“I’m on Pascal’s side, I’m afraid. I’ve never been good at following a lead either.”

Oliver takes a drink, untangling my hand from his, then sets down his glass and lays his hand palm up on the table. “Dance with me?”

My heart swells. “What if I step on your toes?”

Oliver smiles. “I’ll survive. I’m very strong.”

“What if I’m bad?”

He shakes his head. “Impossible.” He’s trying to be sweet, but he ruins it almost immediately by frowning and saying, “Wait—weren’t you and Will banned from Prussia by Mr. Nowack because you were so bad at dancing?”

“I mean… I don’t think it’s diplomatically enforceable but—” He laughs and I can’t help but join him.

I haven’t danced much. Only during a few school socials, and once at a neighborhood New Year’s Eve dance the winter I turned thirteen. It was thrown in the basement of a church two blocks from our old apartment. I remember they tacked a few sparkly streamers to the ceiling, and when one fell to the floor, my brother picked it up off the ground and tied it into a bow around my head. Oliver wasn’t there that night, he was at a fancy party with his parents, but William dragged me around the dance floor, and together, the Hallowell siblings performed perhaps the worst mazurka the Lower East Side had ever seen. Katya Nowak’s dad was on tuba, and he laughed so hard he cried and then begged us to get off the dance floor.

“Up, c’mon,” Oliver insists. “If we cause a diplomatic crisis with our terrible waltzing, so be it.”

I place my hand back in the warmth of his, and he pulls me to my feet. Pascal, Lena, and Maxine cheer behind us as he guides me to the dance floor.

The band slows, the horns drop a few octaves, and the strings kick up into a waltz.

He doesn’t drag me to the center. He stays right on the periphery where the carpet meets the parquet.

Oliver straightens his already perfect posture and raises my hand in his to shoulder height.

“Other hand on my back. Right between my shoulder blades,” he instructs.

I comply and hope I don’t blush at the warmth of his body under my palm.

The song the band plays starts slow. The percussionist hits a chime, and then the song swells in earnest, and Oliver and I are spinning across the dance floor, joining the flurry of other couples.

Oliver is a strong lead. He takes sure, quick steps and points the way with his shoulders before we change direction fully.

I’ve only ever waltzed once, in physical education class in the gym of PS 042 with Mary Dombrowski as my partner. We stepped on each other’s toes until we dissolved into a fit of giggles and were threatened with a switch.