– the reason for his absence the night of the showcase – was fabricated. A big fat lie, all so Lucy could dance with her man on that stage.
As a woman, I find the sentiment grossly endearing and romantic.
As a dancer, I’d have cut some folks for stealing my partner away during such a stressful time.
But regardless, the Ellie Solomon Dance Academy now essentially provides free tutelage to dance students all across the globe. Five days a week, I spend time with Jamie’s sister. I perfect my steps, learn something new, push myself harder and harder, because no matter how hard I push, should a famous troupe ever approach me – as in, in my wildest fantasies – I still won’t be good enough. But I’ll be as good as I can possibly be under the circumstances.
I search for Soph’s channel today, smile at the little banner that says class is being recorded live, and, pressing a hand to my heart, I feel the power swirl in my chest at the knowledge that, in a small town far, far away from here, there she is, right at this very moment, standing in her leotard, and preparing to teach me something new and wonderful.
“Hey, dancers.”
Soph’s voice carries through my living room like music on the breeze, so I toss my remote aside, and stand from the couch with a heavy stomach. Bologna is disgustingly delicious, but there’s a reason dancers don’t consume it as a typical part of their diet.
“We’re gonna work on a cute little number today,” she crosses the shiny floors of her studio as she speaks. “Instead of fundamentals, I want to choreograph something kind of special with you. First, we’ll warm up.” She flicks her wrist and playfully grins. “Go for a run outside. Even if it’s raining. Out your front door. To the right. Say hi to the cute boys you pass, but tell him no, he cannot put a hand under your skirt. Not yet anyway.”
Despite being all alone in my living room, I snicker and glance toward my door.
It’s pouring outside. No way am I going out there.
“No?” she asks her students. “No run? I had no clue I was working with a bunch of lazies,” she jokes. “Alright. We’ll warm up together, then, huh? Let’s roll our neck.”
And so she begins.
“One, two, three, four.”
She works her audience through shoulders, spine, back, arms, hamstrings, achilles.
“If you have any injuries,” she continues, “a sore shoulder, perhaps?” She lifts a brow and, I swear, looks directly into my eyes. “It happens to many of us,” she says dismissively, “so I want you to bring your arm up like this.” She shows the world how to stretch her arm in a way that terrifies me.
My shoulder burns so that I can’t even eat a sandwich using that hand. I can’t stretch. I can’t hug my brother properly without the pain slicing through the muscle. But Sophia insists.
“Do it. Bring it up slowly, only go as far as your body allows. But get that arm up there. Mobility will help. Leaving an injury unused could possibly lead to it seizing up. Right, Lucy?” She smiles past the camera, only to step a few paces to her left to make room for Jamie’s sister to take her place onscreen. “My shoulder’s been a bit twinge-y lately, so I’m saying that if anyone out there on the internet is feeling something similar, moving it is probably a good idea. You’re our nurse,” she says to the woman beside her. “What do you say?”
Lucy lazily drops a gym bag by the wall and turns to the camera. “I say if anyone out there has an injury, it’s probably best not to listen to Sophia Solomon’s shitty medical advice. Go see your doctor and get specialized care.”
“Lucy!” Sophia mock chastises. “Language. There could be impressionable young children watching right now.”
“All of the children are in school. Anyone watching right now is probably an adult.” She looks into the camera. “If you’re an adult looking to make dance something more than what you do in your spare time, and you have an injury…” She shakes her head. “Soph is scary smart in most aspects of life. But she’s also the one who put a Band-Aid over a gunshot wound, so…”
“Lucy!” Soph throws her head back and laughs. “Discretion, please. Damn, girl, are you trying to get me in trouble? You’re over here talking about scary smart and gunshot wounds. And you don’t stop