Pussy Willows and Polka

The first pussy willow caught Nadia across the shoulder like a dare. She spun — accordion music still buzzing through her ribs — and found a woman she'd never seen at Dyngus Day before. Dark hair pinned up in a loose twist, flour still dusting one cheekbone from the pierogi tent, and eyes the color of Lake Erie in late April: grey-green, restless, deeper than they had any right to be. "Smigus-Dyngus," the woman said, holding up the pussy willow branch like evidence. "Tradition." "Tradition," Nadia repeated, though her pulse had nothing to do with Polish custom and everything to do with the way this stranger's smile started on one side and took its time reaching the other. Gordon Square was a chaos of accordion and tuba, the Chardon Polka Band blasting through "Who Stole the Kishka" with enough brass to rattle the storefronts along Detroit Avenue. Bodies moved in pairs and clumps, spinning in that half-drunk, full-hearted Cleveland polka that doesn't care whether you know the steps. The afternoon sun cut low through the neighborhood, turning brick facades gold and every puddle from the morning rain into a mirror. "I'm Kat," the woman said. "Nadia." "Nadia. You know how to polka?" "Badly." "Perfect. That's the only honest way." Kat took her hand before she could decide about it. One palm warm and callused — a carpenter's hand, Nadia would learn later — the other settling at the small of her back with just enough pressure to be a statement. The Chardon boys rolled into "Pennsylvania Polka" and Kat led with the confidence of someone who'd been doing this since she could walk, which she had: Chardon kid, raised on polka the way other kids are raised on pop radio. They spun. Nadia's boot caught a cobblestone and Kat pulled her closer instead of letting her stumble. For three bars of music their hips were flush and Nadia could feel Kat's breath warm against her temple, could smell hops and powdered sugar and something underneath that was just skin — clean and sharp, like autumn. "You caught me," Nadia said. "Seemed like the thing to do." The band played. The crowd stomped. Somewhere behind them a kid screamed with joy as someone dumped water from a Super Soaker. Dyngus Day. Cleveland's favorite excuse to be ridiculous and tender at the same time. They danced through three more songs.