Leap by Jodi Lundgren Page A

come and teach us on her summer break.
    Sasha was half lying down, propped on an elbow. “She seems kind of fake to me.” She pulled up a piece of grass and chewed it.
    â€œYeah,” Jamie said. She was holding herself in plank position, balanced on forearms and toes, her elbows and ankles at right angles. Her biceps bulged.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Sasha said. “Kind of airy-fairy.”
    â€œI think she’s great,” Lisa said. “She’s really encouraging. We could use more of that around here.”
    â€œWhat do you think?” Sasha looked straight at me. It felt like she didn’t want to soil her tongue with my name.
    â€œIt’s too early to say for sure—”
    Jamie sneered. “Cop out!”
    â€œBut so far, so good.”
    Sasha spat out the chewed piece of grass.
    Lisa looked at her watch. “It’s almost time.” Our break lasted only forty-five minutes. “What’s happening after lunch?”
    I pulled out a crumpled paper schedule from my bag. “It just says, ‘Rehearsal.’”
    In the studio, Petra was trying out some movement and consulting a sheet of handwritten notes. Ms. Kelly carried her observation chair to the front of the room and said, “Petra has agreed to set a piece on you senior girls for the showing.” She sat down and folded her hands. Her eyebrows arched in anticipation.
    Petra seemed to emerge from a trance. She did a double-take when she saw Ms. Kelly in the observation chair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t work like this.”
    Ms. Kelly’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”
    â€œYou’re welcome to watch the piece when it’s finished, but during the creative process, I hope you’ll understand—I need to be alone with the dancers.”
    Ms. Kelly flushed. She glanced back and forth from us to Petra as if debating what to say. Finally, she stood and lifted her chair. The cushion, tied only to the back rungs, hung straight down. Ms. Kelly looked so hurt and offended that I almost felt sorry for her. Still, when she marched out, her high heels clicking, it felt like the prison warden had gone off duty.
    First, we lay on our backs and closed our eyes. Petra told us to release our weight into the floor, to feel the heaviness in our limbs. We took deep breaths and imagined sending the air into any tight spots, then we blew out the tension. She told us to isolate one part of our bodies and focus our attention on it. How did it feel—was it sore, relaxed, twitchy? Did it want to move? In what way?
    â€œLet the impulse arise from within,” Petra said. “Shut off your mind. Let the body part lead.” I had picked my right foot, so I circled my ankle, pointed and flexed my toes, and shook it. I was glad we kept our eyes closed. No one could see how dorky my moves were.
    Petra told us to imagine that we weren’t in a dance studio, but lying in bed on Sunday morning. Would we roll over, would we extend a toe outside the covers to test the temperature in the room? What would our sleepy, relaxed bodies want to express? It felt gooey and luxurious. I stretched my arms above my head. I reached the soles of my feet to the ceiling and let my legs flop down one by one. I rolled and squirmed.
    She instructed us to stand, keeping our eyes closed, and to remain still until a movement impulse surfaced within us. “You may find that your body feels programmed to move a certain way. That’s normal. You’re advanced dancers with years of training. Allow yourself to move in that habitual way—whether it’s pointing and flexing, pliés, jazz isolations, whatever. Keep repeating the movement until you recognize that it’s a pattern, it’s something you learned. Then ask yourself, what’s underneath it? What happens if you release your limbs from the grooves of habit? What do they have to