![]() ![]() My dad gives me a hug when we reach the end. A staff member guides us to the main theater, and we walk past rows and rows of empty front seats. ![]() We walk inside and I get a name tag and badge. The venue is a small theater around our neighborhood. My dad drives me over to the venue because my mum’s got a test to see how she and my brother are doing. To be honest, I haven’t really thought much about it with all that’s been going on lately. “How was it?” he asks cheerfully as we walk back to the car. He catches my eyes and gives me a thumbs-up. ![]() I can see my dad staring through the door. “Swifty, you did awesome today!” Lyla exclaims. By the end of it, I’m sweating a gushing river, but I feel great. The class is so fun that time passes like a racing car. Next, we move on to down, then bounce and drop. We continue to do the move until I’ve got it. “First we’ll learn ‘up.’ This is where your body rocks upward, like this.” She shows me a movement. “So, there are four key kinds of movements: up, down, bounce, and drop,” she says, gesturing as she does so. Next, she talks about the kinds of moves I’ll be doing in class, while the others work on a complicated dance they’ve been learning. To start off, I have to do some stretches and simple moves, which Lyla teaches me. Unlike the ballet class, which had very similar-looking people, there’s a mixture of different sizes and ethnicities, which is really cool to see. When we make it inside, there are some other girls and a few boys warming up, chatting to each other calmly. Lyla nods, and we both walk through the doors into the dance studio. “Masie, I’ve got a class to take right now, and we have a new student we need to take care of, but I’ll help you later. She’s got mousey-brown hair loosely tied up into a bun, while her cheeks are flaming red. Just then, a middle-aged woman storms through the door in sporty wear. At the back end of the room, there is a door that looks like it would belong in a school classroom leading to rows of studios lined up behind each other. The walls are splattered with model-esque monochrome posters, dancers reaching up to the sky, mid-somersault, collaborating. His mother’s flicking through a gossip magazine, the cover of it bold with provocative sentences featured in highlighted text.Ī coffee table with competition advertisements piled in the center stands proud, like it’s won first place at the Olympics. A young boy stands up from a red leather couch on the right side of the room. There’s a small reception room, an island desk with graffiti on the sides, the table purple.Ī woman with a short ponytail and a baggy grey T-shirt notes dates on a small notepad and calls someone’s name. He holds open the door for me, and I walk inside. The words read “Macie’s Dance Studio.” There are two wide doors graffitied with bubble words and wacky illustrations. A logo’s been sprayed onto one side with vivid purple paint. Or that could just be because I’ve never done it before.Īfter following Google Maps, my dad and I have ended up outside a grey warehouse. I rewatched the news piece that inspired me, and the style of dance looks tiring-constantly moving with skilled flips and spins which look impossible. A backpack sits on my shoulders, stuffed with snacks and bottles of water. I’m dressed in a thin, white, cotton T-shirt with black leggings. We have to spend our money wisely,” my mom says. “Swifty, I appreciate you wanting to try new things, but you’ve got to be dedicated. Chapter 10Īfter suggesting it to my parents, they reluctantly agreed to send me for a tryout class. ![]() This is the second installation of a novella that we are publishing in three parts in the April, May, and June 2021 issues of Stone Soup. ![]()
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