Shimmy (9 page)
I take a step toward her and say, “But you love dancing. You’ve always loved dancing.”
“But not performing. I’ve never liked performing. You know that, Lila.”
“So you’re not giving up dance?”
“Of course not.” Angela finally unfolds her arms and sits down on the bottom step.
I sit next to her and say, “So you’re going to keep dancing with Amala, and you’re not going to perform, and you really don’t care about being a professional dancer?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I could decide what I want,” I say.
“You already know. You want to be a dancer. Professional. And you’re good enough too,” Angela says.
“I wish it were that simple. The problem is, I don’t like Dana’s classes. Actually, it’s not that I don’t like them, it’s that keeping up with her class is making me give up everything else. I haven’t done any homework for weeks. I practice all the time, and I still screw up.”
“Maybe that’s what it takes to become a professional dancer,” Angela says.
“That’s the problem. Is it worth it? I might have to redo English and maybe math. And I miss you and Sarit and Nini. It’s not that fun at Dana’s.”
Angela nods and leans back against the second step. “I miss you too. It’s not the same without you there.”
“I could come back…”
“You mean leave Dana’s studio? Isn’t it what you always wanted?”
“It’s everything but fun.”
“You gotta have fun, Lila, or else why bother?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”
I take a strand of Angela’s long hair and wrap it around my wrist. We sit like that until her mom calls Angela to help her in the kitchen, and I get up to leave.
“You won’t see me dancing if you’re in Mexico,” I say.
“I know. I’m sad about that. But I’ll be swimming in the warm ocean and hanging out with Jonas and his family, so I’m not too sad.”
“Have a fantastic time, Angela. I mean it.”
“Thanks.” Angela smiles from head to toe and gives me a huge hug.
“T
hank goodness you’re here,” Eve says when I enter the change room on the morning of the festival.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much bright fabric and sparkly jewelry in one place before,” I say. Every inch of the floor is covered in piles of scarves and skirts and bloomers. Girls and women have their faces plastered to the mirrors as they put on makeup and fake eyelashes and pin flowers in their hair.
Eve motions me to a corner where Alex and Robin are both half undressed. Robin waves her bra at me and says, “Help me strap myself into this thing.”
“Everyone in costume in five minutes. We’re doing a run-through onstage in ten,” Eve says.
I’ve got my bra on under my hoodie, so all I have to do is pull on my skirt and make sure my hair’s in place.
Robin stands in front of me, and I tie the strap of her bra tightly, then twirl around and say, “Check mine.”
“It’s good,” she says.
We both turn to face the mirror. It’s a shock to see myself. We’ve all covered our white bras with lace trim and sparkly sequins and have made matching belts to wrap around the long white skirts. Robin and I both have flowers in our hair and dangling earrings that sparkle in the lights.
“We look good,” Robin says with surprise in her voice.
“Yeah, we do.”
“Ready?” Eve says behind us. “The stage is this way.”
“Where’s Dana?” I ask.
“She’s talking to the sound people. Now come on—we don’t want to be late for the run-through.” Eve shoves her way through a bunch of younger girls in silk bloomers and heads toward a door at the far end of the room.
As we follow Eve, I ask Robin and Alex, “Who died and made her God?”
“Notice she’s not in costume yet,” Alex says.
It’s true—Eve still has a tank top on over her skirt. When we reach backstage, Eve puts her finger to her lips to indicate that we should be quiet, as if we didn’t already know. Amala’s troupe is onstage, running through their choreography. They’re partway through already, but I step up to the curtain and watch anyway.
“They look perfect,” I whisper to Robin.
“Yeah, they do.”
When their music is over, they rush offstage with huge grins on their faces.
“Hi, Lila,” Nini calls as she runs past.
“You were amazing,” I say.
“It’s going to be so much fun, but you can’t see a thing with the lights on,” she says.
“Lila, we’re on.” Eve pulls me by the arm, and I stumble after her onto the stage.
I’ve danced in student performances before, but never on a stage like this, with proper stage lights and cues on the floor. Nini’s right. I can’t see a thing except the stage itself. No way to know who is watching.
Dana’s voice comes from somewhere in the audience seats. “Ready, girls? This is our final run-through before the performance. Pretend the audience is already here. Smile! Have fun!”
The music starts, but Eve calls out, “Wait. We’re too far to stage right. Everyone shift three feet to the left.”
We all shuffle over, and Dana’s voice says, “Thank you, Eve. No stopping now. We’re going to run through from beginning to end.”
The music starts again. The first group of girls moves, and I count with the music. When my turn comes, I catch the timing perfectly, and the three of us swing into action. The music swells, and we head into the pinwheel. From here I can see everyone, and we’re all smiling. Everything goes smoothly until the song is over, and we end.
“Come forward and bow,” Dana’s voice says, and we all rush to the front of the stage. “Well done, girls. We’re on in half an hour, so go and finish your makeup and take a few deep breaths.”
“That was great,” Sam says as we head back to the change room, but Eve says, “We need to run through that shimmy sequence again,” and she marches to the corner of the change room where
we’ve left our street clothes. “Finish your makeup and come to the center of the room. We’ll practice there.”
“Chill, Eve,” says Sam.
“Don’t tell me to chill. We are going to drill for the next half hour until we walk onto that stage. We are going to be perfect.” Eve’s voice has an edge of frustration in it, like she’s about to explode any moment.
Sam points to Eve’s tank top and says, “You’re not in costume.”
Eve yanks off her tank top, revealing her bra underneath. “Now I am.”
“Well, I want to work on my makeup, then sit quietly with my eyes closed for a few minutes before we have to go backstage,” Sam says.
A voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Starting in three minutes, ladies. First two numbers backstage in one minute, please.”
“You will not ruin this for me, Sam,” Eve says.
Her eyes shoot sparks at Sam, but Sam shrugs and says, “I’m not ruining this for anyone, Eve.”
Eve’s face is red and she’s having a hard time breathing, and the only thing I can think is that I want to get away from her.
“Let’s go backstage and watch,” Robin says.
“Good idea,” I say, and the two of us creep past a few dancers and around to the backstage area. The first dance is ending as we arrive, and Amala’s troupe is waiting to head on.
“Break a leg,” I whisper to Sarit and Nini. Sarit hugs me. At least someone’s having fun.
Amala’s troupe heads onto the stage, and silence falls. I hold my breath until the music starts and the girls begin to move.
Wow, yes!
Their arms flow around them as they catch the beat of the drums, and in unison they slip into their traveling step with the violin and cello. When they twirl around to the back with the drum roll, I can see their faces shining with happiness. They turn forward again, moving to the rhythm of the accordion, and start the classic belly-dance sequence. The mirrored hip scarves dazzle in the lights, and the audience goes crazy, calling out and clapping. The energy onstage rises, and the girls dance like they’re on wings, flying across the stage and smiling at each other. As the music ends, Nini whoops, and the whole troupe laughs. The clapping from the audience is thunderous, and energy and happiness radiate from the stage.
The girls grin and high-five each other as they run offstage.
“Good luck,” Sarit whispers to me as she rushes past.
There’s another troupe moving onto the stage, which Robin and I stay to watch, and slowly the girls from Dana’s studio join us backstage. My nerves are tingling now, and when Eve steps up behind me and whispers, “Remember to count,” I almost jump out of my skin.
Finally, it’s our turn. We march silently onto the empty stage and form our groupings. The lights go on, and all I can see are Alex and Sam standing on either side of me. The music starts, and I count the beats of the drum. The lights are stronger than they were in the practice run, making it hard to see the girls on the other side of the stage, but it looks like they’re moving flawlessly. When our turn comes, we catch the beat perfectly. I let out my breath and count in my head as we move through the figure eight and the shoulder motions.
“Smile,” Eve whispers to Alex as she passes her, and Alex pastes a smile on her face. But then we all step into the pinwheel expertly,
and I can feel the tension lessen as we move together around the stage. The oboe and oud start their conversation, and we follow the beat and the rhythm perfectly. Next comes a short section where we break into our groups again, and the movement flows across the stage in sync with the music. My hip drops radiate energy, and my undulations slide across my body. When the music changes again, we cluster in the center of the stage, and as one being we pour energy from the tips of our fingers high over our heads down through our chests, across our stomachs and hips, and into our knees. I can hear the audience roaring, but it’s like the sound is coming from another room, because I’m focusing so hard on keeping my count. When the shimmy starts, and the finger cymbals crescendo, I know the song’s coming to an end, and my tension falls away. We spin through to the end. I let out a huge breath. It’s over.
Eve’s hand grips mine as we bow, and as soon as we’re behind the curtain, she pulls me into a hug. “You were perfect,” she says.
“You were, Lila,” says Alex.
“You too. We all were,” I say.
It’s true. We were all great. But as we thread our way back to the change room, I can’t help sneaking glances at the girls from Amala’s studio, who are sitting in a circle, laughing and sharing a bowl of taco chips. They were amazing too. Really amazing.
And they had way more fun than we did.
T
he festival is over, and there’s no dance class this week so we can all catch up on our sleep and enjoy our spring break. That’s what I do. Or, at least, that’s what I try to do. Angela’s not back for five more days, so I can’t ask her for help with English, which I need to catch up on, and I don’t have the energy to ask anyone else. Basically, I spend the days after the festival moping around until Mom finally says, “Lila, honey, please tell me what’s going on. You’ve been moping for ages.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, but she sits down at the kitchen table and pushes out a chair for me. “It’s something, honey. Come on. Tell me.”
“I don’t know if I want to keep dancing, Mom,” I say as I sit down. It feels strange to say it out loud, but it’s also a relief.
“You don’t want to keep dancing, or you don’t want to keep dancing with Dana?”
“I don’t know what I want.”
Mom gets up, pulls a tray of Rice Krispies squares out of the fridge and cuts into them. She offers me one and says, “Honey, you’ve worked so hard on dance this term. You were absolutely amazing at the festival. You’ve loved to dance ever since you were about three weeks old. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but you know what I mean. Don’t let one tough teacher throw you off.”
I take a bite of my square and let the marshmallow melt in my mouth. “What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should go and talk to Amala. She’s the one who knows your dancing best, and she’s the one who gave you the opportunity to go and dance with Dana. It was always your dream, Lila. Go talk to Amala.”
“Yeah. I know. I will.”
* * *
Amala’s studio is open, and when I peek into the room, I can see she’s got a class full of women.
It must be one of her beginner classes, because she’s showing them how to listen to the music by playing the beat on her drum and having them clap along. I remember doing that years ago. Belly-dance music can be really complex in its beats and rhythms and melodies, and it takes ages to learn how to listen to it properly. My hips automatically follow along as I watch, and I admire Amala’s patience when some of the women miss the count and get offbeat with their clapping. Amala smiles and starts again. The class will probably last for another half hour or so. That’s time enough to go over in my head what I want to say to Amala.
When the women finally come out, laughing and chatting, I stand up and wait for Amala to come to the door.
“Lila!” she says. For a second I feel bad for stopping by while she’s teaching, but then she grins and says, “What a nice surprise.”
“I don’t want to dance with Dana anymore,” I blurt out before she even has a chance to move out of the doorway.
Amala doesn’t answer. Instead, she heads back into the studio and over toward the computer.
On her way, she bends and picks up a pile of scarves, which she plops into a basket at the front of the room. When she reaches the computer, she fiddles with the music for a second, then turns to me and says, “Get into position.”
“Now?”
She nods and turns to start the music. I scramble from the doorway to the center of the room and strike the starting pose. Good thing I’m wearing clothes I can dance in.
The music starts. I hold the pose for eight beats, then turn slowly, snaking my arms around my body, and then, as the music gathers speed, I start the traveling step with a series of hip drops and chest lifts. With a roll of drums, I twirl. Oh, how I love this music. Next comes a series of classic belly-dance moves using hip drops and kicks, and then…suddenly I can’t remember. I stumble over a few bars of music, then catch up when the music pauses for one count. It starts up again and I start with it, only to lose it again a few seconds later, and I realize that when I last danced this with Angela, in her room, I must have been following her lead, because I can’t pull the choreography into my brain at all. When the music stops, I sink to the floor.
