Hooked (Hooked #1)(2)

The dance class went easily. We made our way through several old classical records—each passed down from my old dance instructor. (She had died the previous year, before noting that I had ultimately failed; her prized ballerina who had made it into Butler University’s ballet program.) The girls’ eyes had slight brightness to them after an approximate half hour on the floor. Their ankles were warm; their skin was peach. They were like flowers, there in the Wicker Park sunlight. And my heart leaped with incredible joy for them, despite the dismal life I led.

The class lasted two hours. At this time, nine in the morning, I waited a long forty-five minutes in the studio by myself. I filled up my coffee again and again, before the younger children who came only on Saturday morning arrived, their ponytails wagging behind them like dog tails. Younger children, five through seven, had no real control over their bodies. They did their best to follow my lead, but the results were humorous; several young girls, each with their hands stuck straight up in the air, bending at the knees—their knees pointed this way, then that. With only an hour with them—from ten to eleven in the morning—there wasn’t a lot I could do besides smile and laugh, and send them on their way. Generally, they just sang Frozen songs the entire time they were in the studio. I had allowed them to dance to that song— I don’t dare say the title—in their previous spring concert. I had never seen five-year-olds so committed to rehearsal; I’d never seen such great utilization of small girls’ lungs. (I, too, belted the song out a few times, for good measure, longing to be six once more, first discovering the joy of spinning in circles before a crowd.)

Because it was Saturday, I had classes all through the afternoon to the early evening. My last class, from six to seven, featured older women—all of them between fifty and seventy years old. Their postures were bleak; their arms were saggy, showing bits of hidden fat as they lifted them. I ached looking at them, thinking that I would be them ever-so-soon. They were the chattiest of the crowd. If I went over a single minute, someone piped up—noting that I was, of course, the same age as her own daughter and that I didn’t have a whole lot of power. Not really. I knew nothing, and I knew that all too well. So I did my moves before them, and they followed along—if they wanted to.

They were all in the dance class for mental health as well as physical health. They were looking to better their minds and bodies. Generally, however, when I watched them exit the dance studio and walk down the street—as Wicker Park began its slow descent into nighttime—I felt a sense of sadness; that life was, perhaps, far too hard to allow me to help these older, unhappy women. Only two of them wore wedding rings, while the others sent harsh words through the air about the men who had wronged them.

My future; was it before me? I supposed I would have to have a man by my side—or truly rooted in my past—to complain about him so readily.

I started to clean up the dance studio after they left, sweeping with a wide broom. I played music over the loud speaker, dismissing the radio DJ and going right for the hard stuff; Tchaikovsky. His melodies fueled me across the floor, nearly dancing with my broom. I watched myself in the mirror as I spun and pointed my long toes. My arms stretched and twirled above my head. I felt so free, so languid. I laughed to myself, nearly, thinking about how poised and certain I had been when dancing in previous years. Now; here with a broom.

I needed to begin composing my own stuff again, I knew, if I was ever going to compete in the dance world again. I hadn’t danced on my own, on a stage, since I had graduated from college over two years before. I remembered that day; the way the hot lights had descended over my body, the way the crowd had leaped forward, their hands coming together. I remembered nearly nothing about the performance itself. It was usually better that way. I entered the stage as someone else, and I exited the stage as myself. What happened while I was on that stage was really none of my concern. I had no control.


I heard loud honks outside the window and turned, shocked to note that it was nearly eight-thirty. My stomach started grumbling beneath my leotard. I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. I started cleaning the final elements of the studio before tossing the broom in the corner, where it would live until next time. I grabbed my fall jacket, so anxious to feel the bright air around my face, to hear the people, the cars.

Sure enough, Chicago was alive outside the door. I locked the studio and began walking quickly down Le Moyne. It had been so long since I had eaten, I was a bit shaky. Everyone on the street was so vibrant, speaking so quickly. I watched as a young girl ate a lollipop as she walked alongside her father, his hand firmly grasping hers. I noted an older, married couple, each of them wrapped in the same scarf even on the rather sticky September night. My heart warmed with the thought of them, heading back to their apartment; their unique love for Chicago deep in their hearts.

I had already fallen for Chicago, truly, after my Indiana upbringing. It felt like a different world.



CHAPTER TWO

I found my way to a small coffee shop on the corner. The door, wooden, jangled a bell as I opened it. A few people studying in the corner turned toward me, perturbed but also interested. The coffee shop was warm, the environment enticing. My nostrils awoke at the smell of coffee and pressed sandwiches. I tapped toward the cashier, feeling a bit of sweat streak down my nose from the previous, mad dance in the studio. I always felt so self-conscious when I looked like this; long, shaggy yoga pants that caught my butt up, tight—attractive, I thought. (But still, not appropriate for public wear.) I was wearing a V-neck dance shirt, as well, that sported very small, slight sweat stains. I sighed to myself, feeling like a wreck. I would never meet a man looking like this.