Getting Rodney together with her later didn’t help much. He was silent and withdrawn. Later, he admitted being jealous, but only for an instant. And it was that very instant when he lost balance and control and twisted his whole foot. Lucky for him he had only a sprained ankle. We spent more time together back at West 4th Street. We exercised together and attended different dance classes so we could compare notes in the evening as we also compared the angle and depth of our own turn-outs, contractions, leaps, and stretches on the floor as we pulled from equal weight. But when I got the chance to choreograph to Ellington’s “A Train,” I thought only about Metro and what we shared. I told Rodney about my ideas. He lost interest in working with me.

“No wonder I had trouble with those combinations,” he said.

“Was it your ankle?”

“No, Jesse. Those weren’t my steps at all. They belonged to someone else.”

“How can you tell that? I’m not sure myself and I’m the choreographer.”

“By the way the knees bend. I can’t get that low. Don’t want to, either. I’m into leaps. I’m training for height and speed.”

“These steps aren’t fast enough? They’re closer to a tap dance than modern dance.”

“That’s just it. They’re fast all right. But they’re going the other way. Not where I’m headed.”

“I see. I’m sorry. I won’t ask you again.”

“No offense, Jesse. It’ll be a fine dance. But when you choose your dancers, try to work with them. Use steps they’re comfortable with. Give them a chance to express themselves, too. Isn’t that what dance is all about?”

“You’re right, Rodney. You’re absolutely right.”

I tugged at his hair, smoothed the oil on my lips.

I chose the dancers: one white, one black. We practiced after the general rehearsals and often stayed later than anyone else. The dancers liked the music: the grace and deliberate speed of it, the opportunity for improvisation in the rhythm, the solo and personal statement. We were off together improvising, on the rush of travel as if we were the instruments and Ellington the conductor/choreographer. But we started playing a different tune than the one I heard riding the A train to Harlem. Even in the harmony of our fast travel underground and aboveground we added leaps and double turns, for we were enjoying the ride, and we were going someplace else. We danced toward the flashing lights all through the tunnel, right on through the real moving rooms that held back the dark.

Lonny

Lonny

Outside the coffee shop the guy looked scared, like I was going to rob him or hit him or scream bloody murder. Then I smiled and he came up to me, still cautious like.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Fifteen.”