Free Leap by Jodi Lundgren Page B

makeup—foundation, blush, the works, like she’s about to go on stage. She must be close to Mom’s age. “And you seem disgusted! As though the movement is beneath you.”
    I muttered, “Just because I don’t want to look like a slut …” I don’t think Ms. Kelly heard me, but some girls nearby tittered. She definitely heard them.
    â€œYour attitude is damaging the morale of the class and setting a bad example for the younger girls. You’re excused for the rest of the day. I suggest you go home and think about your behavior.”
    â€œFine,” I snapped. As I passed Lisa, she mouthed, “I’ll call you.”
    I changed into my shorts and hurried down the street. In the window of Con Brio, Petra was bent over a notebook, twisting a strand of blonde hair around her finger. Every so often she jotted something down with a pencil. I entered the café and approached her. She raised her head and smiled. Her sea green T-shirt set off her tan and her platinum hair so well, it took my breath away. She glanced at her watch. “It’s not like Ms. Kelly to end class early.”
    â€œShe kicked me out of the studio.”
    Petra hooked the barstool beside her with her foot and pulled it out. “Have a seat. What happened?”
    As I explained, Petra frowned and fidgeted with her gold necklace. “I think this might have something to do with me. I’ve been raving to Ms. Kelly about your facility with modern.”
    â€œYou have?” I felt too shy to look at her. I knew I felt a deep connection with Petra’s movement style, but I had no idea whether or not it showed. As far as I could tell, she praised everyone equally.
    â€œOh, yes, Natalie. You’re a natural. I try not to play favorites in class, but under the circumstances, it’s only fair to tell you. You’re very talented.”
    Ms. Kelly’s insults and Petra’s compliments tumbled in my head. Criticism was familiar, but I didn’t know how to handle flattery. It seemed safest to let it slide off me without taking it to heart.
    â€œYou probably know she wasn’t too happy about my setting a modern piece in the first place. Maybe she feels that you’ve transferred your loyalty.”
    I heard Ms. Kelly’s words in my head: You act as though the movement is beneath you. “I just don’t like her style of jazz anymore. It makes me feel sort of like a machine, or an object. A sex object, I guess.”
    I wasn’t sure Petra would know what I meant, but she nodded. A couple of men in shorts and baseball caps entered the café and rubber-necked at Petra. She didn’t seem to notice them. “That style of jazz started in the showgirl industry in Las Vegas and L.A. It’s all about pleasing customers. Artistic expression hardly enters into it. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t phased it out by now.”
    I slouched on the stool, chin propped in my hand. I was thinking what a relief it would be to quit dance: I could scoop ice cream and ride my bike. This was the last week of the intensive. Maybe I should just drop out.
    Petra touched my arm. “I’m thrilled with your work in my piece, Natalie. I really hope that you’ll keep coming to my ballet class and to rehearsal for the rest of the week.”
    An iced latte might perk me up. The men who had ogled Petra were waiting for their drinks. Mustached and leathery-skinned, they tried to catch my eye. I ordered, then pretended to be lost in thought.
    â€œYou from around here?” one of them said.
    I couldn’t ignore a direct question. I nodded.
    â€œWe’re just visiting from the States.”
    You don’t say.
    â€œYou a ballet dancer?” the other one said.
    That made my head turn. “How did you know?” For a second I thought maybe they recognized Petra.
    The ham-fisted tourist reached over and patted the bun of hair at the back of my head. I