“Wow,” a voice says dreamily. It’s the woman who ordered after him. She’s probably in her mid-50s and looks like she’s on her way to a professional business meeting. Maybe she’s a lawyer or a CEO. Still, she’s looking at the airman the same way I am. “No wonder you got my order wrong. He’s something else.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, and hand her a coupon for a free drink. It’ll come out of my pay, but it’s better than having her complain to my supervisor.
“No, no,” she hands it back. “Don’t worry about it, hon. Watching him in that uniform made my day.”
She leaves, and I finish my shift without incident. After work, I head next door to Club Kitten and check in at the front desk.
“No Kasey tonight?” Paige asks me. She teaches level three classes and has short blonde hair. She’s cute and curvy and always has this huge smile on her face. All of the dance instructors do. Well, all of the ones I’ve met. I wonder what it is about dancing that makes everyone feel so relaxed. Maybe it’s the freedom to express ourselves without judgment or perhaps it’s simply the community of friends and likeminded women, but it’s nice.
It’s so different from the rest of the world.
“Not tonight. She’s got a night class.” I shrug. Kasey takes way more classes than me. At our university, once you take 12 credits, anything more than that is the same price. She totally milks it and takes the max amount every semester. She plans to double major, but I’m worried about her. There’s no way this is easy on her. She’s got to be stressed to the max or failing her classes, and I don’t know which.
“Good for her,” Paige says. “I know you guys have to work hard to find time to fit dancing in your schedules, and I’m glad to see you, but I hope she’s doing okay. She hasn’t been around much this week.”
“Hopefully she’ll have some time to come dance after midterms,” I tell Paige. Then I head back to the locker room to change.
Once I’m in my booty shorts and a thin tank top, I head to the dance room. Like the pole room, this one has floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Chairs are lined against one wall for easy use during classes and there are cubbies for shoes.
I grab a yoga mat and find a spot to stand during class, then start doing some stretches while I wait for the other girls to arrive. Slowly, the room begins to fill. Tall girls, short girls, old girls, young girls: we’re all the same. We’ve come to dance class for a common reason. We all want to feel good about ourselves and we all want to get in shape.
Haley bounces into the room right as class is supposed to start and grins.
“Hey everyone! I’m teaching Seductive Stretching today! Thanks for coming out. Let’s get started.”
She hits a button on a remote and music fills the room. We follow along as she leads us through a series of guided stretches and by the time we’re done, I’m sore, sweaty, and sated.
Kasey was right when she said Club Kitten was the place to go to move on with my life. All I can think about is dancing. I’ve lost ten pounds since I started and not only do I feel better, but my clothes fit better. I move more gracefully.
I’m happier.
Little do I know all that’s about to change.
***
When Professor Scranton asks for me to stay after class, I nod glumly, dreading the confrontation. I realize I’m only a freshman in college, but last time I checked, most freshmen weren’t dealing with their mom dating their teacher.
It’s one of those things that isn’t supposed to happen, but sometimes it does. Maybe I’m just bitter because my dad left so long ago that I can’t remember anything about him. Maybe I’m just sad because it’s not fair I have to deal with my mom’s mid-life crisis in the form of argyle sweaters and khakis.
Maybe I’m just bitchy because she found someone and I have no one. The airman from the coffee shop flashes in my mind and I remember him asking for my number. Still, he hasn’t texted me yet and it’s been a few days. If he was going to call me, he would have. I don’t need to think about him anymore.
Students file slowly out of class and I drag my feet gathering my things. Slowly, I shove my notebook in my bag. Slowly, I grab my cell and shove it in my pocket. Slowly, I pick up my pencil.
When I reach the front of the classroom, Professor Scranton is leaning against the side of his desk, impatiently waiting for me.
“Well, you certainly don’t seem to be in a rush to talk to me,” he snaps.
I bite back a reply, instead pasting a plastic smile on my face.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask.
“I thought we should talk,” he says, handing me my latest paper. There’s a big, fat, ugly D scribbled on the front.
I’m shocked.
I poured my heart and soul into that paper. It definitely deserved more than a “D.” My first impulse is to throw the essay back at him and say, “try again,” but I don’t. I need to pass this class in order to take more advanced English courses next year. Since I want to major in English, it’s kind of important.
“A ‘D’?” I manage to ask.