Shimmy

by Kari Jones

  My body explodes. Everything from my fingertips to my toes to the ends of my hair tingles. I can barely even nod, I’m bursting so much, but I still hold my breath because I’m waiting for Amala’s eyes to continue their sweep of the room and land on Angela. But they don’t. Instead, they swivel back to Dana, who smiles at me.

  “Who are the other two girls you’ve chosen?” Nini asks.

  “Laura and Savana from my Thursday-evening class,” says Amala.

  The tingle fades as I realize it’s only me going, not me and Angela. It’s hard to know where to look. I want to see Angela’s face, but I also don’t want to. But then Angela shoves through Flora and Nini and scoops me up in a bear hug, which Sarit and Petra join her in, and soon the whole room rushes me in a big scrum. My body finally stops tingling, and I let out my breath. I catch Amala’s eye across the room, and she smiles at me and nods. I smile back.

  The other girls let go, but Angela keeps hugging me, so finally I pull back so I can see her properly. Her whole face smiles, including her eyes.

  “I wish you were coming,” I whisper into her ear.

  She shakes her head. “You deserve it,” she says, and with those words the whole thing hits me.

  I’m going to dance with one of the troupes in Dana Sajala’s studio!

  “Don’t forget us, please,” says Flora, which makes everyone laugh.

  “I won’t,” I promise.

  Angela finally lets me go, and I make my way back to my spot, but Amala says, “Lila, I think we’d better practice without you so the girls can get used to not having anyone in that space. You can sit and watch.” She motions to the side of the room.

  Of course. I’m not dancing this dance anymore. It’s beautiful choreography, though, and I have to admit to feeling a pang when I sit down next to the wall to watch the troupe practice.

  The dance is gorgeous. The girls know the music well, and they move together gracefully. Even having eleven girls onstage instead of twelve works, because instead of going into pairs, Amala directs them into clumps of three and four. I’m sad to leave, but I’m going on to something even more exciting. I only wish Angela was coming, and I hope she’s not too disappointed.

  The force of what’s happened hits me again, and the tingling in my fingers returns.

  I’ve been chosen to dance for Dana Sajala.

  It’s going to be fantastic.

  Four

  English class is never going to end. Mrs. O’Connor drones on about To Kill a Mockingbird. This lesson should be called To Kill the Reading Experience. I hardly slept at all last night, what with the excitement and nervousness of being chosen to dance for Dana, and now it’s all I can do to stay awake for twelve more minutes. When Mrs. O’Connor finally stops talking and the bell rings, I’m so close to sleep that I have to shake out my arms and legs before I can get up. It takes me a few minutes to gather my books and pens and cram them into my backpack and head out the door.

  “There you are,” Angela says when I reach the courtyard behind the auditorium. She and Nini and Sarit are already sitting at one of the picnic tables set up among the garden beds. Angela has been working in the veggie gardens all year for her service hours, and we often come here at lunchtime so she can weed after we eat. I had been hoping to find Angela alone, but I guess that’s not going to happen.

  “Congratulations,” Nini says to me.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I bet it’s going to be amazing,” Sarit says.

  “Yeah. I hope so,” I say. It’s too warm in my sweater, so I take it off and throw it across the table. The sun feels soft on my arms.

  “What are you eating?” Sarit asks as I pull my lunch out of my backpack.

  “Mom made me a smoothie with raspberries and yogurt and orange juice in it, and a bowl of quinoa and spinach. She was so cute when she gave it to me. Feeding me for success, she said.”

  “Your mom’s so nice,” Nini says.

  “She’s pretty proud of me,” I say.

  “I wish Dana would pick me. Then maybe my mom would make me smoothies and salads, and I wouldn’t have to make stupid ham sandwiches,” Nini says.

  “Yeah. The only thing is…” I stop because suddenly I’m embarrassed.

  “The only thing is what?” Nini asks.

  “It’s a lot to live up to. Part of me wants to stay with Amala. I’m pretty nervous.”

  “Says the girl who wants to be a professional dancer.” Nini unwraps her sandwich and takes a big bite.

  “It’s a big step,” I say.

  “I hear Dana’s really picky. My sister’s friend danced with her last year, and she said one time Dana kept them for an extra hour until they got the timing right in one of their sequences,” Sarit says.

  “That’s the kind of thing that’s making me anxious,” I say.

  Sarit’s voice is gentle. “I thought it was exactly what you wanted.”

  “Yeah, I know. It is. I’m totally excited, but it’s also giving me a stomachache.”

  Nini leans forward so she’s chewing her sandwich right in front of my face. “Dancing with Dana is something we’d all like to do. You’re getting the chance of a lifetime, so buck up, girl. I don’t want to hear anything more about nervousness.”

  Nini and I are good friends, and being direct like this is just her way, but there’s a hint of jealousy in Nini’s voice that makes my smoothie feel thick in my throat.

  She leans back, takes another bite of her sandwich and chews it loudly. No one says anything more about dancing while we finish our lunches.

  When she’s done eating, Nini stands up and slings her backpack over her shoulder. “I need to go meet Mrs. O’Connor. She said she’d help me with my English essay,” she says.

  “I’ll come with you,” says Sarit.

  Angela and I sit at the table and watch them walk across the courtyard. “It would be a lot easier for me to go if you were coming too,” I say.

  “Amala chose you, Lila.”

  “But I wish she had chosen you too.” Instead of finishing my quinoa, I toss it into the compost.

  Angela frowns at me and says, “No grains in the compost—you know that. It brings rats.”

  It’s true. We had an announcement about it last week. With a sigh, I pick what I can of the quinoa out of the compost and put it back in my container. “I had dreams of us dancing together at the festival,” I say.

  “Well, you don’t have to go to Dana’s studio,” Angela says.

  “I know.”

  “Seriously, you don’t.”

  “You want me to stay with Amala?” I ask. The quinoa rolls around in my stomach, making it hurt even more.

  “You always said you loved Amala’s choreography and the music,” Angela says. “If you really want to dance with me, you don’t have to go to Dana’s studio. It’s your choice—that’s all I’m saying.”

  Is she serious? “You want me to give up an opportunity of a lifetime?” I ask.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Strangely, though two seconds ago I was feeling nervous about going to Dana’s studio, now that Angela has said I don’t have to go, I know I really want to.

  “I know. But yes, I do want to go do Dana’s. I do. As Nini says, it’s a great opportunity, but I wish you were coming too!”

  “I’m totally happy at Amala’s,” Angela says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Not everyone wants to dance with Dana, Lila.”

  It’s t
he first I’ve heard of this. “Don’t you want to be a professional? Don’t you think dancing with Dana is a fantastic opportunity?” I ask.

  “For sure. For you. Just not what I want, that’s all.” She takes the last bite of her apple and tosses the core into the compost, then packs up her lunch and pulls her gardening gloves out of her backpack. “I need to weed out the winter spinach. Want to help?”

  I shake my head and watch her cross the courtyard. Angela is one of the most beautiful dancers I’ve ever seen. I’m almost surprised Dana picked me over her. How can she not want to dance with Dana? It doesn’t make any sense. No sense at all.

  Five

  By the time I board the bus to Dana Sajala’s studio after school, I feel like I might throw up at any moment. I show the bus driver my pass and head for a seat at the back, where a pile of noisy basketball players are laughing and tossing around someone’s phone. My coat is too warm for this spring day, but there’s not enough room to take it off, and I end up with it bunched around my waist, making me even hotter. The basketball players keep tossing the phone between them, and I try to concentrate on its path through the air, but that does nothing to make the nervousness go away.

  When my stop comes at last, I scramble to gather my coat and bags and only manage to lurch off the bus at the last second. The studio is downtown, and there are so many people walking along the sidewalk that it takes me a few minutes to find the right door, which turns out to be hidden behind a huge sandwich board for a coffee shop next door. My breath comes fast as I step into the lobby.

  There’s no one here. Just a cupboard at the end of the room and a small table with white lilies in a glass vase. The air is still and cool. I almost expect to hear soothing music coming from hidden speakers. It seems I’ve stepped into a lawyer’s office, not the foyer of a dance studio. Before I can decide I’ve really walked into the wrong spot, Dana opens another door and sees me.

  “Lila, great to see you. Come in, come in. The girls are waiting for you.” Dana’s presence in the room changes everything. The air around her vibrates, and suddenly the room seems warm. She strides over to the cupboard and opens it; a trail of perfume follows her. I stare after her until she says, “Hang up your coat and take a second to settle, then join us in the studio.”

  I hang my coat up and take a moment to straighten my clothes. I’ve dreamed of this moment. I wipe my palms on my pants, roll my shoulders back and step into the studio like a dancer, just as Amala taught us. Dana smiles at me as I pass her, and I grow an inch or two.

  The studio is much like Amala’s, with mirrors on both sides of the room and a springy wooden floor to dance on. But at the far end, where the computer and speakers are set up, is a shelf where hip scarves are arranged by color and a rail where a row of matching ruffle skirts hangs. Below them is a series of wicker boxes labeled black, white, purple, pink, turquoise and gold. None of the piles of rumpled scarves and skirts that always lie around at Amala’s studio.

  The troupe of girls is totally different too. Everyone in this group looks like a professional dancer. I never really noticed it before, but that’s not true at Amala’s studio. Some of the girls at Amala’s studio are not very fit. But in Dana’s troupe, everyone is slim and stands with excellent posture. They look like the dancers you see on tv. Instinctively, I roll my shoulders back again.

  “This is Lila. She’ll be dancing with us over the next weeks as we get ready for the festival,” says Dana.

  The girls break formation and crowd around me.

  “We wondered who was coming,” says a tall girl with long dark hair, in a pink T-shirt and the kind of pants Angela always dances in.

  Another girl pushes through the others until she’s standing next to me. She is wearing black yoga pants and a turquoise tank top that shows off her muscular arms. “You’re going to love it here,” she says.

  There’s a murmur in the crowd, and someone else says, “We all love it here.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I say, and as I say those words I really mean them. I’ve only been here for five minutes, but everything is as I imagined it. The girls are perfect. The studio is wonderful. Professionalism oozes from every part of it, even the foyer with its white lilies.

  Dana says, “Girls, let’s do a few drills to warm up and to show Lila what it’s like around here. There are only a few weeks before the festival, so the pressure’s on.”

  The girls scurry back to their places, and I find a spot at the end of the back row.

  “Lila, we always start with our posture, as I’m sure Amala has taught you. Feet firmly planted, knees slightly bent, pelvis rolled gently forward, ribs open, shoulders back, arms in second position and chin tucked slightly in toward the chest.” The girls shuffle and settle into position, and Dana turns on the music. “Hips downbeat left, moving to the right,” she says as she leads us into the drill.

  It’s different from what I’m used to, but I like it, and it’s easy to follow the count as we start a series of quarter-time hip circles. Dana turns around and watches us. I follow her eyes as she takes in each of us, and as I do, the nervous knot inside me eases. Every girl has the movement down perfectly. No shoulders sway; no heads bob. Dana catches my eye and smiles at me, and the last of my case of nerves vanishes.

  This is going to be fantastic.

  “Lila, we’re going to run through the choreography for the festival. I’ll call out the pattern as we go. Follow along as best you can,” says Dana.

  I take a deep breath and nod. Dana starts the music, and the girls spring into action. The choreography is daring and fun. It starts with three girls grouped at stage right. They do a short sequence of hip twists and arm lifts, then step back in a triplet so their bodies mimic the bounce of the drum beat. On the next beat, the three girls to their left pick up an undulation that starts in their hips and rises to their shoulders, following the guitar-like strums of the oud. They circle each other and pass the movement over to the next batch of girls, who flutter their arms around their bodies along with the notes of the oboe. The effect is of a carnival of motion passing across the stage.

  I’m in the next group. Dana calls out her instructions for us. “Figure eight starting on the left hip, swing around to face center, right shoulder forward, then back.”

  I stumble through the moves, slightly offbeat, my face red as I notice every girl in the room watching, but Dana smiles at me, so I keep going until my little group joins the rest of the dancers in the chorus and no one pays attention to me anymore. I can do this!

  The drums pick up speed, and the oud starts a conversation with the oboe that grows louder and louder while we twirl and shimmy and kick across the stage, each clump of girls following a different instrument. By the end I am breathless.

  “Got it?” Dana asks when the song finishes.

  I’m surprised by the question, since Amala never assumes we’ll learn a choreography in one go, but Dana looks at me expectantly, so I nod my head yes and hope it’s true.

  “Good. We’ll go through it again. This time, Lila, focus on your posture. I noticed a bit of shoulder hunching last run-through.”

  I soften my knees and shake out the tension in my neck before I say, “Okay.”

  At the end of class, Dana says, “Work on that timing, girls” as we file out of the room. I try to catch her eye as I pass her, but she’s talking to another girl and doesn’t notice me.

  In the lobby, the tall girl who spoke first earlier says, “Well done, Lila. We weren’t sure if you’d be able to keep up, but you did great.”

  Everything in me swells, and I feel like I could float away.

  Six

  “How was it?” are the first words out of Angela’s mouth the next morn
ing on the bus to school.

  I sigh. “It was perfect. Dana’s so professional, and she really watches the dancers. She corrects even the smallest faults in posture and timing. It’s…it’s like we’re professionals. Dana doesn’t let us get away with anything.”

  “Well, that’s good,” she says.

  “And wait till you see the dance, and the girls—they all look like dancers, you know? It’s more than how they dress or how well they dance. It’s in the way they stand, the way they are. It’s so amazing to be there. Our performance is going to blow everyone else out of the water.”

  “Oh,” says Angela with a frown.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “Amala’s choreography is good. You guys are going to do great.”

  “Good? Two days ago you loved it,” she says.

  “Yeah, but then I saw Dana’s. Her choreography is really fantastic. It’s cheeky—you know, fun. It’s like she’s really listened to the music and heard it. The choreography catches everything, and each girl shows off a different part of the music.”

  “You sure know a lot after one class,” Angela says. The bus pulls to a stop and Sarit and Nini get on.

  “Yeah, I know. I learned more from her in one day…” I say to Angela, and I’m about to tell her that Dana taught me to start a shimmy in my thighs rather than in my knees so it’s easier to walk with it, but Nini plunks down behind us, leans over the seat and says, “So the new boy, Jonas—I talked to him after school yesterday.”

  “Really?” says Angela. She swivels around in her seat so she’s facing Nini and Sarit. “Tell me everything, Nini.” It’s like she’s cut me off. Like she didn’t want to hear any more.

  “He’s so nice. Turns out he lives down the street from me, and he actually carried my books home. Imagine. It was so old-fashioned, but in a good way,” Nini says.

  “You’re in love with him!” Sarit says, shoving Nini in the arm.