Laydee is a female rapper from Texas. She’s a legend and one of my favorite artists to choreograph to. I haven’t seen anything about her visit on social media, but I’m sure the class was uploaded to YouTube, so I’ll have to check that out.
“I love that for y’all!”
“Yep and, umm, life is good. Life is very good.” Her left hand—previously hidden under her desk—now rests on her face, the rock on her ring finger practically blinding me.
“Trixie, shut the fuck up!” I grab her hand to inspect the ring closer. It’s stunning and huge. I clearly have missed a few major things in her life. “Congratulations! It’s beautiful.”
She gushes as she tells me about her fiancé, Jakobi. I’ve never seen her with a smile as goofy as this and I’m excited to meet the man who put it there. She deserves it.
We catch up on some of the drama at the Lab before she checks the class schedule to see if there are any open studios.
When I left for New York, Trish’s mom, Paige, gave me a permanent invitation to come back and use one of the studios whenever classes weren’t in session. I used to take her up on that offer every time I visitedhome, but since moving back permanently, my time here has been few and far between.
“Bailey’s class will be over in like fifteen minutes, so you can use that studio after if you want.”
The name gives me pause. “Bailey. Is her last name Wright?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
What are the chances that the sister of the man who put me in this foul ass mood teaches at the very studio where I’ve danced at all my life? For a big city, Baltimore feels small as hell too often. I wonder if this place is how Bailey has a connection with Laydee.
“Yeah. I know her and her brother.”
Trish’s eyes light up. “That man is fine.”
Don’t I know it?
“And so sweet.”
Alright, enough already.
She gives me permission to watch the end of Bailey’s class if I want and I do. Micah always raved about Bailey’s talent, and I always wished I had had an opportunity to witness it.
When I walk back to the studio she’s using, all the students are gathered around her while she’s giving a speech. She’s probably hyping them up before they do their final performances. There’s a two-way glass so people can look in on the classes and decide if it’s the place for them, but I want to be among the action. I want to hear Bailey’s speech and feel the music vibrate the floor beneath me as everyone gives it their all.
I slip through the door, standing at the back in the hopes of not being noticed.
“When you’re up there dancing, I don’t give a shit about perfection. If you got the moves down, that’s great. You’re hitting every beat, everyka ka ka, that’s great. But if they don’t feel something when they watch you move, nobody gives a fuck. You’ve gotta make your audience feel it, and that means you gotta feel it. Right?”
I’m still getting to know Bailey, but so far she seems like the quiet type with a very bubbly attitude. Here in her element, however, she’s fierce. Her passion for this craft is palpable in every word she says, and every student is enthralled with her. They applaud and cheer in response to her question.
“Put your own stank on it.” She claps after each word. “Don’t be afraid to let your personality show when you’re doing this. Yes, there’s complex movements, but there’s also pockets when you can just vibe. That whole third verse, he’s so calm and collected with it, but he’s talking his stuff knowing he’s shitting on a lot of rappers out there. So you can play that how you want to. You can be cool with it, you can be cocky with it, you can be extra with it. Do it your way. You feel me?”
“Yes!” the class echoes in unison.
“Right, because nobody can do you … what?” She holds her hand up to cup her ear.
“The way you can,” the class echoes back.
They adore her. I feel like I just watched a halftime speech from a coach during the Super Bowl. I’m excited to see the raw talent that’s in this room.
“Exactly. Let’s fucking go!”
Everyone is hyped as they scatter around the room. The videographer for the class gets in position and Bailey moves to the center of the room. It looks like she’ll be going solo for the first performance.
As she gets ready for the music to play, she takes a quick scan around the room. Of course, her eyes lock on me. Confusion makes its way across her features before she nods in approval. She turns to face the cameraman, and I can see the moment she switches her persona on.
The music begins and it’s Tobe Nwigwe’s “Bravo.” There’s no lead-in; as soon as the music starts, so does the choreo.
