by Kari Jones
“Smile,” Eve whispers to Alex as she passes her, and Alex pastes a smile on her face. But then we all step into the pinwheel expertly, and I can feel the tension lessen as we move together around the stage. The oboe and oud start their conversation, and we follow the beat and the rhythm perfectly. Next comes a short section where we break into our groups again, and the movement flows across the stage in sync with the music. My hip drops radiate energy, and my undulations slide across my body. When the music changes again, we cluster in the center of the stage, and as one being we pour energy from the tips of our fingers high over our heads down through our chests, across our stomachs and hips, and into our knees. I can hear the audience roaring, but it’s like the sound is coming from another room, because I’m focusing so hard on keeping my count. When the shimmy starts, and the finger cymbals crescendo, I know the song’s coming to an end, and my tension falls away. We spin through to the end. I let out a huge breath. It’s over.
Eve’s hand grips mine as we bow, and as soon as we’re behind the curtain, she pulls me into a hug. “You were perfect,” she says.
“You were, Lila,” says Alex.
“You too. We all were,” I say.
It’s true. We were all great. But as we thread our way back to the change room, I can’t help sneaking glances at the girls from Amala’s studio, who are sitting in a circle, laughing and sharing a bowl of taco chips. They were amazing too. Really amazing.
And they had way more fun than we did.
Nineteen
The festival is over, and there’s no dance class this week so we can all catch up on our sleep and enjoy our spring break. That’s what I do. Or, at least, that’s what I try to do. Angela’s not back for five more days, so I can’t ask her for help with English, which I need to catch up on, and I don’t have the energy to ask anyone else. Basically, I spend the days after the festival moping around until Mom finally says, “Lila, honey, please tell me what’s going on. You’ve been moping for ages.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, but she sits down at the kitchen table and pushes out a chair for me. “It’s something, honey. Come on. Tell me.”
“I don’t know if I want to keep dancing, Mom,” I say as I sit down. It feels strange to say it out loud, but it’s also a relief.
“You don’t want to keep dancing, or you don’t want to keep dancing with Dana?”
“I don’t know what I want.”
Mom gets up, pulls a tray of Rice Krispies squares out of the fridge and cuts into them. She offers me one and says, “Honey, you’ve worked so hard on dance this term. You were absolutely amazing at the festival. You’ve loved to dance ever since you were about three weeks old. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but you know what I mean. Don’t let one tough teacher throw you off.”
I take a bite of my square and let the marshmallow melt in my mouth. “What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should go and talk to Amala. She’s the one who knows your dancing best, and she’s the one who gave you the opportunity to go and dance with Dana. It was always your dream, Lila. Go talk to Amala.”
“Yeah. I know. I will.”
* * *
Amala’s studio is open, and when I peek into the room, I can see she’s got a class full of women. It must be one of her beginner classes, because she’s showing them how to listen to the music by playing the beat on her drum and having them clap along. I remember doing that years ago. Belly-dance music can be really complex in its beats and rhythms and melodies, and it takes ages to learn how to listen to it properly. My hips automatically follow along as I watch, and I admire Amala’s patience when some of the women miss the count and get offbeat with their clapping. Amala smiles and starts again. The class will probably last for another half hour or so. That’s time enough to go over in my head what I want to say to Amala.
When the women finally come out, laughing and chatting, I stand up and wait for Amala to come to the door.
“Lila!” she says. For a second I feel bad for stopping by while she’s teaching, but then she grins and says, “What a nice surprise.”
“I don’t want to dance with Dana anymore,” I blurt out before she even has a chance to move out of the doorway.
Amala doesn’t answer. Instead, she heads back into the studio and over toward the computer. On her way, she bends and picks up a pile of scarves, which she plops into a basket at the front of the room. When she reaches the computer, she fiddles with the music for a second, then turns to me and says, “Get into position.”
“Now?”
She nods and turns to start the music. I scramble from the doorway to the center of the room and strike the starting pose. Good thing I’m wearing clothes I can dance in.
The music starts. I hold the pose for eight beats, then turn slowly, snaking my arms around my body, and then, as the music gathers speed, I start the traveling step with a series of hip drops and chest lifts. With a roll of drums, I twirl. Oh, how I love this music. Next comes a series of classic belly-dance moves using hip drops and kicks, and then…suddenly I can’t remember. I stumble over a few bars of music, then catch up when the music pauses for one count. It starts up again and I start with it, only to lose it again a few seconds later, and I realize that when I last danced this with Angela, in her room, I must have been following her lead, because I can’t pull the choreography into my brain at all. When the music stops, I sink to the floor.
Amala heads back to the computer. “Never mind. Try this,” she says, and the sound of Dana’s music fills the room.
I raise an eyebrow at Amala, but she lifts her chin and starts the music again. This time I stand and get into starting position.
The music fills the room, and I dance through to the end of the song. When it’s done, I say, “It’s better with a full troupe because of the delayed action in some of the sections.”
“And you know it like it lives inside you,” Amala says.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” I say.
“Dana drilled that dance into you so thoroughly you’ll never forget it.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And your posture is amazing, and you’re right exactly on the beat. You’ve learned a lot from Dana.”
“I know, it’s true. But…” I hesitate, because I don’t really know how to put this into words.
Amala waits for me to speak, then says, “You weren’t enjoying yourself.”
“No.” I let out a breath. “I really wasn’t. And I miss Angela and Nini and Sarit. I like the girls at Dana’s—especially Robin and Alex and Sam, and even Eve when she isn’t being God—but it’s not the same. There isn’t the feeling of all of us being in it together.”
Amala smiles and reaches over to hug me. “Honey, belly dance is all about being in it together. That’s why I left Dana’s class too. I learned so much from her, but I wanted that feeling of everyone being in it together.”
“That’s why I’m not sure I want to be a professional belly dancer anymore. I don’t want to be like Eve.” I don’t tell her about the schoolwork I’ve not done, or the fights I’ve had with Angela and Nini and Sarit.
The door opens and a woman sticks her head in. “Amala, sorry, can I talk to you for one sec?”
“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere,” Amala says to me.
When she’s gone, I look at all the photos on the wall. Amala takes photos at every student show and blows them up and puts them on the studio walls. There are a few new ones since I was here last, including one of Amala, mid-twirl, in a 1920s-style costume.
“That’s a lovely photo of you,” I say when she comes back in.
“That’s from few weeks ago when
I was at a festival in Seattle.”
It takes my mind a second to catch up with what I’m seeing, but then it does, and I say, “Amala, you’re a professional dancer. You have a great career, dancing all over the place, and you have your studio, which everyone loves, and you have fantastic classes.”
“Why, thank you, Lila,” she says. “Yes, I’m pretty happy with where I’m at right now. And you’re right. I love the studio. It’s the best part of my life, really. The best part of being a dancer is having all these lovely girls to dance with.”
“But you’re not like Dana,” I say. “I mean, you let anyone dance with you, even if they’re not fit and perfect and they don’t take it super seriously. And you let the class be fun, even if everyone’s not always flawlessly on time or having exact posture or doing the move correctly.”
“Ouch!”
“No, I don’t mean that in a bad way. The troupe was amazing at the festival. Really fantastic. And it wasn’t because their posture was perfect; it was because they loved it so much.”
“Indeed.” She’s smiling at me like I’m a slow student who’s finally getting the lesson.
“So you’re telling me that there are different ways to be a dancer. Different paths to take?”
“I’m not telling you anything, Lila.” She’s smiling big-time now. “I chose you to go to Dana because I thought it was a good fit for you. But that’s always a choice you have to make. No one can make it for you.”
“So if I want to, I can come back?”
“Of course! There was never any question about that.”
“It’s that I don’t want to feel like I’m giving up on myself. On my dream,” I say. “You said a lot of Dana’s students go on to have professional careers. I’m so torn, Amala, because I want that, but I also want to love dance and have fun.”
“Lila, honey, you are wise beyond your years.” Amala pushes a strand of hair off my face like my mother would do. “Please come back to dance with us, and bring all that you have learned from Dana with you. And later on, maybe you can dance with her again if you want to. You’re going to have a great career, Lila. Especially now that you know what’s important to you.”
The low feeling I’ve been carrying around since the festival breaks open, and for the first time in days I feel like dancing.
“Do you think the other girls will have me back?”
Amala laughs. “They’ve been missing you so much, Lila. I’m sure they will.”
“Then that’s what I want to do.”
The woman Amala was talking to earlier pokes her head through the door again. “Sorry, Amala, one more thing.”
Amala looks at me. “We’re done, aren’t we?” she asks.
“Absolutely.”
“Are you going to go home and tell your mom?” Amala asks as we head to the door.
“Yeah, and then tomorrow, I’m going to wait at Angela’s house until she gets home from the airport and I’m going to tell her we’re going to dance together again. Then—well, no. First I’m going to ask her how her trip to Mexico was.”
Amala smiles and says, “Classes start again on Wednesday. See you then.”
I bust out a few quick hip circles and a shoulder roll. “Yes,” I say as I dance to the door. “See you then.”
Acknowledgments
The best thing about writing this book was all the time I spent dancing. Here’s a zaghareet for the amazing ladies at Harmony Belly Dance, especially my teacher and friend Candace Aldridge Sanchez and her family, and for Joanne Hewko, who not only didn’t blush in embarrassment when I busted out dance moves on our dog walks, but danced along with me. As always, thanks to the Wildwood Writers, my family and, last but absolutely not least, my fellow writer, editor and friend Robin Stevenson.
KARI JONES loves to dance and she loves to write, so she was thrilled to have a chance to do both as she wrote Shimmy. Kari has written four books for children and youth, and her work has been translated into several languages. Kari lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with her husband and son. For more information, visit www.karijones.ca.