CHAPTER EIGHT
“Okay! You ready toput it to music?” Petra asked, smiling at her class. The answers ranged from lots of nods, some claps and shimmies, a few cheers and whoops—and a couple deer-in-headlights stares.
She spun to face the mirror and put her back to her students, then nodded at Keisha, her partner. Keisha started the music, and Don Diablo came on. Then she trotted up front with Petra.
“Remember,” Keisha called out, “if you opt out of a move, that’s cool—just bounce and keep the beat!”
Keeping a big, bright smile on her face, Petra started calling the moves. “That’s right! Weight on the balls of your feet, knees soft, arms loose and mobile! Starting with a two-step! And ... five-six-seven-eight-RIGHT! And LEFT! ... and step ... and step ... and back ... and forward ... don’t forget your arms, Leslie! Good! Travel! And drag back! Alright! Turn right! And left! Good job! Feel it! Good bounce, Jess!”
Seeing that Leslie was struggling, Petra caught Keisha’s eye, and Keisha picked up the calls while Petra worked her way back to stand behind Leslie.
“Sorry, sorry,” Leslie said.
“No, no, no. You’re doing great. Don’t get flustered.”
Leslie was almost sixty years old and on the heavy side. That she was taking a hip-hop dance class at all was impressive—and she wasn’t doing badly at it. She had good rhythm and real enthusiasm. She simply had a little bit of trouble getting both arms and legs to work at the same time.
So Petra put her hands on Leslie’s elbows and helped her with that part. They went through two sequences together, then Petra let go. Leslie did much better.
From the time she was a little girl, when her parents had taken her to see a touring performance ofWest Side Story, Petra had wanted to be a dancer. Already she’d been taking and enjoying ballet—her mother had signed her up because she’d liked to dress her up in tutus and leotards—but seeing real dancers on a real stage had lit the fire under her.
In college, she learned she was an excellent dancer but not a good enough actress for Broadway. Nor, as it turned out, was she a good enough dancer for elite dance companies. She was an excellent dancer for Tulsa dance studios. That was her level. Not much of a flex.
She’d struggled through some angst right after college, watching her dream die.
However, Petra didn’t like to dwell on the negative, so she turned from that disappointment as soon as the sharpest pain eased, and she found something else she could enjoy doing with her life. She loved teaching, and especially enjoyed working with people who danced for enjoyment alone, trying to take as much as they could from the experience but not expect anything more of it than a good time and some cardio. People like Leslie.
“Good!” Petra cheered and leaned in close. “Don’t worry about happy feet today.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Leslie chuckled breathlessly.
From her place in the middle of the room, Petra called out, “Ready for happy feet? Five-six-seven-EIGHT!”
Their little class dance sort of fell apart right there. ‘Happy feet’ looked easy but was pretty tough for amateurs to master. Maybe four students got it, but most didn’t, and the results were awkward enough to get everybody laughing.
“Pull it together, people!” Keisha called, smiling, and got everybody back on the beat. “Five-six-seven-eight!”
Good soldiers all, everybody refocused and most got back into the routine in time to finish it out.
As the music ended and everybody clapped and panted, Petra worked her way to the front, offering good words to her students as she went.
“Good work, everybody! We’re really getting there. Before we cool down, let’s spend some time on balance. We’re going to start learning the shuffle in a couple weeks, and you need to be good on one leg for that one.”
She and Keisha spent about ten minutes on yoga poses for balance, walking the room to help students with their positioning. Finally, they did a five-minute cool-down stretch sequence.