“Hey, Sam, what up?” I reach out my fist to bump hers.
She shakes her head the tiniest bit and puts her fist out to touch mine. Her eyes are wide and scared like a frightened baby owl.
“Sam, this is Becker. Becker—Sam. You ready to laugh your ass off at our humble attempts at classical dance?” I ask her.
She’s distracted, staring at the gaggle of girls like she’s searching for a nugget of gold.
“What? No. You guys will be fine. Just don’t talk in class and do everything full-out. If you don’t have a combination, give up your spot until you do. Vauganova is a playbook by the rules,” Sam tells us.
“Cool. Thanks for the tip, Sam. Is that short for Samantha?” Becker asks her.
“My name’s Natayla,” she says matter-of-factly. “People usually call me Taye or Tayla.” Sam’s head whips to the piano as the pianist sits down and starts warming up. “Go to the middle of that barre,” she points.
Becker and I waste no time jumping in and following her directions.
“Sam?” Becker whispers to me. We jog across the large studio, bouncing slightly on the sprung Marley floor.
“Shit, I don’t know. She gave me her sandwich.”
“Bro, don’t eat that girl’s sandwich. She looks like a blade of grass,” Becker scolds.
“Dude, shut the fuck up. After class,” I say as a severe-looking Russian ballerina enters the room with a cane and scans the entire class like an old bald eagle looking for small rodents.
“Plié!” she shouts. She taps her cane on the Marley and the piano music starts.
She didn’t even give us a fucking combination, and my heart starts to pound in my chest. I can’t lose this scholarship. I can’t get kicked out of another school before I’ve even begun. My eyes fly to Sam, frantically looking for some sanity, some guidance. She’s looking right at me. She taps right under her eye with her pointer finger and then subtly points to the person in front of her at the barre. She stares at their feet.
Mimic. She’s telling me to watch and mimic. Fair enough. After all, that is how I learned to dance.
Once class is finished, I’m a ball of nerves and sweat. My limbs are shaky, and I know my muscles will be sore tomorrow. The craziest part is, I didn’t hate the class, and I don’t think I was all that terrible. I mean, I may not be the most graceful or exactly sure of where to put my feet, but I can jump high, I can turn, and I think my speed and agility came through even though I might not have known the steps.
Becker walks by and tosses me a small towel for sweat which I take appreciatively. I rub down my arms and then loop it over my head so it sits around my neck.
He fist-bumps me and nods. “Your friend Sam is good. Really fucking good.” He leans forward, hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Everyone was good, except us,” he laughs.
“We’ll get there,” I tell him.
Everyone begins to file out like they’ve got to be somewhere in a hurry. I want to say thanks to Sam so she knows how much I appreciate her help. People do this little bow to the teacher and even to the pianist before they leave the studio. I’ve got to get some of this down before I do something wrong that could get me kicked out. I spot Sam at the back of the crowd, dance bag flung over her shoulder.
“Hey, Sam!” I try to flag her down. I haven’t been friends with too many girls, but she seems cool and has already helped me out more than anyone else. “Hey, Sam!”
“Natayla, stay,” Vauganova instructs. Her voice is clipped like garden shears. “I want to go over the repertoire for the gala with you,” she tells Sam. More like commands her.
Tayla casts her eyes down and skitters over to the teacher. She doesn’t even look my way so I can thank her. Maybe I’m high off of endorphins, but I feel weird and strangely defensive of my new friend. It took about ten seconds to figure out the other girls don’t like her because of her talent. Tayla stands out. Don’t get me wrong, all these kids are uber-talented, but Tayla has that certain something you can’t get from a class. Maybe it’s in her blood. Maybe she was just born to dance.
Chapter Two
Natayla
I’ve told Mother like a thousand times that I can take the bus. Independence is something I want, so it’s what she refuses to give me. Sometimes, she makes me carpool with one of the other kid’s drivers. Those days are the worst. Sometimes, she sends me her driver if she isn’t too busy out shopping—or “squandering,” as my dad calls it—all our money on private stylists and spa days. I don’t care much about money, clothes, cars, or electronics. My favorite things are music and dance. I like a good book, and I love a great sandwich.