When I joined in with her, I managed to mess up the second move and counted wrong on the third one. She snorted when she saw my mistake, standing in front of me and counting my footwork. “No, no. And what are you doing with your arms? You look like they’re tied to your sides.”
I stopped moving and glared. “I’m not used to this. Judith normally—”
“I’m not Judith,” she pointed out. “Come on, it’s not that hard. You need to get into the music. Wait for the next chorus and then start again. Bounce each step and use your hands to clap with every count if you need to. Then, with the second one, stay on your toes instead of flattening your foot. It’ll help you move faster so you don’t go offbeat.” She showed me what she was talking about by giving me a sideview of her sneakered feet.
The second time was better, the three moves melding together even if I was slower than the song. It was when she introduced three more moves that was supposed to build off the first set that had me frustrated over the stiffness in my body. The way she stopped me gave me flashbacks to some of my first dance classes with Judith. That woman was tough—nightmare worthy, even. I remembered some days when I begged my mother not to go because I didn’t want to be yelled at. It was my mother who told me I would be fine because I was a natural.
“Ms. Judith can’t scare you if you don’t let her, sweet Della. You’re made for this.”
It was thirty minutes in when I called a water break and watched as Tiffany moved across the floor to a different song. Unlike me, she faced the mirrors and watched herself, her hips bouncing along, her booty kicking out, and her legs gliding across the hardwood with the squeak of her shoes. She had serious moves and a flawless rhythm down to the music.
I wiped off my mouth. “How long have you been doing this?”
Tiffany turned to face me, wiping off her forehead before shrugging. “A long time. I’ve always been interested in more contemporary dance but was always trained in classical and ballet. My obsession really started after we did Swan Lake. I saw a video online of a hip-hop version. Like a mashup, you know? I thought it looked cool, so I taught myself the steps. I never stopped after that.”
“If you prefer contemporary, why not make the switch? Is it because of your parents?”
Her shoulder lifted. “Partly. It isn’t like I hate ballet, I just feel more in tune with contemporary. It’s like my body feeds from the energy that the moves make. Plus, it’s easier not to pick fights with my mother about these things. Choose your battles and all that.”
My lips twitched. “Does she know you dance to this? She’d probably be impressed if she saw the way you moved.”
The noise that rose from the back of her throat told me I was wrong. “We don’t all have the same kind of mother you did, Della. Mine is all about the competition just like most of the other dance moms. The more publicity, the better.”
I cringed. “Publicity isn’t everything.” My mind went back to the article that was missing in action. It made me itch, anticipating the worst like it was coming at any second. I should have taken Lydia’s calls and asked what she knew, but if she really wanted to tell me she would have left a message instead of sending Theo after me like I suspected.
Something smacked my face. I frowned at the hair tie that had bounced off me and onto the floor before looking back up at Tiffany. “You suck at paying attention today. What’s up? Is it the mirrors, because I’m trying to teach you stuff that doesn’t require a lot of turning. I mean, we’re going to learn some songs that we’ll practice in front of them but not today. Baby steps.”
I shook my head. “I appreciate that, but it doesn’t have to do with dance. Although, you’re kicking my ass. I knew it wouldn’t be easy getting back into this, but learning how to work my body to all new music is…”
Tiffany cracked a grin. “Finally, something I’m better at than you,” she teased. “So, if it’s not dance, then what?”
“I really don’t—”
“You’ve avoided both Ren and me for days. I was shocked you even texted me last night confirming today. I was sure I’d have to come to your place and drag you out by your hair. Did you even go to class this week?”
I rolled my eyes and set my water back down against the wall beside hers. “It’s family stuff. Things at brunch last weekend didn’t go like I’d hoped. And, yes, I went to class.” Well, I’d gone to Ribbons. I couldn’t have her hating me more by skipping, no matter how much I had wanted to. The way she’d watched me throughout class had been unnerving, like she knew something. I’d made a run for the door as soon as time was up, and I was sure that made her day.
Tiffany’s brows arched in silent inquiry. I weighed my options, going back and forth on whether to tell her what was happening. I needed to talk to somebody about it because my next appointment with Ripely wasn’t for another week. I’d probably explode by then.
So, I told her what Lydia said about the reporter. How Sophie blew up. What I was worried about. Tiffany never interrupted once or even looked like she pitied me. Though her eyes softened a little when I admitted that I didn’t want my name included in another smear campaign. I’d felt bad saying that out loud because it made me feel as selfish as Sophie, but it was true. I’d barely slept all week. My appetite was gone, and I had to force myself to eat what little I had. Stress was reverting me back to old habits and I felt myself slipping.
“Damn,” she breathed. “That’s rough, Della. But if the article didn’t come out, maybe the reporter decided not to add more fuel to the fire? It’s happened before.”
It happened before because people were paid off. While I wouldn’t be surprised if Sophie had opened her checkbook to continue the silence, I wasn’t sure if that was why.
“Do you think other people have the list too or was it some exclusive with The Times?” she wondered aloud.
I shrugged. “Anything is possible, but if more than one paper had it then it probably would have been published by now. Which means…”
“Somebody influenced the guy.”
I nodded.
Tiffany thought about it for a second before brushing it off. “Maybe it’s better that way. It means your family doesn’t have to go through more shit, right?”
Right. Except if somebody paid the reporter off, that made us no better than what Professor Ribbons and hundreds of other people thought about us already. That didn’t settle well with me.
“Enough of that. Time for me to kick your ass some more. Maybe in a few months you’ll actually be able to move your body without looking like something is stuck up your ass.”
I eyed her. “Gee, thanks.”
She winked. “Try to loosen your body up, Della. Every dance has a story behind it, right? We learned that with ballet. Those moves were focused heavily on one emotion. We need to find your story in this music.”
I frowned in doubt but didn’t argue with her about it when she restarted the music. By the end of the two hours we spent in the studio, I’d done a one-eighty turn with my hip out only to land face on with the mirrors.
Swallowing, I forced myself to stare, to really look at the girl whose shoulders were weighed down with the weight of the world. I wondered what story she had to tell, what could be told with my feet and music instead of my hands and paint. It wasn’t until a towel smacked me in the face that I broke the stare and turned to Tiffany.