Like Real People Do [🗸]

09. ballroom

elliot :) : what're u up to ?

The first time I receive a text from Elliot Wu, my pencil falls forlorn to my desk and my hand outstretches for my phone. His saved contact stares up at me, a sort of beckoning hand. 

me : studying, unfortunately

Computer Science has been hell on earth. When my parents video call, I utter absolute bullshit about how the course is going flawlessly and they hang up, albeit with a raised eyebrow or two. It's not god-awful, I'll give it that. 

Somewhere within all the content, there is some familiarity, but it's tedious to work through, even though I've managed to keep my grades shakily consistent so far in the course. The recordings have been the primary tool maintaining my sanity.

My prime motivator is competition, and a Computer Science class on average is packed with at least one or two egotistical assholes that stoke a flame inside of you to be better than. It's a questionable motivator with an ethical conversation to be had, but honestly, I couldn't care less. It's effective. 

However, Elliot's question seems to utter invitation, and before I know it, I'm sending another text. 

me: why?

He starts typing, then stops, starts typing again. This time, he continues doing so. 

elliot :): i haven't seen u at the dance studio in a bit . was wondering if u were up for hanging out. but then again, i do not want to be a bad influence and dissuade u from studying !

Elliot's first text was already a case against studying, so I reply that I'd be up for coming over.

elliot :): ok but how about u bring ur study materials ! then u can study while i practice . and we can just hangout and whatnot :)

Hanging out and whatnot is impossibly tempting, and I slide my laptop into my bag alongside all my notes, bustling out the door of my room within a minute. By now, I know a significant amount about the passages and halls of campus, so I drop by a burger place before heading over to the Performing Arts Hall. 

Not too far from the main dome is a smaller dance studio, and I push through the slightly ajar doorway into the space. It's a smaller room, modeled like the larger hall with a barre and mirrors on each wall of the room. 

Elliot's leaning against a barre, eyes on his phone as I walk in. In seconds, he's looking up and offering me a grin. 

"Hey," he says, slipping toward me in one motion.

"Hey," I say, eyes on his backpack flung into a corner of the room, the motivational posters or club invites plastered onto any part of the wall without mirror, and the shine to the floor. I shake the brown paper bag in the air. "I brought food."

Elliot's lips curve upward on both sides. "I'll be done in fifteen minutes."

I nod, sinking down onto the floor and unloading my notebooks and laptop from my bag as Elliot resumes from his position at the barre. I get some more notes in, my messy scrawl working its way onto the pages while the bold calligraphy title rests at the header. I plug my earbuds in, the professor's drone filling my ears like a podcast.