Shimmy (10 page)
Amala heads back to the computer. “Never mind. Try this,” she says, and the sound of Dana’s music fills the room.
I raise an eyebrow at Amala, but she lifts her chin and starts the music again. This time I stand and get into starting position.
The music fills the room, and I dance through to the end of the song. When it’s done, I say, “It’s better with a full troupe because of the delayed action in some of the sections.”
“And you know it like it lives inside you,” Amala says.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” I say.
“Dana drilled that dance into you so thoroughly you’ll never forget it.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And your posture is amazing, and you’re right exactly on the beat. You’ve learned a lot from Dana.”
“I know, it’s true. But…” I hesitate, because I don’t really know how to put this into words.
Amala waits for me to speak, then says, “You weren’t enjoying yourself.”
“No.” I let out a breath. “I really wasn’t. And I miss Angela and Nini and Sarit. I like the girls
at Dana’s—especially Robin and Alex and Sam, and even Eve when she isn’t being God—but it’s not the same. There isn’t the feeling of all of us being in it together.”
Amala smiles and reaches over to hug me. “Honey, belly dance is all about being in it together. That’s why I left Dana’s class too. I learned so much from her, but I wanted that feeling of everyone being in it together.”
“That’s why I’m not sure I want to be a professional belly dancer anymore. I don’t want to be like Eve.” I don’t tell her about the schoolwork I’ve not done, or the fights I’ve had with Angela and Nini and Sarit.
The door opens and a woman sticks her head in. “Amala, sorry, can I talk to you for one sec?”
“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere,” Amala says to me.
When she’s gone, I look at all the photos on the wall. Amala takes photos at every student show and blows them up and puts them on the studio walls. There are a few new ones since I was here last, including one of Amala, mid-twirl, in a 1920s-style costume.
“That’s a lovely photo of you,” I say when she comes back in.
“That’s from few weeks ago when I was at a festival in Seattle.”
It takes my mind a second to catch up with what I’m seeing, but then it does, and I say, “Amala, you’re a professional dancer. You have a great career, dancing all over the place, and you have your studio, which everyone loves, and you have fantastic classes.”
“Why, thank you, Lila,” she says. “Yes, I’m pretty happy with where I’m at right now. And you’re right. I love the studio. It’s the best part of my life, really. The best part of being a dancer is having all these lovely girls to dance with.”
“But you’re not like Dana,” I say. “I mean, you let anyone dance with you, even if they’re not fit and perfect and they don’t take it super seriously. And you let the class be fun, even if everyone’s not always flawlessly on time or having exact posture or doing the move correctly.”
“Ouch!”
“No, I don’t mean that in a bad way. The troupe was amazing at the festival. Really fantastic.
And it wasn’t because their posture was perfect; it was because they loved it so much.”
“Indeed.” She’s smiling at me like I’m a slow student who’s finally getting the lesson.
“So you’re telling me that there are different ways to be a dancer. Different paths to take?”
“I’m not telling you anything, Lila.” She’s smiling big-time now. “I chose you to go to Dana because I thought it was a good fit for you. But that’s always a choice you have to make. No one can make it for you.”
“So if I want to, I can come back?”
“Of course! There was never any question about that.”
“It’s that I don’t want to feel like I’m giving up on myself. On my dream,” I say. “You said a lot of Dana’s students go on to have professional careers. I’m so torn, Amala, because I want that, but I also want to love dance and have fun.”
“Lila, honey, you are wise beyond your years.” Amala pushes a strand of hair off my face like my mother would do. “Please come back to dance with us, and bring all that you have learned from Dana with you. And later on, maybe you can dance with her again if you want to. You’re going
to have a great career, Lila. Especially now that you know what’s important to you.”
The low feeling I’ve been carrying around since the festival breaks open, and for the first time in days I feel like dancing.
“Do you think the other girls will have me back?”
Amala laughs. “They’ve been missing you so much, Lila. I’m sure they will.”
“Then that’s what I want to do.”
The woman Amala was talking to earlier pokes her head through the door again. “Sorry, Amala, one more thing.”
Amala looks at me. “We’re done, aren’t we?” she asks.
“Absolutely.”
“Are you going to go home and tell your mom?” Amala asks as we head to the door.
“Yeah, and then tomorrow, I’m going to wait at Angela’s house until she gets home from the airport and I’m going to tell her we’re going to dance together again. Then—well, no. First I’m going to ask her how her trip to Mexico was.”
Amala smiles and says, “Classes start again on Wednesday. See you then.”
I bust out a few quick hip circles and a shoulder roll. “Yes,” I say as I dance to the door. “See you then.”
The best thing about writing this book was all the time I spent dancing. Here’s a zaghareet for the amazing ladies at Harmony Belly Dance, especially my teacher and friend Candace Aldridge Sanchez and her family, and for Joanne Hewko, who not only didn’t blush in embarrassment when I busted out dance moves on our dog walks, but danced along with me. As always, thanks to the Wildwood Writers, my family and, last but absolutely not least, my fellow writer, editor and friend Robin Stevenson.
KARI JONES loves to dance and she loves to write, so she was thrilled to have a chance to do both as she wrote
Shimmy.
Kari has written four books for children and youth, and her work has been translated into several languages. Kari lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with her husband and son. For more information, visit
www.karijones.ca
.
