I need to rush home, do homework, go out for Chinese with Goldie, a long-standing Monday night tradition, and — sigh — apologize to Ma about not listening to her explain what happened to Babby
eté, jeté, plié. And streeeetch!” Shayna calls out.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and lower my leg off the barre slowly, holding the stretch. I’m smiling for no reason, but ballet just seems to get my adrenaline pumping. I glance around the studio. Atara is holding her last pose, trying to see how long she can withstand the burn, Pori is on the floor stretching already, and Michali is holding a torn ribbon, ruefully examining her slipper. I hold back a snort; Michali’s always ripping something or falling down, but when she’s actually dancing, she’s as graceful as Shayna.
Shayna twirls once and shouts, “Cool down, girls!”
I watch the instructor spin. Okay, almost as graceful as Shayna. No one is really that graceful; it’s like, where we all have bones and joints, she just has fluidity.
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