“A what?” Mo asked, then, feeling her face was twisted, she softened it to what she hoped was just confusion and asked again, “What’s a ’copter parent?”
“Like helicopter,” Brenna said. She hopped up and ran around in a small circle, arms out, making deep humming sounds, then burst out laughing.
“That’s more of an airplane, though,” Mo said, eyeing Mila for confirmation that Brenna was a little wacky.
Brenna thought about it, laughed, and plopped back down on the floor next to her stack of pointe shoes. “True. Just saying my mom is a little overprotective. Also, this is my first time going to a residential intensive. Her biggest fear was that I’d end up with suitemates that were going to be a bad influence . . . whatever that means.”
Katie’s head bobbed in agreement. “My mom is worried I’m going to come back with an eating disorder.”
Brenna rolled her eyes. “Forever conversation in our house.”
“You already pretty thin,” Mo said talking to Brenna, but meaning both of them. All three of them, really. Her and her muscular legs were the odd girl out.
The one thing she’d loved about watching Ailey dancers was how strong they were. If there was one thing she knew she was better at than Mila, it was jumps. Ms. Noelle had even tapped her thighs one day and said, “Such lovely strength.”
How many meals would she have to miss to shrink her thighs? She didn’t even want to know.
“Yeah, and it’s just my natural size. But let me say I’m not hungry and my mom is all ‘Bren, you’ve got to eat. How are you going to have the energy to dance if you don’t eat?’” Brenna’s fingers expertly moved the needle through the shoe’s canvas as she talked. “I mean, God, can I not be hungry sometimes?”
“We’re all going to lose weight, though. The food here is gross,” Katie said.
Mo could already tell Katie was going to be the know-it-all. She had a way of talking like everything she said was word. But Mo actually cared about the food. “Gross how?” she asked.
“Just like junky food. Dinner is always hot dogs or hamburgers and pasta.” Katie’s mouth turned up like she’d just named rat tails and roach legs.
“I like those things,” Mila said.
Mo happily cosigned. “I mean, for real, so do I.”
“But not every night,” Katie said, with a hard shrug of her shoulders like it should have been obvious what she meant.
“Well, if it’s all that bad, why is a dance program serving it?” Mo asked. She sat back against the wall on her bed cross-legged, liking that she towered over the girls on the floor.
“Because the food at the Ballet America café is different. Healthier. We eat breakfast and lunch there and dinner here at the college. So for dinner we eat whatever the college dining hall fixes, and it’s always fast foodish,” Katie said.
Mo had forgotten that the older dancers stayed at the Ballet America studios, in their dorms. They ate healthier, huh? That was code for no taste, far as Mo was concerned. And they could have that. She’d take the hot dogs and burgers. Every day, too.
“So who all is interested in BA’s pre-pro program?” Brenna asked, intently eyeing each of them.
Mo squinted, confused. “Pre-pro?”
“The pre-professional program?” Katie said, like she didn’t get why Mo didn’t understand.
“Their all-year program?” Mo said.
“Yes,” Katie said.
Mo’s eyes rolled. “I just didn’t know it was called a pre-pro.”
“I’m def interested,” Mila said, when she saw Mo’s eyebrows raising. “But I heard it’s really competitive to get in.” There was nervousness in her laugh. “I read up a lot before coming.”
“Same,” Brenna said. Words rushing like she’d been waiting on this conversation. “BA has one of the best pre-pro’s on the East Coast. Congrats to all of us getting into the Summer Experience. We’re halfway there.”
“I don’t know about halfway,” Katie said, eyebrows knitted. “But yeah, I’m interested, too. My mom wouldn’t let me audition for anything more than three hours from home.”
The conversation raced on with ballet schools Mo had never heard of dropped left and right. She hadn’t looked at other schools. Hadn’t thought about how competitive it was going to be to make it into BA’s pre-pro until that moment. She figured if they were all good enough to get into the summer, then they were good enough for the whole year.
There wasn’t any way to hide how much she didn’t know about ballet or being at an intensive. But, for real, Katie had one more time to talk with that unsaid “obviously” in her voice. After that, Mo wasn’t responsible for how she was going to get her put in her place. Sweet mate or not.
Rasheeda
Sheeda lay still, eyes closed, letting the sun warm then burn her forehead. It was official. This was summer. The house quiet, because Auntie D had already left for work. Getting to feel the sun instead of being up and dressed before it rose. Having the whole day ahead of her to . . . do what?
The day stretched out long and lonely.
The only good thing was Lennie had hit her up before she went to bed. The messages had been innocent:
DatBoyEll:
the house gonna be mad quiet tomorrow
Rah-Rah:
aww u gonna miss Mo too
DatBoyEll:
dang why that emoji tho? I mean yeah imma miss her. Thas my baby sis. But c’mon man u clowning. lol
Rah-Rah:
DatBoyEll:
naw I hope she do her thing tho. I can’t hate on her grind. How come u ain’t going to this dance thing?
Rah-Rah:
I didn’t get in TAG so I guess Ms. N didn’t think I was right for it.
DatBoyEll:
u dance tho right?
Rah-Rah:
At church yeah
DatBoyEll:
Oh u one of them people thas church good? LMAO
Rah-Rah:
ok bye
DatBoyEll:
I’m teasing shawty. But u know how people be good singers in church but then u hear ’em try tear up a song from the radio and be like ay maybe this ain’t ur thing
Rah-Rah:
fax
DatBoyEll:
I ain’t trying take ur shine. I seen u dance at the rec. u got the goods
Rah-Rah:
thanx!! Me and Tai the only ones from the original La May group that didn’t make it into TAG.
DatBoyEll:
kind of messed up
Rah-Rah:
big fax
She had settled good into the conversation, then her bedroom door swung open. Her eyes, already dripping with guilt, raised to meet Auntie D’s inquiring face. With her clear brown-sugar skin, hair coiffed to the gods, Auntie D was what people called cute. It was the two deep dents in her cheeks, dimples that showed up when she smiled or frowned. Not that a lot of people saw her smile. Unless she was in church talking to the pastor, deacon, or one of her fellow sisters in Christ, her face stayed frozen—right eyebrow arched, lips perpetually pressed together like she was worried somebody was going to force-feed her, dimples popping in displeasure. Her aunt was quick to judge and quicker to put you in your place—in the most godly way possible, of course.