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Chapter Text

Mike Webster pushed the clutch to the floor and let the twenty-year-old VW coast into the parking spot until he heard the nose scrape against the concrete barrier. He then yanked the parking brake up and killed the engine before stepping out into the hot June day.

The parking lot of Gunhold Dance Studios looked like every other parking lot in the suburbs around Vancouver: full of old cars and lacking in 14-year-old sisters waiting patiently to be picked up. Mike sighed; he would have to go inside.

Mike had nothing against Gunhold Dance Studio aside from its being the place of his summer-time sentence. Instead of spending his free time slacking off and actually enjoying himself (god forbid!) his parents had insisted on Mike spending the time outside of his job driving his sister around (mostly to and from Gunhold Dance Studio) and playing in the band during her performances.

“Next year you’ll be going off to college,” his mother had said. “And you’ll barely be able to see her. If you don’t spend time with her now, then somewhere down the road, you will regret it.”

“It’s not like you have anything better to do with your time,” his dad had said.

While his mom’s argument was complete bullshit (between living together and the fact that Vicky would be starting at the same high school as him in the fall, they would be spending more than enough time together over the next year), his dad unfortunately had a point. As it stood, Mike didn’t do much with his spare time. Aside from music (to which he devoted most of his time and energy), Mike had few hobbies and fewer friends (most of whom were gone for the summer). Without this parent-mandated sibling bonding time, Mike probably would have spent all of his time outside work holed up in his room.

As he pulled open the door to Gunhold Dance Studios, he was hit by a wall of cold air and music. As hot as it was outside, inside the dance studio always felt a bit too cold. On rehearsal days for the band, Mike had taken to bringing a sweatshirt to stop himself from shivering. “We get hot and sweaty dancing,” Vicky had explained one time. It made sense on some level, but Mike would still have preferred a few degrees further from Antarctica in the winter.

Mike stood in the small waiting area in the front with all the moms reading trashy romance books and the one dad sitting with his arms crossed and a glower on his face trying very hard to convey through body language alone “I am heterosexual and very unhappy to be here.”

Out on the dance floor Vicky and her partner, Jeff, talking. Mike waited for her to walk over. He’d learned the hard way several times that interrupting Vicky’s social time was never going to end well for him.

There was a small bookshelf for waiting parents. Mike took a peek because almost anything had to beat standing awkwardly amongst parents all well over twice his age. There were a few trashy romance novels and some back issues of a dancers’ magazine. It appeared Mike had found two things that did not beat standing around awkwardly.

Somewhere in the back of the studio, there was a large crash, and someone screamed, “MILLER!!!”

A few seconds later, a teenage boy about Mike’s own age walked calmly out of the backroom, across the dance floor, and right out the front door. He was dressed in exercise clothes and barefoot without a bag, but walked out the front door so sure of himself that for a moment Mike didn’t even question a thing. In fact, Mike’s only thought had been that he looked vaguely familiar.

Then a portly man in his late twenties crashed out of the back room screaming “MILLER!” again. He ran into the middle of the dance floor and shouted, “Miller! Get back here! MILLER!”

An old man who Mike recognized as Mr. Warden, Vicky’s coach and the owner of the studio, walked out of the office off the waiting area. “What is this racket?” he asked. “Chip, what on Earth are you doing? I’m sure whatever has happened doesn’t require this level of reaction. People are staring.”

People were staring. It wasn’t just Mike; everyone on the floor and in the waiting area was watching the proceedings with rapt attention. Even the father who had been trying so hard to make his displeasure at being there known, now barely attempting to hide his interest.

“Miller happened!” Chip shouted back at Mr. Warden.

Mr. Warden turned to Jeff.

“The other Miller,” Chip corrected.

Mr. Warden looked around. “Where is Rudy?” he asked.

“That,” Chip said tersely, “is part of the problem.”

Mike felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see Vicky holding her bag and pulling at his arm.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here before chaos breaks out.”

Mike was interested in seeing how this ended, but he didn’t think that would go over well, and besides, it was probably a good idea to get home on time.

Walking out of Gunhold Dance Studios, they could still hear the fight continuing behind them most of the way to the car. Mike opened the doors and stepped into what had essentially become an oven.

“Ugh,” Vicky groaned. “Why did you have to get a black car?”

“It’s not black,” Mike replied, turning on the AC as high as it would go.

Mike saw Vicky roll her eyes in the rearview mirror as he backed out of his parking spot.

“Fine,” Vicky said, “why’d you have to get a dark blue car then?”

“Because it’s a good car, and that’s the color it came in,” Mike replied. “You can complain when you actually have your license.”

“The only reason I don’t is because I’m too young. As soon as I turn sixteen, I’m gonna pass the test first try.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Mike said, pulling up to the exit of the parking lot and flipping on his left turn signal.

Vicky stuck out her tongue from the passenger seat.

Mike looked both ways, shifted into first, and started to pull forward, but right at that moment, a car blasted past going at least 50 kilometers per hour over the speed limit. Mike slammed his foot on the brakes (stalling the car in the process) and threw an arm out in front of Vicky.

Vicky brushed his arm out of the way, unimpressed by his attempt to save her life, and yelled, “Honk at him! Don’t just sit there!”

“Well there’s no point now,” Mike said, restarting the car. “They’re long gone by now.”

He looked both ways again, making sure he had a clear view this time and pulled out safely.

Once they were on the road, Vicky crossed her arms and huffed. “Rudy can’t just keep getting away with that shit.”

“Who,” Mike asked, still thinking about his near-death experience.

“Rudy Miller,” Vicky said in a way that made it clear she thought that should have been obvious.

Something clicked in Mike’s brain. “That was Rudy Miller?”

“Of course it was,” Vicky said. She was probably rolling her eyes, but Mike couldn’t see because he was keeping his on the road. “Who did you think it was?” she asked.

Mike didn’t answer her question. “He goes to my school.”

“Yes of course he is,” Vicky said. “Jeff goes to my school and they live just a mile from us.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?” Mike snapped.

“By paying attention to other people and not spending all your time alone,” Vicky retorted.

They finished the drive in silence.

“How was your day?” their mother asked as soon as they got inside.

“Fine,” Vicky said before brushing past them on her way to her room, where she would presumably spend the rest of the night racking up the telephone bill talking to her many friends.

Mike glared at his mom.

She threw up her arms and sighed. “What is it this time, Mikey?”

“It’s Mike,” he said. “I’m seventeen now. And that’s also why I don’t want to spend my free time getting bullied by my little sister.”

“Oh, Mikey,” his mother sighed. “It’s only because she’s fourteen. You know that right?”

Mike sighed. “Yes, I know,” he said. “She’s my sister and I love her, but I’d rather not have to drive her around if she’s gonna be critiquing my hobbies and social life from the passenger seat.”

His mom smiled. “I know things feel rough now, but I promise that someday you’ll look back fondly on these years.”

Mike doubted it.

Chapter Text

In late July, during a brief break between heatwaves, Vicky had her first competition of the summer. It was just a small local competition, but it was her first time competing in the high school age bracket and Vicky was ecstatic.

Mike was also excited, though not much short of waterboarding could have gotten him to admit that.

Throughout his nine years playing guitar, Mike had almost exclusively played classical music. This is true for most musicians who start at a young age. When your parents sign you up for music lessons, there’s some small hope in the back of their minds that their child would become the next Mozart or Andres Segovia or Jean Pierre Rampal or some other great in their chosen instrument.

Usually, this dream dies after attending the first recital and finding out exactly how bad a trumpet can sound, but if the child doesn’t show extreme ineptitude or continues playing despite it, the parents often only become further ingrained in their hopes.

Every year Mike continued to play guitar, the more enthusiastic his parents became.

“Y’know son,” his father said, “you’re actually getting pretty good.”

“You should apply for music scholarships for college,” his mother suggested.

“Not at a music conservatory though,” his father said. “At a real school.”

“But you should still study music,” his mother said.

“As a minor,” his father said.

The more enthusiastic his parents became, the more serious they became.

“Chopin,” his mother said, commenting on the piece playing on the radio. “Wasn’t he one of the great Baroque composers?”

“No,” his father said, pretending to know what he was talking about, “I’m pretty sure he was French.”

And the more serious his parents became about music, the more serious they expected Mike to become.

“What is it you’ll be playing for the next school concert?” his mother asked.

“Oh not much,” Mike replied. “I’ll just be accompanying the choir.”

His mom’s nose wrinkled.

He sighed. “What’s it this time?”

“Oh nothing, Mikey,” she responded. “It’s just that I know you can play better than that. You’re such a talented musician. Why don’t you play a solo piece?”

For the past few years, Mike had almost exclusively played music chosen by either his parents or his teacher, and that tended to consist of classical music that was famous (his parents), expanded his technical skills (his teacher), or could be played in auditions (both). Practicing with the Gunhold Studio band this summer had been his first taste of something else. They had played salsas, waltzes, swing music, and jazz. And Mike loved it.

He didn’t tell Vicky (because he knew he would never hear the end of it if he did), but Mike had almost begun to think of it as his performance as well.

“WATCH OUT!” Vicky yelled right before a black BMW passed them going at least 30 above the speed limit (and swerving across the double yellow lines to do so).

“Thank you,” Mike said, “but I had noticed that coming up in my mirror. I’m the one with the license.”

Vicky rolled her eyes. “Then why didn’t you do something?”

“Well I don’t know, Vicky,” Mike responded. “What do you want me to do? Panic? Call the police? Ask him politely not to?”

“Well I dunno,” Vicky said, rolling her eyes again. “You’re the one with the license, remember?”

Mike wondered if there was any physical detriment to eye-rolling too much. Surely there must be some kind of muscle there you could pull.

Vicky harumphed. “Besides, maybe he wouldn’t have to pass us if you didn’t drive so slow.”

“I’m going the speed limit!” Mike protested.

“Exactly,” Vicky replied.

Once they were at the venue (which was the town hall of a small nearby suburb), Mike and Vicky split ways. Mike took his guitar and sheet music out of the trunk and headed off to where the rest of the band waited. Vicky took as long as possible to gather up her costume and makeup so that nobody would see her entering with her brother, then headed over to meet Jeffry.

Garrett, a college student and the second youngest band member, nodded to Mike as he walked up. “Yo Mikey!” he called. “What’s been up with you?”

“Not much,” Mike replied as he began setting up.

“That’s cool,” Garret said. “You’ll never guess what I got up to last Saturday!”

“I bet I can’t,” Mike said, but he didn’t even really need to respond because Garret had already plowed on, full steam ahead with a story involving a high-speed car chase, three cans of spray paint, a flock of seagulls, and three high school girls (gross!).

While Mike pretended to listen to this story, he fastened all his music to his stand with laundry pins to make extra sure the air conditioning wouldn’t blow it all away the way it had one time in practice.

Eventually, the dancing started just twenty minutes late (which, as Mike had learned by now, was practically early by Mr. Warden’s standards).

First, the elementary school age bracket came out. For them it was much less of a competition and much more of an excuse for parents to dress their kids up and take pictures of them, then take home a participation trophy at the end.

Next up came the middle schoolers. This was where the actual dancing started, as well as the actual judging, but Mike didn’t pay much attention since Vicky wasn’t in that group anymore and he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

After the middle schoolers came the final minors’ age bracket, the high schoolers. This was Vicky and Jeffrey’s age bracket. It was Rudy’s as well.

Because it was a small local competition (really more of an excuse for local dance studios to get together than a competition) and because the adults were really the main attraction, each of the minors’ age brackets only had one dance. The high schoolers' dance was a Latin open. This meant that any type of Latin dancing was fair game as long as they stayed within the realm of legal steps.

The pairs were introduced one by one.

“Couple number nine!” the announcer called as Vicky and Jeff stepped out.

Mike clapped and tried not to be horrified by how much skin his fourteen-year-old sister was showing. Vicky smiled at the spectators and didn’t look at him.

A few more couples stepped out until there was only one more left.

“Couple number thirteen,” The announcer called, “Rudy Miller and Liz Beth Joy!”

They both stepped out onto the floor decked out in color and sequins. The spectators roared and Liz Beth smiled and waved at them. Rudy stood at her side looking bored.

Mike had heard many things about Rudy—that he was a nutcase, that he was impossible to deal with, that he was brilliant, that he may have been partially responsible for the most recent spike in gas prices, that he was an amazing dancer—and wanted to see for himself, but he only had a moment to look at him before the band started up.

To keep things fair for dancers during the open dances, they played music that didn’t neatly fit into any one category. While the piece held elements reminiscent of jazz or salsa, it was neither. It was in four-four, swung, and, most importantly for dancing, it had a strong beat. Mike soon found himself enveloped in the feel of the music.

He could feel the kick of the high hat in his skull, the bass to his left reverberated through the floor of the stage and he could feel it in his shoes, and he could feel his own guitar vibrate against his chest. This was music how Mike liked it. Instead of keeping time with the cold ticks of a metronome, he was keeping time with the living breathing people around him.

Mike had felt this before. Back in ninth grade, he had briefly picked up viola as a second instrument to join the school orchestra, but he had quit after just a year when his mother wouldn’t stop dropping comments about how he shouldn’t let a second instrument distract from his progress on guitar and Mike had realized that Vicky was nowhere near running out of viola jokes.

“If you’re lost in the woods and you come across an in-tune viola, an out-of-tune viola, and Santa Claus, who should you follow?” Vicky asked.

“Well gee Vicky, I don’t know,” Mike said, even though he suspected he did know. He had long given up trying to fight her on this or almost anything else.

“The out-of-tune viola,” Vicky replied. “The other two are obviously hallucinations.”

“Ha ha,” Mike said.

“Speaking of the viola…” his mother butted in.

Mike was so caught up in the music and the memories of ninth-grade orchestra that he didn’t notice what was happening on the dance floor till the second collective gasp from the audience.

Mike looked up. Rudy, his partner, Vicky, and Jeff were all crowded in the far corner.

“It appears that couple number thirteen, Rudy Miller and Liz Beth Joy, have been boxed in by couple number nine, consisting of Victoria Webster and Rudy Miller’s younger brother, Jeffrey Miller,” the announcer said. “I would like to remind you that while boxing in is generally considered rude,” at this the announcer shot a pointed glare at Jeff and Vickey who seemed not to notice, “it is still a legal move. What we are watching appears to be some friendly competition between brothers.”

Vicky,what the fuck are you doing?

And then it happened.

Rudy dropped to his knees and slid underneath Vicky and Jeff’s arms and into the middle of the floor. He then stood up and completed three turns on his way off the dance floor before proceeding to walk right out of the building, leaving Liz Beth still stuck in the corner.

The entire room was silent, even the band was too shocked to keep playing. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see if Rudy would come back.

Finally, after a minute of waiting, the announcer picked back up his microphone and said, “Couple number thirteen is disqualified.”

Mike couldn’t help it; he laughed.

Chapter Text

“How could you?!?” his mother wailed.

“You know those weren’t federation-approved steps, and don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise!” Chip seethed.

“This was supposed to be your year, son,” his father said, shaking his head with disappointment.

If Rudy hadn’t already reached his daily limit of expressing himself physically by dancing earlier he surely would have rolled his eyes. Instead, he turned them all out and let his gaze slip to the band packing up on the stage.

Most of the members of the band at smaller competitions were local musicians or retirees who wanted some entertainment, but this time there had been a boy about Rudy’s age. And there he was now, his guitar in its case and sheet music in his bag, he was now working on folding his chair and putting away his music stand.

Mike Webster. Rudy mentally cataloged everything he knew about him. They went to the same high school. They were in the same grade. He played guitar (obviously). He was Jeffrey’s dance partner, Vicky,’s older brother. He drove an old, navy blue VW. He wore the kind of big, round glasses that had gone out of style about five years earlier. His long, blond hair could use a trim. He was practical and always drove exactly the speed limit. He was a talented musician. He’d never had a girlfriend. And when chaos had erupted earlier, he had laughed.

“MILLER!” Chip shrieked, cutting through Rudy’s thoughts.

Rudy looked back toward the group of disapproving adults.

“What was I saying just now?” his mother asked, her arms crossed.

Rudy didn’t answer.

“I told you he wasn’t listening!” Chip said, triumphantly.

Rudy’s father rolled his eyes, and Rudy nearly smirked.

“Look,” his mother said patiently, “all we want is for you to be successful, and we’re worried that you’re not taking this nearly as seriously as you should be.”

“We just want you to think of your future,” his father added.

“Don’t you want to win?” Chip asked.

Rudy looked Chip in the eye. “I don’t care about winning,” he said and walked out.