“Oh well. Still, I nailed it. Admit it.”
“You did.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” He elbows me gently. “Let’s go.”
“You’d really be willing to dance in that outfit with me?”
“Uh-huh.”
If Sam enters a dance studio like that, I suppose I could manage to walk inside. He’s the perfect distraction for me.
I take a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go.”
The receptionistat the front desk allows Sam into the observation area, but since this is an advanced class, he’s informed he won’t be allowed to participate.
He nods to the brightly light studio. “You sure you’ll be all right on your own in there?”
“Positive.” I press my bag of makeup remover wipes and some micellar water into his hands. “Take these. Iloveandappreciateall this”—I wave my hand at the costume—“but I need to be able to focus in there. If you stay like this, every time I see you through the window, I’ll die laughing. Use the micellar water for anything the wipes won’t remove. And be careful not to stain your clothing.”
“Okay, Fashion Guru, I’ll put together a makeup-disappearing actjustfor you.” He salutes me. “Do you mind if I lose the tutu too? The waistband is cutting off my circulation. My sister is tiny compared to me.”
My hands move to my hips. “I thought you adjusted itto make it fit. Didn’t you remove or adjust the panty briefs?”
His neck and ears turn deep shade of sour-cherry red. “No.”
I face-palm. “Take it off.”
“I’ll be front and center watching you when I get back.” With a hitch in his step, he disappears toward the studio’s locker rooms.
How did he manage to get the tutu on over his legs? You know what, I’m probably better off not knowing. It’s going to take some creative movements to get it off. From experience, I know the tutu is intended to fit snugly so it doesn’t slip when you’re dancing. He may very well have to cut himself out of it. No matter what, he’ll probably have to buy his sister a new tutu.
A woman in a black camisole and overskirt, pink shawl, and beige teaching shoes claps her hands together and announces, “Anyone here for the advanced class, please proceed into the main studio and find a place at the barre.”
There is a flurry of activity as twelve or so adults ranging from teenagers to middle-aged women rush inside. Everyone seems to know one another. There is a sense of camaraderie among them. It’s a very different vibe than what I grew up with and am used to. At LABT, the environment was serious. We were there to work, not chitchat.
If I end up surviving the class and returning, itwouldbe nice to have a group of acquaintances who enjoy ballet for the love of dance. Walking to the back of the room, I take up a spot at the farthest barre from the front, away from everyone, next to a mirror.
Admittedly, I feel self-conscious and a little intimidated. It’s one thing to do ballet at home and another to be in a room with strangers. My eyes travel up to the observationarea. Sam isn’t there yet. However, knowing he’s here offers me some comfort. I’m trying hard to keep my nerves at bay.
I strip off my zip-up fleece vest and drape it over the barre. I’m wearing a black cami, leggings, and a pair of canvas soft shoes. Clothing in ballet is normally form fitting so it doesn’t get in the way when a dancer moves, and allows them to see their lines and positions clearly.
I haven’t owned any leotards or ballet attire since LABT. When I didn’t have a need for them any longer, I donated to the school attached to the company. I wanted them to go to a good cause.
The instructor claps her hands, and all conversations stop. She has the room’s undivided attention. “Has everyone had a good week so far?”
“Yes!” most of the ladies shout back.
“Lovely.” She places her hand on the barre. “We’ll begin this evening with pliés in first, second, third, and fifth.” She demonstrates the combination and counts. A live pianist plays a few chords from a Rachmaninoff piece.
I mark the movements and listen carefully. The sound of feet brushing against the studio’s wooden floor fills the silence.
“Brilliant. Does everyone have it?”
“Yes,” we say.
“Maestro, take it away.”
I press my heels forward, tuck in my ribs, and imagine a long string pulling me up from the ceiling. As I bend my knees, I let the muscles in my hips spiral out and take a deep plié. I focus on my breathing and filling each note of music. As I bend, my joints crack. I make a mental note to make an effort to warm up properly if there is a next time.
