Magnolia Wednesdays by Wendy Wax

as long as Melanie had owned it. Ruth’s transition from student to friend and unpaid worker had been gradual, but Melanie could no longer imagine the studio without her. Ruth had warm brown eyes that assessed people at the speed of light. Beneath her gruff exterior beat a heart so big Melanie wasn’t sure how it fit inside her slightly barreled chest. Ruth manned the front desk three afternoons a week and seemed happy to fill in whenever Melanie needed her. She also continued to take classes more, Melanie thought, to fill her days than anything else. And possibly, Melanie suspected, to add to the studio’s financial bottom line without facing charges of charity.
    “There’s been real interest in the new Wednesday night belly-dancing class,” Ruth said. “And I still have to answer a few email queries. I’m thinking about taking it myself.” She gave an exaggerated shake of her wide hips.
    “It’s great exercise and a lot of fun. I’ve got Naranya scheduled to teach, but I’m going to be there, too. I can always fill in in a pinch.” Over the last year Melanie had added a number of dance-based exercise classes and a mommy/toddler class on weekday mornings and was constantly on the lookout for ways to increase revenue. “Let’s remind the instructors to push it in their classes, and I want to make sure it’s mentioned in any calls soliciting former students.”
    “Will do,” Ruth said. “I just gave a tour and brochure to a bride-to-be. The wedding’s not until April, but she signed up for belly dance. Cute—about thirty, redheaded. Said she was looking to add a less painful form of exercise to her workout schedule.”
    “Maybe that’s how we should be marketing the class,” Melanie said. “As an ancient Middle Eastern weight-loss technique.”
    “I like it.” Ruth laughed, then looked pointedly at the clock on the wall. “Don’t you need to get going?”
    “Yes.” Melanie glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go pick up Shelby and get her to the tutor, but I’ll be back to do the eight and nine P.M. classes. Diedre’s out sick.”
    Melanie sprinted out the door. In the parking lot, she fired up the Honda Odyssey, then aimed her trusty steed east on Upper Roswell Road toward the high school where Shelby was undoubtedly already waiting and fuming.
    At a red light she texted Trip to confirm that he’d made it home on the bus. She had barely hit “send” when the driver behind her laid on the horn. Startled, Melanie accelerated, almost running into the SUV in front of her. Cautioning herself to calm down, Melanie focused on the road as she covered the last miles to the school’s front entrance.
    “You’re late,” Shelby said in greeting. “If you’d let me drive to school like everybody else, I wouldn’t have to stand around like a total geek waiting for you to show up.”
    “Hello to you, too.” Melanie resisted responding to the taunt. Nor did she comment on the fact that Shelby’s skirt was far too short and her makeup much too heavy. Or explain that she would gladly have let Shelby drive to school if she hadn’t already demonstrated a tendency to simply drive right by the building without stopping.
    These were just a few of the countless things Melanie didn’t say to her daughter because anything she said was like a match to tinder. And because ever since J.J.’s abrupt and unexpected death two years ago, the three of them had lost their tether as if they were planets shot out of their orbits, ripped free of their gravitational pull.
    “I’m adding a belly-dancing class to the weeknight schedule,” she said, looking for a non-incendiary topic of conversation.
    Shelby half shrugged, the subject not even important enough to require the movement of both shoulders.
    The drive to the tutor wasn’t all that far; like everything in the northern suburb of east Cobb, ten to fifteen minutes would pretty much do it. But Melanie wasn’t prepared to pass those minutes in silence like