of it?

"Niesta...? Sounds not completely wrong... Maybe?"

I sighed, pulling my phone out of my bag and typing this supposed store's name into the web browser. I try three times before anything promising comes up.

From the photos online, Niesta Dry-Cleaners was, as in the title, a small dry-cleaning company and seemed to only have one store location. Thankfully Google gave me approximately fifteen minutes biking time to Niesta, so at the very least I would not have to spend too much time at this place... Hopefully.

I unlock the front door only to quickly drop my school bag and realize I need to carry the shoes... So I would need another bag to carry them in; I was not holding them in my hands while riding my bike.

In my closet I find a bag small enough to not be a bother for me, but also big enough to fit the shoes inside. Throwing the shoes in, I hear a voice behind me.

"Amara, where are you going?"

I freeze, but turn around with the shoes safely inside and behind my back. My Father stands in front of me.

"Um, I was just going on a bike ride." I state, hoping he will not question the bag. If he did I could risk it, lie, and say I put water in it so I do not become dehydrated. If things came to that, I would have to bet that Dad would not check the bag. Who knows what he would think if he saw me with a pair of fancy men's shoes?

Let's not think about that, Amara.

Dad gives a head nod, and seems to leave me alone to go on my bike ride, but he does say something before he completely leaves.

"Amara, don't forget to mow the lawn this weekend; the grass is getting long again."

"Copy that." I say as I salute my father, grab my bag, and get back outside.

Outside, I am able to get ready for the bike ride, and start riding. Starting out, I am pretty happy that I get to ride my bike—it's strange, but I never ride my bike, but I thoroughly enjoy the experience whenever I do. Guess life is weird like that.

Suburbs quickly turn into a less residential area, flowing into businesses and important buildings like hospitals before I follow my GPS to where I need to be—Niesta Dry-Cleaners.

And to your left, a rickety old, crumbling to the brink of bankruptcy, Niesta!

It's actually not as bad as I thought it would be; the photos online lied. Perhaps the company had a revamp, but instead of the small business that looked like a crack house instead of a dry-cleaning business, Niesta looked somewhat well-to-do.

Nice light-up Niesta sign on the front, and from just outside, I could see a couple people moving inside the building. A good sign, if any.

A little chimp invited me inside the building, as well as a spectacled old-looking man who seems to be the assistant here. He looked up at me with a smile already on his face, but he seemed to be disappointed by my face. ...Was this old man checking me out?! I just stared back at him, half-decided that this was not worth it for a son of a bitch that guy was to me.

"Welcome to Niesta. I don't think I've seen you here before. Come closer; my eyes don't go far away."

Welp, might as well give this grandpa a better look.

I move forward, now sliping my backpack off over my shoulder. I start to take the shoes out, when the old man grabs them and holds them on the counter.

"Hey! You cannot just do that!"

The old man inspects the shoes for a short while before giving me an evil eye and spitting back at me (he does not actually spit at me.) "Why do you have Ethan's shoes?"

I sat there confused. "Who's Ethan?" The old man rolled his eyes, and it got under my skin. Too bad beating up senile seniors was agaisnt the rules of humanity and the government, or I might have just given this sour lemon a sucker punch right in the noggin. "Please?"

"Who gave you these shoes?"

"Some son of a bi—I mean, a tall white guy with black hair." I suddenly blush at my mind speaking out. The man grins, and that rips the rudge off my face.

"His name is Ethan Carnell," He explains to me. Great, now I know who to put on my "kill list" back at home. "He is a very talented dancer. They all are."

"They?"

"Your school's dance team. You are from Du Pont, correct?"

I nod. Yes.

"Well, Mister Ethan in my opinion is one of the best—if not the best—dancers in the whole system there." I swear this old man is a stalker-fan of douchebag or something, he is giving me fan-girl vibes, despite his age. If anything, the fact that he is probably eighty or older makes it that much weirder. I don't think this was worth it at all. "Say, are you a dancer? Du Pont has a great dance class, some say it's world-class!"

I shrug. This guy feels too into dancing and the dickbag Ethan Carnell. At this moment, I just want to drop the shoes off and run the hell away from here. Damn it, I have to come back. No Screw you, son of a bitch can get his own shoes from the creep.

"You don't dance?" He shakes his head. "What a shame; the world is too sad not to dance."

No clue what this guy's problem is with me not dancing, but I ignore it by now.

"What about his shoes? When will they get fixed?"

Old man seemed to just notice the shoes, even though he had his paws all over them searching for my scuf one conversation ago. He smiles, bows, and takes them to the back where I assume they will be cleaned. I look at the door—I could leave now, but then I would have to guess when I would have to return, and I might as well not guess on that part. I decide to sit down on one of the chairs and wait for the old man to come back, scrolling through my phone mindlessly before he comes back out.

"Shoes will take about an hour and a half."

I flitch. Over an hour of a single scuf?! How much is this going to cost me? Old man seems to see my shock, and takes my hand—I take my hand back from him immediately.

"I give charge to Ethan. Do not worry," I sigh a breath of relief. "Say, what is your name? I will need that for the shoes."

"Amara Conelly." I say my last name automatically in case Creep wants my last name just like dickbag Ethan this morning.

"Amara... Unique name you got there. You can call me Peter."

"Got it. Peter."

I feel like 'Creep' fits you better, though. Shame.