“Everyone loves my Italian soup,” Mrs. Kerns said. “It has healing powers, and it’s delicious. Back to the dance. What would you like to do?”
“We thought we should do something flashy but humorous,” I said. I tried to speak up like an adult, not a bumbling high schooler.
“Humorous?”
Her voiceagainshowed her displeasure. I was getting in a lot of trouble today. Pretty soon, I’d have detention, I was sure of it.
“Humorous?” she repeated, aghast.
“Entertaining,” Logan offered, to save me from Mrs. Kerns’ dance wrath. “Christmassy.”
“Christmassy?” She glared at Logan, which was still totally scary, and I was glad he was getting the glare, not me. She tapped her foot, thinking. “I have a plan. You will have to work hard, listen to my instructions, watch your posture and your timing, and be both mindful and natural. You must draw from your inner kinesthetic awareness. You must show me your expressive qualities through fluid movement. I want to see harmony and grace, strength and rhythm.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we both said as one.
“You both took dancing fairly seriously in school, although, Bellini, you often laughed and giggled too much. I understand that Logan was at fault for indulging in nonserious conversation and deliberately making you break your composure, and I had hoped you would both have more control in that area. Still, you did somewhat well. We have no time for giggling or other nonsense today. Let’s begin,” she said, serious as always as she moved into her first pose. “Open your heart and prepare to let the music move you. We’ll warm up first. Arms up…”
We copied her form, and for a moment, as we went through the exercises, I relaxed into the familiar, and then Mrs. Kerns’ familiar voice cut through, and the familiar fright filled me.
“Logan!” she snapped out. “Look at your form! What are you? A bulldozer? Bellini, have you not remembered anything I taught you? Are you deliberately trying to appear sluggish? Like a sloth? Are you a sloth? Are you a slug, Logan? No? Do you not hear the music? It’s like you two haven’t remembered a dang thing! Again…do it again…no…no…again!”
“Whew,” I said as I slumped in the front seat of Logan’s truck two hours later.
“Exactly.” He didn’t turn on the engine, his head against the headrest. “I can hardly move. Every muscle hurts. Even muscles I’ve never known about before.”
“It will be painful to wake up tomorrow morning. I should sleep through the day to avoid it.”
“I can tell that I’m going to be as stiff as a board tomorrow.”
As if on cue, we both groaned.
For a moment, we sat with our eyes closed. Mrs. Kerns was the same as always. Strict. Precise. Demanding. Organized. Efficient. She began teaching us our four-minute dance, which she had immediately planned as soon as Logan had called her. Apparently, Logan and I were one step away from being worms. Or slugs. Hard to determine.
We danced. We twisted and grooved. I rolled over Logan’s back. He swung me up high, then swirled me down low and around him. I slipped through his legs, he slipped under mine, he lifted me as I jumped. I took double dips, his arm under my back. We fell, we tripped over each other, we stumbled this way and that, we forgot the steps and were reprimanded to, “Concentrate! Do it again! No! That was incorrect! Bad form, Logan! What is wrong with you, Bellini? Have you lost your grace? Are you using three feet today? Logan, straight back! You look like the hunchback of Notre Dame. Do it over… Do it again… Try again… Oh for God’s sake!”
“She said she would see us again in three days,” I groaned. “Because we need ‘so much work.’”
“I might not be alive by then,” Logan said.
“Let’s go get ice cream at Livvie’s,” I said. “My treat.”
“My treat,” Logan said. “I insist. I got you into this pain. Blame me.”
27
Bellini and Maisie
To: Bellini O’Donnell
From: Maisie Brown
Subject: Roxy Belle, oh please, send in the darn book
Bellini,
I don’t mean to interrupt any family Christmas celebrations. I know that you all have a snowwoman contest and a Christmas monster cookie party, but I wanted to gently inquire about where you are in your next Roxy Belle book before I drink my way into a stupor.
Please tell me you’re well on your way to those chapters I need. It is important that your publishing house keeps right on schedule, so I am getting pressure from Portia. She yelled at me the other day. She swore, too. They need to get covers made, start marketing, etc.
