Farrah breezes through the studio so nonchalantly as she announces this that it takes a few seconds for the information to fully process in my brain, and along with it, the sheer idiocy of what I’ve just done.
This is not a “two birds, one stone” situation, like Teddy thought it would be. This is just one incredibly stupid bird, who is about to look like an idiot in front of a woman she is desperate to impress.
The thought takes root in my stupid brain and just about short-circuits half the synapses, and by the time I look back up, Farrah’s already leading a warm-up and I’m still standing like a kid who wandered into a circus ring, about to get trampled by everyone jumping and stretching around me. I catch my reflection in the mirror as I join in: my stubborn legs, my furrowed brow, the way my feet keep landing half a beat after everyone else’s and never fully stick to the floor.
The next hour and twenty-eight minutes are, perhaps, some of the most excruciating in my life. I find a spot in the back left corner, farthest away from the fairy lights and the eyes of my fellow Broadway Boot Camp “stars,” but it does nothing to mitigate the situation. I can’t spin fast enough, and the girl on my immediate right can’t help but huff in annoyance when she ends up nearly barreling into me the fifth time. There’s just an unprecedented amount of hip thrusting, and while everyone around me looks sassy and demure, I can’t ever figure out which leg to shift my weight onto.
By the time we’re doing the full choreo we’ve learned at the end, I’m basically a puddle of humiliation. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. I only hazard a glance at it because I can feel someone staring at me, and I’m prepared to scowl back at them—like, I’m bad! We get it! If you’re that bored, go watch some Netflix when you get home!—until I realize that the person staring is, in fact, Farrah.
The moment she dismisses us I want to beeline it the hell out of here like my life depends on it, but my uterus chooses that precise moment to betray me. There’s the telltale “yikes” sensation that can only be my period starting. I book it to the bathroom, grateful that Heather has a habit of tucking pads into the inner pockets of all my bags (apparently I inherited the “unpredictable Price flow,” according to Heather and my grandma), and pause for a moment to look at my sweaty, red-cheeked face in the mirror.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask her.
Not that anyone’s keeping score here, but since the beginning of this week, I’ve: one, gotten into a pissing match with Oliver in front of Steph; two, proved myself utterly incompetent at moving in a straight line, let alone dancing, in front of Farrah; and three, not even managed to have one meaningful conversation with Beth.
Even if any of these women are my mom, would I want them to know? For someone whose literal future job will depend on making good first impressions, I’ve basically sabotaged my chances with each of them at every turn. What’s the point in finding my mom at all if I’m just going to disappoint her?
I grip the sink and bite down, hard. This is not the time for a Millie Mood. There’s too much to think about, too much to do. I swipe at my eyes, take a breath, walk out of the bathroom—
And immediately run into Farrah.
“Hey—great work today, starshine.”
Her words are so earnest and genuine that I want to close my eyes and let them bounce off me, because I sure as hell don’t deserve them. Instead I look her dead in the eye and say, “I’m pretty sure I almost decapitated someone.”
To her credit, she doesn’t do that phony thing adults do when they’re scrambling to bolster your self-esteem with a bunch of lies. Instead she gives me a close-lipped, knowing smile. “Very funny,” she says. “But you know what my advice is?”
“A leg transplant?”
The smile quirks slightly. “To relax.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Enjoy yourself. Don’t take it so seriously.”
I bite my lip, the words coming at me from an unexpected angle. Or maybe not the words so much as the fact that I have Farrah’s whole and undivided attention, and I’m not sure what that means to me.
She squeezes my shoulder before she lets it go. “You’re a perfectionist. I can tell.”
“From that?” I say, gesturing back out to the studio.
“From the way I could see you beating yourself up during class.” She takes a sip from her water bottle but doesn’t break eye contact with me. “I know that look. I used to have the same one.”
I don’t mean to sass her, but I also don’t mean to blink, and my eyes go ahead and do it all the time anyway. “And then dancing fixed you?”
This doesn’t faze her. “Nah. Dancing let me know something needed to get fixed in the first place.” Before I can ask what this particular brand of millennial-pink wisdom means, she explains, “I think dancing is about honesty. You can feel stuff when you’re honest with yourself. And perfection? It’s not honest.”
“I want to make it on Broadway,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I can’t not be perfect.”
She seems almost satisfied to hear me say this, like it confirmed her diagnosis. “That’s my homework for you: let yourself get a little messy. You know the show, right?”
I’m living the show. “Uh. Yeah.”
“Listen to it on your own and just dance the way you want to dance to it. Shake it loose. Even if you’re just jumping up and down and flailing like a noodle,” she says, making a funny face and doing the wave with her arms to demonstrate. “You gotta figure out how your body works before you make it do stuff.”
I crack a smile despite myself.
“Let me see you do it.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. She raises one right back, so uncannily in rhythm with mine that it’s like a delayed mirror.
I sigh but do a halfhearted wave with my own arms.
“Good. For now.” Then, despite being someone who seems so chill and go-with-the-flow-y, she fixes me with a look. “I’ll see you next class.”
My throat tightens. I hadn’t even fully let myself think the thought yet, but we both know I was thinking of bailing. Newbies can get a refund for the whole thing after their first class, so money wouldn’t be an issue.
But there’s this tug in me, something deeper than the usual one: it’s not just that I need this class to survive out there as my post–“Little Jo” self. It’s that even without knowing all that much about her, I don’t want to let Farrah down. And maybe that new tug is just rooted enough in me that I have to listen to it, have to consider that it means more than just dancing jitters—that maybe this was meant to make our universes collide all along.
“See you then.”
I dart down the stairs, my heart still pounding like it has embarrassment aftershocks all the way to the subway platform. The entire ride feels like I’m marinating in self-hatred. My only solace is catching my reflection in the window of the L train and knowing that my sweaty curls at least had the decency to frame themselves cutely around my face. It’s enough to buoy me so when I finally reach the West Village, I feel some of my mojo returning.
That is, until I turn the corner to my building and barrel right into none other than Oliver.