Bette follows her brother into the Bavarian Biergarten and feels the eyes on him. This always happens. Peter is so handsome, everyone—male and female—watches him.

Peter walks as though he is on stage. His back is straight, he squares his shoulders, he could be facing the barre. Bette is especially fond of the way he is wearing his hair, now. He's let the buzz cut he had last fall grow out and his dark hair now hangs past his eyes, thick bangs covering his forehead.

The attention he generates makes her head feel light. Happy. Their mother has reserved their usual spot, at the end of a long table right by the dance floor, and Bette enjoys the sensation of floating over to it.

"Watch yourselves," their mother speaks in a low voice. "There's a pretty rowdy crowd trying to force us out, they have the nerve to take up part of our table!"

Bette glances at the table next to them. Amateurs. Several pitchers of beer are resting amongst them and they are sampling enormous plates of bratwurst.

Peter and she will drink only water, they both ate over an hour and a half ago. But Bette is already hungry. She wants some of their bratwurst, to savor its spicy flavor mixed with mustard.

No one ever really looks at her when she dances with her brother. She is bigger than he is. Bette can feel the thickness around her waist and shifts in her chair. She has covered her blouse with a beaded vest, hoping it will conceal the roll of extra flesh she knows is underneath it.

Peter pours her a glass of water. "Drink up, the band is getting ready."

There are six old men standing on the stage in identical blue and white-striped shirts. One fingers a violin. Another stands behind a keyboard. They announce the polka and Peter stands up, holds out his hand, and Bette grasps it. They pause for a moment on the edge of the vast dance floor and face each other. Peter nods at her. Solemn. He only smiles when he knows they have out-danced everyone else in the room. The night is young. There is no way of guessing yet if any other exceptional dancers have come to the hall. But Bette has a good feeling. She and Peter have been dancing now for a dozen years, since she was eight and Peter was twelve. Peter was forced to take ballet with her. Their mother wanted to keep him off the streets and out of trouble.

They excelled at ballet. Peter was especially good at partnering and supporting Bette's pirouettes, helping with her leaps. He could lift her easily until she started to grow, gained weight, and he couldn’t make it look effortless anymore. They changed dance styles, picked up ballroom and polka dancing.

Peter continues to encourage her. She feels like a star when she dances with him. It is such a relief from her job as a receptionist in a dental office. Bette hates making the reminder calls at the end of each day. She doesn't like talking to the patients. In the receptionist’s chair, she has to greet them and hand them their bills when they leave. Sometimes, a patient will get upset at the cost for a restoration or at their insurance when it doesn't cover x-rays. Bette will get warm and sweaty. She won’t look at the patient, who might get louder and louder until the office manager comes out of her cubicle at the end of the hall.

On the dance floor, Bette and Peter step in unison, the polka beat is accentuated in their feet. Peter twirls her—out from their embrace—and back into it again. Her feet follow his. She doesn’t feel heavy when she sweeps around the perimeter of the dance floor with him. Her brother’s left hand is resting lightly on her back. Bette will see sweat form on the front of his white t-shirt and it will drench strands of his hair when they get to their third or fourth dance.

Three other couples are twirling and dancing with them. The wooden dance floor is the largest Peter and Bette have found. They drove a half hour from inside the Baltimore Beltway because there is no place like this near them. The Emerald Isle Club hosts a Celie the first Friday of every month in the Towson American Legion Hall, but neither of them cares much for Irish folk dancing. Peter and Bette prefer their own German heritage and the Bavarian dance clubs.

The biergarten's walls are paneled in wood. Dark lumber outlines the peaked ceiling. The nearest she has ever come to anything like it was in Busch Gardens, Virginia, where she, Peter, and their mother ate pizza in a large cafeteria that was decorated just like this German beer hall.

She catches glimpses of women in the room who watch her dance with her handsome brother. They sit in the folding chairs at the long tables that enclose the dance floor. Some are dressed like Bette, in skirts and heels. Others, Bette notices with disgust, are wearing jeans. Jeans! To dance in a hall as nice as this one is.

The amateurs have invaded the dance floor. There is one for whom everyone has sung "Happy Birthday." She is a pretty woman, with gorgeous wavy blonde hair. Bette's hair is dark. It is held back from her face with a barrette her mother used tonight. Bette’s mom likes her hair, she brushes it for her before the Saturday night dances. The barrette Bette wears has a fake red jewel embedded in it. Her mom gave it to her for her birthday, last year.

Bette wishes she could dye her hair blonde. But her mother would probably throw her out of the house. Bette is afraid to do anything to her hair. She does wonder though, do gentlemen prefer blondes, like they did in that Marilyn Monroe movie? The blonde birthday girl is dancing—although not very well—with two men. Two! Can't she make up her mind?

Bette wonders what it would be like to dance with someone other than her brother. She never has. She only dances with Peter, and on the floor, he is a celebrity. Strangers frequently congratulate him on how well he dances. She is invisible. Rarely do their remarks include her. She knows it is because she is fat. To keep people from talking to them, they do not sit when the band plays. They show off and if they keep dancing, neither of them has to talk to strangers.

Peter sells children's shoes at Nordstrom. He rarely talks about his job, but he has told Bette that he doesn't mind fitting shoes on his customers’ feet. He hates looking the children in the eye or talking to them, though. Bette has watched him on her lunch break, when she walks over to Nordstrom.

Once, she watched Peter fit a small boy with new shoes. The little boy smiled and stared at Peter, whose head was bent over the steel mechanism that measures one's shoe size.

The little boy's mother was a skinny woman in a shirt that was too small for her. A couple of inches of creamy, brown skin showed above the belt to her tight, black jeans. "B'have yerself, Anthony." She said, "Sit up straight." Her son was squirming, and Peter didn’t look at him. He did say, "Be right back," when he got up to retrieve the boy’s shoes from a back room.

Peter returned with several boxes, but Anthony was still moving, and rocking in the chair.

"Sit still, Anthony," his mother ordered.

Peter pulled out a brown and white saddle oxford. Stride Rites. Expensive. He forced the shoe onto Anthony's foot. He winced and muttered, "Owww."

"Quiet!" His mother shouted.

Peter pulled out the other shoe. He worked on the other foot, and the little boy repeated, “Owww."

But he stood up and Peter pressed the white front of the shoes with his index finger. Anthony walked around him in a circle.

"How do they feel?" Anthony’s mother asked.

"Fine," he replied. Bette watched him grinning at Peter, who watched the mother.

She stood up. "Ok, we’ll take 'em."

Peter put the old shoes in the Stride Rite box.

"No. No. Put the new shoes back in the box. He can't wear them yet."

"You don't want him to break them in?" Peter asked her.

"I wanna wear 'em, Mamma!"

"No, Anthony. You need to wear 'em at the funeral. They gotta stay clean."

Bette whips her head from side to side as she follows Peter’s turns. They are doing their best to avoid the rowdy amateurs who are bumping into people. Jumping up and down. Laughing. The silly smirks on their faces infuriate Bette. She and Peter are in perfect step. They swing and twirl and melt into each other.

The band announces it is taking a break. Peter spins her out of their embrace and leads her off the dance floor. She sits on an aluminum chair. It feels cold, hard. She is hot and sweaty and she plucks a napkin off the table to wipe the back of her neck.

Peter takes the seat beside her and pours himself a glass of water. The crowd at the table next to them is passing around paper plates of yellow cake with chocolate frosting.

"Would you like a piece of my birthday cake?" The blonde woman looks at Peter.

"Oh, thank you, no," he shakes his head and smiles.

Still holding out the cake, she turns to Bette. "How about you?"

Before Bette can answer, her mother—who is sitting with her back to the blonde woman—turns and looks at her. "I'd love a piece. Thank you."

The blonde hands the paper plate of cake to their mother and looks at Bette, then Peter. "You are wonderful dancers," she says.

"Thank you," they both reply at the same time.

"Excuse me."

Bette looks up. The smile startles her. She does not know who he is, but he is grinning at her, as though she does. "I also think you both dance like pros! Terrific!" He is tall, thin. Older than Peter, she guesses by the gray in his beard. His eyes are blue, like the color of water in a well tended swimming pool. He has no hair, it has all been shaved off.

"Thank you," they echo. Bette watches Peter smiling at him before she looks down at her hands. Her cuticles are ragged because she bites her nails.

"Hello, and who are you?" Bette hears her mother ask.

"I'm Sean McBride, ma'am." He extends a hand out to her.

"How do you do? I’m Mrs. Stern. And this is my daughter, Bette, and my son, Peter." She takes the tips of his fingers in hers and briefly holds them.

"Hello, Bette." Sean's hand is offered to her. Bette looks at it. Her head tingles. Prickles of joy are floating inside her brain, along with creeping clouds of fear. She takes his hand and tries to smile. Sean drops her hand and glides to Peter, "Hello."

Peter pushes his aluminum chair back and stands up. He says, "Mom, Bette, I'm going to step outside for a few minutes. Get a breath of air."

He glances briefly at Sean, who looks down at Bette. “Would you like to dance when the band comes back?"

Bette feels sick. Pain pierces through her and she blinks before it passes. She watches Peter’s fingers drum on the back of the aluminum chair, and shakes her head. "No, thank you. I am Peter's partner."

"Okay, then. Nice meeting you." Sean says as she steps back and follows Peter out of the hall.