More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,10
be attending today’s class to observe you. They will be given the opportunity, if inspired, to choose a dancer to partner with. Together, you will create a piece that speaks to both of you.”
I straighten, not bothering to hide my grimace.
“If a match isn’t in the cards, that’s okay. Creativity is best not forced. If you aren’t chosen, or if you are but don’t feel comfortable collaborating, just say the word and you are welcome to proceed with your own performance piece. But we are hoping you will all reach outside your comfort zones and give collaboration a try.”
No, thanks. I’m happy to take the out that’s offered. Not to say anyone would want to work with me, but if they did, I can’t even imagine a scenario in which I’d want to collaborate. I’m far too particular about my music. My shoulders sink comfortably back to their rightful place. No reason to get all hyped up over a “suggested assignment.”
“Our piano composition director, Mr. Leonard, will be stopping in with his class sometime in the next thirty minutes, and we will see if we can make this senior showcase the best yet!”
Puh.
I stretch my arms over my head, impatient to move on to improvisation. Madame Marcel claps her hands, jarring us up to standing, and we make our way to the corner of the spacious, mirrored room. “I want to start with some across-the-floor movement. Wherever the music takes you, dear ones.”
I shake my hands at my sides, rocking my neck back and forth and closing my eyes. Despite the unwelcome collaboration news, this is my favorite part of my day. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since underperforming on the pop quiz in AP bio second period. I’m not here for the spring showcase. I’m here for the daily release. Rolling my shoulders, I imagine the tension sloughing off my back, shimmering to the ground, and slipping across the polished wood-planked floor and out the fucking door.
Behind me, I feel a rush of air and the low murmur of movement. I’m sure it’s the composer kids, but I refuse to open my eyes. Let them be the awkward ones. This is my home court, and I claim the advantage.
The room falls silent, and I can imagine them settling in cross-legged against the mirrors facing us. My hands fidget, tugging at the fitted tank and yoga pants uniform we all wear for class. Baggy attire is forbidden. Madame likes to see exactly the way our bodies are bending and make corrections when necessary.
My eyes have stopped spasming in protest to open. But the first piano chords of Madame’s playlist are starting up, and I need to be able to see so I don’t hurt anyone. I open my eyes but refuse to look at the seated observers. Madame’s preferred dance posture of raised chin and lowered shoulders is convenient. I manage to look practiced and graceful rather than nervous.
Jet’s “Look What You’ve Done” plays. It’s a trudging march of a song. The cadence swings in a low militaristic drumbeat and swirls along the constant piano. I hardly notice the vocals, already lost to the rhythm.
It’s my turn, and I let the cool detachment of the last verse push through my veins and pump into my fingertips. I drag my pointed toes along the floor, reluctant, while my limbs stretch to the four corners, spinning my body across the length of the room. As I near the end, I extend one leg in a flourish, stepping out of my turn abruptly.
By the next pass, one of my favorite bands is playing, and it’s far more difficult to ignore the lyrics. Sleeping At Last’s “Earth,” and we’re given over to our bodies.
“To the floor, dancers!” Madame calls. “Free movement.”
It’s all the instruction I need. I find my usual shaded corner in the back of the room, where the mirrors are too crowded to decipher and the sun streams in through the windows. I’m greeted by my shadow, and that’s where my eyes are drawn.
Hello, old friend.
Instantly, the world is forgotten, and all I know is the way the beams of light crisscross my outstretched limbs.
My fingers twine with stardust, filtering the point where light and darkness kiss, and I turn underneath on the balls of my feet, springing to a plié in second position, my knees bent over my toes, my thighs dipping so deeply my palms trace the floor. I swing them up wildly as the tempo picks up