chapter 1
Dancing to the Beat
MARYELLEN HELD HER arms out in mid-air, pretending she was dancing with a partner. To the right, to the left, step back, step front, she urged her clumsy feet. Right, left, back, front. “You’re such a cool dancer,” she said aloud to her imaginary date. “You haven’t stepped on my toes more than ten times!”
Maryellen’s older sister Carolyn let out a giggle. Then she stopped smiling and turned stern again. “That’s enough clowning around,” she said. “You must listen to the beat of the music, and do all the steps without stopping to think about each one. Otherwise, you’ll never be ready to Rock Around the Clock with me.”
That was exactly what Maryellen was worried about. Winter vacation from school was half over, and the annual dance near the famous Daytona Beach clock tower was just four days away. When she was younger, Maryellen had been content to watch from the sidelines as her older sisters danced with their dates, skirts swirling as they moved in time to the music. Maryellen had loved just being on the plaza amid all the hubbub: the holiday lights twinkling, the band’s music blaring from the stage, the people on the dance floor rocking and rolling. This year, though, she wanted to be part of the excitement. She wanted to dance—and that was turning out to be a whole lot harder than it looked. Carolyn had been patiently trying to help Maryellen learn the rock ’n’ roll steps, but somehow Maryellen’s feet kept getting tangled up.
I can do it, she told herself. She took a deep breath and stood taller. Carolyn turned her transistor radio up a bit louder. Maryellen speeded up her movements to match the song’s fast beat. No sooner did she step to the right than she missed the cue to step back.
“Okay, Ellie,” Carolyn said, snapping off the radio. “Try it with me.” Carolyn rested her right hand on Maryellen’s waist, and Maryellen placed her left hand on Carolyn’s shoulder. Then the girls clasped their free hands and held them out to the side. Carolyn walked Maryellen slowly through the steps.
When she danced with the music on again, Maryellen thought she was finally matching the steps to the beat. “Much better!” Carolyn told her. “Now you need to make those steps smoother. Let your body move with the beat, too. You’ll need to practice that on your own. I’ve got to get over to the band shell to pick up some posters. I volunteered to hang them up around town.”
Carolyn disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a roll of tape. She slipped it into her bag and strode to the door. “See you later, Ellie.” As the screen door slammed behind her, Carolyn called back over her shoulder. “Practice!”
Of course I will, Maryellen thought. She waited for a slow song on the radio to end and stood ready to try the swing dance again as soon as the disc jockey played a rock ’n’ roll song. In a moment, she heard him introduce a fun song with a fast, heavy beat: “Later Alligator” by Bobby Charles. Maryellen had barely managed a few steps when her younger sister, Beverly, interrupted.
“I’ll dance with you,” she offered. “After all, I do take dancing lessons.”
“No, thanks,” Maryellen said, trying not to sound annoyed. Beverly never missed a chance to show how good she was at dancing. “First of all, you take ballet. That’s nothing like rock ’n’ roll. Second of all, I need a partner who can lead. I’m the one who has to follow.”
“I could learn it faster than you,” Beverly taunted her.
Maryellen knew her little sister was probably right. By now, she had lost her rhythm. She felt relieved when the radio station took a break for commercials.
“Hey, all you cool cats out there,” an announcer said. “Be sure to head to the band shell next Saturday night at seven sharp. It’s the annual Daytona Beach Dance. Time to Rock Around the Clock! Be there or be square!”
“I wanna dance, too,” said Maryellen’s little brother Tom. He was just five, but he was what Maryellen’s father called “a bundle of perpetual motion.” Tom wiggled and waved his arms, singing the jingle from a toothpaste commercial. Their old dachshund, Scooter, woke up from one of his many naps and started howling along. In the kitchen, Maryellen’s three-year-old brother, Mikey, was having a temper tantrum because Mom wouldn’t let him have a cookie. Mikey didn’t like to hear the word “no” unless he was saying it.
“That’s it,” Maryellen complained. “I can’t practice around here.” She stepped into the kitchen and announced, “I’m heading to the beach.”
“Check in with Joan when you get there,” Maryellen’s mother said, trying to talk above Mikey’s fussing. “And let her know when you leave.”
Maryellen’s sister Joan, who was now Mrs. Jerry Ross, was working at a food stand on the beach. This was another reason Maryellen liked being at the beach. It was neat to hang around with Joan and Jerry and hear about what they were doing. They were so busy that Maryellen didn’t get to see them much.
She rolled her bike from the garage and pedaled off. The ocean was several blocks from her house, but it was an easy ride. Maryellen cruised along Ocean Avenue, passing by the wide walled plaza on her left. Over its high walls, she could see the top of the open band shell and one face of the tall clock tower that rose above everything. She breathed in the familiar scent of salty air and caught a few quick glimpses of blue waves rolling in to shore.
Just past the plaza, she turned left and coasted down Main Street, which led directly to the beach. Maryellen thought the best part of school vacation was getting to spend time here. Gliding down Main Street, she could see the length of the wooden pier that jutted out into the ocean, high above the water on tall wooden pilings. Men cast fishing lines over the railing. Couples walked hand in hand toward the restaurant at the end of the pier, the men wearing loose-fitting tropical shirts and the women in pastel-colored cotton dresses that billowed in the breeze.
Maryellen kept to the side of the road as cars cruised slowly past her, their windows open to the air. She looked with longing at a shiny green convertible filled with laughing teenagers. The top was down, and the girls protected their hairdos with bright scarves. Music blared from the car’s radio.
Maryellen glided under the stone arches of a stairway that led from the pier to the sandy beach. As soon as her bike wobbled onto the hard-packed sand, she hopped off and walked it along the beach, leaving Main Street and the pier behind her. The green convertible had pulled into a row of cars parked right on the sand, and the teens were climbing out of the car. Nearby, people stretched out on beach blankets or sat on webbed chairs. The winter holidays brought lots of tourists from colder states up north, and the beach was crowded. Children splashed in the water until they scurried, shivering, to their parents, who bundled them in giant towels. Out on the water, a flock of pelicans bobbed on the waves, their long bills protruding over the pouches full of fish that bulged at their throats. Seagulls circled overhead, their shrill cries piercing the air. To Maryellen, the scene felt like a giant party. Even the birds seemed to be in on the fun.
It was a short walk to Sandy’s Beach Hut, the food stand on the beach where Joan worked. As she approached, Maryellen could hear a radio on the counter playing “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” In the shadow of the shack’s blue awning, Maryellen saw her sister dancing with her husband, Jerry. Just as the song was ending, Joan
