“Exactly. The moment you doubt yourself, you’ve lost the battle. Your body knows when your mind fails you. That’s when it gives up.”
I nod gravely. At the start of this week, myfouettéswere still a work in progress. They were getting there, but slowly. And now, thanks to the Audrey Chapman school of thought, they havealmostarrived. I’ve developed much better control over my standing leg. I can keep my hips and leg more level throughout. I can and I will.
Every day my technique improves, and with it my time in Paris comes closer to an end. But I won’t let myself get sad about it. I’m doing exactly what I came here to do: refine my skills, learn to be a better dancer, and get a shot at impressing an apprentice program director. Even if I jump a little every time my phone beeps, it’s a win all around.
“You’ve made so much progress,” Audrey says as we towel off after getting out of the showers.
Just a few days ago, my jaw would have been on the floor. But something has changed between Audrey and me. A barrier has been lifted.
Which means I can be as honest with her as she is with me. “And you haven’t made any.” She looks at me funny, but I think she knows exactly where I’m going with this. “We’ve been working on my technique all week long,” I add.
“And it worked!” she says with a genuine grin.
“That was only half our deal: you help me be more like you, and I help you be more like me. Every time I tried to get you to loosen up, you sent me off on another round offouettés.”
“You can never do too manyfouettés.”
“That’s not the point,” I say, putting on my skirt.
Audrey slips her belt through the loops of her jeans. “Fine.” She pauses, her T-shirt in her hand. “We can stay if you want.”
“Oh, no,” I say, running a comb through my wet hair. “What I have in mind cannot happen between these walls.”
Ever the dutiful student, Audrey agrees to follow me. When we step outside, the evening breeze has already taken over the streets. It has rained a lot over the last few days—at least that’s what I saw from inside the studio—but tonight the sky is clear, and everyone is out again. We walk through the Marais, sneaking glances at the pretty shop windows, and turn onto Rue de Rivoli, the main street on the right side of Paris that goes all the way beyond the Louvre. But we stop way before then, at the main square in front of Hôtel de Ville, the city hall.
“A concert? That’s what you had in mind?” Audrey asks, pointing at the stage. It hasn’t started yet, but hundreds of people are already gathered around.
“Not quite.” I checked the schedule earlier: tonight’s act is a French reggae band that covers Bob Marley songs, among others. While most of the crowd is huddled up in front of the stage, a smaller group hangs a bit to the side, in plain view of Notre-Dame.
The band comes onstage, the music starts, and the crowd erupts in cheers.
“I want you to join them,” I say, pointing to the small group. I noticed this the last time Louis and I drove by here: there are outdoor concerts here all summer long, and people dancing their hearts out in the middle of the square. It’s the exact opposite of the kind of dancingwedo: these girls and guys just move their bodies however they feel like it, swaying along and making silly faces. They don’t care about how they look or who’s watching. It’s perfect.
“That’s not going to happen,” Audrey says, stepping back as if she’s scared that she might catch whatever disease they have.
“You,” I say in my most authoritative tone, “are going to dance right here, in front of all of these people, and you’re not allowed to even think about your steps.”
Her eyes open wider as she shakes her head. “No way.”
The ground vibrates with the bass of the speakers, and Audrey’s expression grows more worried as she looks around. “I’m not really a reggae kind of girl,” she says.
No kidding.
“You have to get out of your comfort zone.”
But she just folds her arms across her chest. “You need to find something else.”
“Fine,” I say with a shrug. “There are other bands playing tonight. So if not here, then you have to dance at the next one.”
Audrey takes in the extra large crowd around us and sighs. “Okay.”
“The next one,” I say, “no matter what kind of music it is.”
“I said okay!”
We keep walking along the banks of the Seine for a few minutes, until we come across another gathering. As soon as we can hear the tunes coming from a small patch by the water, Audrey grunts. I try not to smile as we make our way closer. This crowd is smaller, but they are all standing in a tight circle around a singer crooning into a microphone. A woman in a red flowing dress dances around him while a few couples show off their moves.
“Salsa it is,” I say, barely containing my laughter.
