She rolls her eyes and tips her head from side to side as we reach the landing. “Okay, fine. But when I ask you to come to pole dancing class, saying no will not be an option.”
“Deal,” I say as we walk through the door.
I know I’m in the right place as soon as I enter the large studio. It’s a mixed crowd of people—many of whom are speaking in English but with a distinctive accent that in my mind immediately pegs them as native Brazilians—and the energy they’re generating is positively electric. Max doesn’t appear to be here, however. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll happily harass him about it for weeks.
Jaslene and I stand near the door and survey the bustling scene. Not long after, a group of approximately twenty people of different ages, genders, and skin colors file out of a side door, settle onto chairs along the back wall, and warm up their instruments, including the single-string berimbau that drives a capoeira circle. I repeatedly tap Jaslene on the arm. “They have a real bateria. Tell me you’re not impressed.”
Jaslene gives me a grudging smile. “Okay, yes, that is impressive, but that doesn’t mean their drumbeats are going to magically turn me into an acrobatic phenom. I’m going to look like a pendeja out there. And Max hasn’t even shown up yet.”
Before I can respond, a man in white pants, bare feet, and a T-shirt with the studio’s logo on it motions us over to him. “Olá, meus amigos.”
“Olá, estamos aqui para a aula inicial de capoeira,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice my Portuguese language skills are intermediate at best.
His eyes brighten, and then the words flow from his mouth as though they’re riding a rapid. I’m only able to catch every third or fourth one before Jaslene puts up a hand to slow him down.
“Whoa, there,” she says. “I’m Puerto Rican, not Brazilian, and I’m having trouble keeping up.”
He draws back in surprise, plainly having assumed Jaslene was a compatriot. Hanging out with my family and me as much as she does, she gets that a lot, particularly because she’s Afro–Puerto Rican and her complexion is deep brown like mine. The man turns to me. “E você? Brasileira?”
My cheeks warm under his inspection. I’m always a tad embarrassed when I’m put in the position of explaining that I’m not fluent. “Sim, meus pais são brasileiros, mas eu não falo português fluentemente.”
“No problem, friends. I’m Raul, your instructor for today. Welcome.” He leans over and covers his mouth in a faux whisper. “I went to college and grad school here, and I’m losing my accent. But don’t tell anyone.”
Smiling at Raul’s effort to make us feel comfortable, Jaslene and I introduce ourselves and exchange handshakes with him. We explain that we’re new to the class and that it was recommended to us by someone who takes it.
“Max Hartley,” I say. “Do you know him?”
Raul furrows his brows. “Not sure. But the membership is pretty fluid. I’ll know him when I see him.” Smiling broadly, he rubs his hands together. “Well, anyway, you’re going to have a great time.” He twists his upper body and scans the area around us. “Just drop your belongings in a cubby and find a spot to stretch. Restrooms are in the back. We’ll start in five minutes.”
After we set our belongings down, Jaslene plops onto the floor, dramatic in her resistance to being drawn into my and Max’s skirmish. With a sigh, she reaches for her toes. “May I make an observation?”
I step next to her and slip into a standing calf stretch. “Of course.”
“When I said you should be petty,” she says, “I was thinking you’d be more subtle.”
I grimace and drop to the ground. “The peppers were too much?”
She snorts. “Yes, Lina, yes. It’s as though someone told you to flirt and you decided to flash your tits instead.”
I snap my brows together and pretend to be confused. “Flashing your tits isn’t flirting?”
Max’s head appears in the space between us. “Hey, there!”
Jaslene and I both yelp and shrink away from him.
He falls back on one knee and gives us a wry smile.
“What the hell, Max?” I say.
Yes, he surprised me, but I’m embarrassed more than anything else. Figures I’d be talking about flashing tits when he showed up.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just wanted to say hello.”
Okay, he doesn’t appear to have heard us. Small miracles.
“Hi,” Jaslene says, her voice traitorously cheerful.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask.
“I was in the restroom changing into this,” he says, pointing at his white sleeveless compression tee and track pants. “Can’t do capoeira moves in a business suit.”
He pushes himself to a standing position, and I’m forced to face some uncomfortable truths: Max has a chest. A sculpted chest. The kind of chest I can easily picture in bare form. Also, he’s sporting ripples in the area where the average person’s belly should be. His ab muscles are so obnoxious they show through his clothes. And Mother of God, the definition in his forearms suggests either he’s a workoutaholic or masturbates frequently. Now that I think about it, his right forearm is more developed than the left one.
Where the hell did Hartley the Hottie come from?
I’m going to get a crick in my neck if I don’t move my head soon, but my brain is having trouble processing the onslaught of information. It’s too hard to digest. For everyone’s safety, data as volatile as this should be doled out in carefully scheduled increments; to do otherwise would be irresponsible. Shame on you, Max.
At Raul’s signal, the bateria begins to play an Afro-Brazilian rhythm. The people in the class shuffle around and find their places as I will my brain to forget everything it just saw.
Max takes a spot next to me and leans close to my ear. “Unless someone requests it, flashing your tits is just as bad as sending unsolicited dick pics.”
Oh God. I hate him. And if there’s any justice in this world, this class will teach me how to kick his ass.
* * *
After leading us through a series of warm-up stretches, Raul glides to the front of the class, the bateria still playing in the background. “Capoeira’s precise origin isn’t exactly clear. There are many theories about its inception. But what we do know is that this martial arts form was heavily influenced by enslaved Africans brought to Brazil in the sixteenth century. Are you aware that Brazil didn’t abolish slavery until 1888, and that almost four million enslaved persons were brought to the country during the slave trade?”
A few classmates shake their heads, while others, plainly familiar with Brazil’s history, nod as though what he told them is old news.
“Some believe that it started in the quarters of enslaved people,” Raul says, “or in the quilombos, which were the settlements founded by those who escaped slavery. The idea being that the people battling could hide this form of training by making it look like a game or a dance. Today, we know it as a martial arts form, and as a symbol of Brazilian culture.”
Raul plants his feet shoulders’ width apart and places his hands on his waist. “This evening’s class is all about the ginga. You can’t perform capoeira without it, so we’re going to focus on this move. Then we’ll add a little fun with the meia lua de frente, which is a type of front kick.” He puts a finger in the air. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do we have anyone who’s returning? Because you all should be first-timers. The class in progress starts after this one.”