I steal a quick glance at Lou, and from the firm placement of her lips, I get the feeling I’m not the only one who is a little underwhelmed about Hip-Hop with Holly.
“Blink three times if you want to escape from this endorphin cult,” I whisper toward her, and a few unexpected laughs burst from her throat.
“Damn it, Rae. I’m trying to be a supportive wife,” she murmurs back, and Lydia gives us a look over her shoulder while she waits for Peppy to get the groovy belts or badges or whatever the hell she called them.
“I can hear you guys,” she whispers through what sounds like clenched teeth. “Knock it off.”
“Personally, I don’t know how anyone can hear anything over the groovy music that’s pumping through this place.”
Lou has to cover her mouth not to laugh.
“Rae,” Lydia says through a tight jaw, her eyes damn near bugging out of her head as she looks at me again. “I swear on everything, you better put a smile on your face and be nice.”
“Fine.” I raise the white flag via both hands in the air. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Promise.”
Lydia exhales an annoyed breath and turns back to Peppy…I mean, the very nice lady in the pink tights. Once our arm bands are handed over, we are off to see the wonderful wizard of hip-hop.
Down a hall lit with more obtrusive lighting, I follow the leader until we step inside an open room with mirror-covered walls and pretty wooden floors.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who Holly is.
A woman with an insanely white smile, a high ponytail, and dressed in black tights, a neon green sports bra, and a colorful sequined jacket with the words Hip-Hop Holly embroidered on the back is at the front, already starting to lead the class of all women into a warm-up stretch.
“Shit. We’re late,” Lydia mumbles and hurriedly rushes over to an open spot in the corner of the room.
Lou follows her without as much enthusiasm, and I try to act like I didn’t see where they went. Like, maybe, they’ll forget I’m here, and I can sneak out and ask Peppy if there are any Pop-Tarts in the lobby vending machine.
“Rae!” Lydia whisper-yells toward me, and when I don’t respond—and also pretend not to understand where the sound is coming from—she decides to raise her voice loud enough that Hip-Hop Holly looks up from her toe-touching stretch and directly at me.
Busted.
“Hi. Sorry,” I say and awkwardly shuffle over to where Lydia and Lou are located.
My sister-in-law gives me a look that says nice try, and all I can do is shrug.
Lydia is already getting her stretch on, and I do my best to follow Hip-Hop Holly’s instructions as she guides us through all sorts of exercises that are thankfully pretty easy.
Some quad stretches. A few lunges. Several squats. A nice two-minute stretch that includes me sitting down and touching my toes.
Okay, maybe this isn’t going to be so bad.
As soon as the peaceful thought enters my mind, Holly starts to get real hyped up. She jumps on the balls of her feet and claps her hands and starts shouting things like “Let’s get this party started, ladies!”
It’s that moment when she starts to lose me. And by the look on Lou’s face, I know I’m not alone in my underwhelmed, not-amped-at-all state.
Lydia, though, well, she’s following right along, jumping around and clapping her hands and shit. A whole lot of enthusiasm vibrates from her body.
When I see the rest of the class is loving what Holly is putting down, I make a concerted effort to make the best of it. To go with it. To search deep within myself and find some hippity-hoppity vibes.
But when Holly puts on a song called “Dirty Talk” and begins to show the class the dance we’re supposed to learn, things really start to take a nose dive for me.
Holly is all in to her routine, rubbing her hands over her sports-bra-covered boobs as she mouths the lyrics about not being an angel and whipped cream and dirty talk and going down and all kinds of sexual shit with pouty lips and hips that won’t quit.
She’s up and she’s down.
She’s on the floor, rolling around, and then she’s back up again, spreading her thighs like she’s riding a dick and rubbing her hands seductively down her thighs.
She hip thrusts. She twerks. She even does the fucking splits.
At one point, she gets a chair and proceeds to do some sort of interpretative lap dance on it.
“Um…” I pause and look over at Lou. “Are we in the right class?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Why do I feel like I need to pay her when this dance is over?”
Lou bites her bottom lip, fighting the urge to laugh again. Lydia glares at me. “Stop it, Rae.”