say. I don’t say how much more I like Amala’s costumes than Dana’s. How I wish I looked like a part of the rhododendron garden rather than a pale ghost.
Amala finishes fiddling with the plants, and I follow her into the studio. A bar of sunlight stretches across the floor, splitting the room in two. Dust particles float in the air. There’s a rack of skirts hanging along the far wall, with colorful piles of hip scarves underneath it. Amala has written step patterns in grease paint on the mirror. The warmth and friendliness of the room rushes at me and hits me with a whomp that takes my breath away.
Amala pulls a remote out of her waistband and turns on some music I don’t recognize. She lowers the volume but raises her arms and does a three-step with a shimmy across the room.
“Warm up with me, Lila. We can talk and warm up at the same time,” she says.
I follow her across the room, the movement coming slowly at first, until my muscles relax.
“So tell me all about it. How do you like the studio space? Have you made friends with the other girls? What do you like best about it? Isn’t Dana the most beautiful dancer?” Amala tosses all these questions at me at once as we circle the room. She’s ahead of me, but as we come around the circle, suddenly we’re both facing the mirror, and she stops. Her hands drop and she turns to me.
“Lila, honey?” she says, and that’s all it takes. I burst into tears.
“What is it?” Amala stops the music and sits down on the floor. She takes my hand and pulls me down next to her. “It’s not working out for you?” she asks.
I shake my head. I don’t want to speak while my voice is caught up in my tears, so I take a few deep breaths and then say, “I don’t know if I should stay there, Amala.”
She squeezes my hand and says, “Did you know Dana was my teacher for a while?”
“Really? You’re so different in your dance style,” I say.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn from her.”
“Did you…” I’m not sure how to ask this question, because I know Dana and Amala are friends. “Did you like being in her class?” I finally ask.
Amala doesn’t answer. Instead, she stands up and does a complicated chest circle on top of a figure eight. Her arms and fingers weave elegantly around her. “Dana taught me that. She was the one who showed me how to use my fingertips when dancing,” Amala says. “But,” she adds, sitting down again, “I hated her classes.”
She laughs, and because I’m so surprised, I laugh too, but then I say, “So you chose me to go to a place you hated?”
That hurts. Ouch, that hurts.
“That’s not it at all. Lila, I’ve watched you dance since you were a little girl, and you, more than anyone else, love to dance. It’s in everything you do, every move you make. You are a real dancer.”
My face glows to hear those words. “What about Angela?” I ask.
“Angela too. Angela moves like a bird in flight; she’s a natural. But what does Angela want out of dance?” Amala says.
“She just loves to dance,” I say, because it’s true. For Angela it’s as simple as that. She wants to dance.
“And what do you want?” Amala asks.
That’s not something I can answer quickly, so I lean back on my hands and stare at the ceiling for a second while responses swirl in my mind. Finally I say, “I thought I wanted to be a professional dancer.”
“Exactly,” says Amala.
“So you sent me to Dana because you thought she would help me with that?” I ask.
Amala nods and says, “Dana’s hard. She’s tough. But many of her girls have gone on to have good careers as dancers, and I wanted you to have a taste of that kind of life. I thought Dana’s studio was the best place for you.”
The door opens and a little girl walks into the room. She stops when she sees us, but Amala says, “Come on in, Pearl. Grab yourself a hip scarf. Are the other girls out there?”
Pearl nods and dashes across the room to
Amala finishes fiddling with the plants, and I follow her into the studio. A bar of sunlight stretches across the floor, splitting the room in two. Dust particles float in the air. There’s a rack of skirts hanging along the far wall, with colorful piles of hip scarves underneath it. Amala has written step patterns in grease paint on the mirror. The warmth and friendliness of the room rushes at me and hits me with a whomp that takes my breath away.
Amala pulls a remote out of her waistband and turns on some music I don’t recognize. She lowers the volume but raises her arms and does a three-step with a shimmy across the room.
“Warm up with me, Lila. We can talk and warm up at the same time,” she says.
I follow her across the room, the movement coming slowly at first, until my muscles relax.
“So tell me all about it. How do you like the studio space? Have you made friends with the other girls? What do you like best about it? Isn’t Dana the most beautiful dancer?” Amala tosses all these questions at me at once as we circle the room. She’s ahead of me, but as we come around the circle, suddenly we’re both facing the mirror, and she stops. Her hands drop and she turns to me.
“Lila, honey?” she says, and that’s all it takes. I burst into tears.
“What is it?” Amala stops the music and sits down on the floor. She takes my hand and pulls me down next to her. “It’s not working out for you?” she asks.
I shake my head. I don’t want to speak while my voice is caught up in my tears, so I take a few deep breaths and then say, “I don’t know if I should stay there, Amala.”
She squeezes my hand and says, “Did you know Dana was my teacher for a while?”
“Really? You’re so different in your dance style,” I say.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn from her.”
“Did you…” I’m not sure how to ask this question, because I know Dana and Amala are friends. “Did you like being in her class?” I finally ask.
Amala doesn’t answer. Instead, she stands up and does a complicated chest circle on top of a figure eight. Her arms and fingers weave elegantly around her. “Dana taught me that. She was the one who showed me how to use my fingertips when dancing,” Amala says. “But,” she adds, sitting down again, “I hated her classes.”
She laughs, and because I’m so surprised, I laugh too, but then I say, “So you chose me to go to a place you hated?”
That hurts. Ouch, that hurts.
“That’s not it at all. Lila, I’ve watched you dance since you were a little girl, and you, more than anyone else, love to dance. It’s in everything you do, every move you make. You are a real dancer.”
My face glows to hear those words. “What about Angela?” I ask.
“Angela too. Angela moves like a bird in flight; she’s a natural. But what does Angela want out of dance?” Amala says.
“She just loves to dance,” I say, because it’s true. For Angela it’s as simple as that. She wants to dance.
“And what do you want?” Amala asks.
That’s not something I can answer quickly, so I lean back on my hands and stare at the ceiling for a second while responses swirl in my mind. Finally I say, “I thought I wanted to be a professional dancer.”
“Exactly,” says Amala.
“So you sent me to Dana because you thought she would help me with that?” I ask.
Amala nods and says, “Dana’s hard. She’s tough. But many of her girls have gone on to have good careers as dancers, and I wanted you to have a taste of that kind of life. I thought Dana’s studio was the best place for you.”
The door opens and a little girl walks into the room. She stops when she sees us, but Amala says, “Come on in, Pearl. Grab yourself a hip scarf. Are the other girls out there?”
Pearl nods and dashes across the room to
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