Shimmy Read online

  Shimmy

  Kari Jones

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2015 Kari Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Jones, Kari, 1966–, author

  Shimmy / Kari Jones.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0764-8 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0765-5 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0766-2 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8619.O5328S55 2015 jC813'.6 C2015-901700-9

  C2015-901701-7

  First published in the United States, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015935512

  Summary: In this short novel for middle readers, a famous belly dancer invites Lila to join her prestigious studio, and Lila must decide whether to leave the dance teacher and troupe she loves.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by iStockphoto.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1

  To Goldean and Candace and all the dancers,

  and in memory of Angela.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  One

  “Ooh la la,” I say as Amala holds a silky turquoise mermaid skirt up to her waist. The girls in the dance troupe laugh.

  “Exactly. We’ll wear them at the festival, with mirrored hip scarves over them and colored lace tops. You girls will look so elegant!” Amala smiles broadly as she speaks, and the girls in the room shimmer with happiness. She lifts an orange hip scarf from a pile at her feet and wraps it around the skirt. Fingernail-sized mirrors in the scarf sparkle in the lights.

  “It’s awesome,” Angela says. She takes the skirt and scarf from Amala, holds them to her body and twirls. The panels flare out around her feet, and the rest of us clap.

  “Let’s go through the choreography one more time, and then we’ll break for the day,” Amala says. “Try the skirt on for size sometime during the week and decide on a color, and I’ll put in the orders on Friday.”

  We strike our starting pose: arms up, palms facing out, head down and away from the audience, body turned slightly to the left. I glance at Angela behind me and roll my shoulders back and down. She copies me, and her posture straightens. I nod and settle back into pose.

  Amala moves the pile of scarves and the skirt to the side of the studio and takes her place in front of us. She presses the remote, and the drums start.

  We hold the pose for eight beats, then turn slowly, snaking our arms around our bodies so we make a wave of motion on the stage. The music gathers speed as the violin and cello sing out a rhythm over the beat of the drums, and we slip into a traveling step layered with hip shimmies and chest lifts. With a roll of drums, we twirl. Oh, I can already imagine the burst of color a line of girls in mermaid skirts and mirrored scarves will make when we’re crossing the stage. The accordion picks up the melody, and we follow along with some classic belly-dance moves. I’m grinning, because I can see how the mirrored scarves are going to sparkle as we drop our right hips and kick, and the lace tops will show off our chest circles.

  We all gather in pairs, and Angela and I dance into the center of the room. This is the part I love, when Angela and I dance next to each other. The music takes over as all the instruments fall into one melody, and it becomes one with my body. The scarf mirrors are going to dazzle the audience during this sequence of slow turns and undulations, and the skirts will swirl around us. The audience will go crazy. We’ll be the stars of the show. It’ll be my first step on the way to becoming a professional belly dancer.

  There’s a pause of one count in the music, and I close my eyes to feel it, then raise my arms above my head and sink into a hip drop. The music builds from slow to fast, and we pick up a shimmy starting at our hips and working up to our shoulders so that our bodies quiver.

  The sound of the violin fills the room, and our arms catch the mood and snake around our bodies again for a count of eight. Energy radiates from our fingertips as we swirl one last time, lift our arms and finish.

  My fingers tingle, and I whirl around and pull Angela into a hug.

  “Well done, girls. We’re getting there,” Amala says. She opens the studio door, and early spring air from the lobby wafts in. We all head to the edges of the studio for our water bottles, which Angela and I always leave by the door so we can be the first ones into the lobby after class. Everyone is laughing and smiling at each other. That was a great class.

  “You looked fantastic, as always,” I say to Angela.

  “I felt okay, but I still want to work on that sequence with the hips. I get the right half of the figure eight, but my left hip never wants to do it properly,” Angela says.

  She’s wearing a blue tank top and deep-purple pants with a gathered fringe around her ankles. With her long dark hair and thick eyelashes, she looks like a belly dancer even without costume or makeup.

  Angela and I have been friends since our moms signed us up for dance classes at the Oak Bay rec center when we were five. We’ve been dancing together for ten years now, and we’ve been BFFS all that time, so I know that even though Angela did the whole dance absolutely perfectly, she’ll work on her moves and correct herself until the moment we walk onstage. Angela loves to dance, but performances make her nervous.

  “You were perfect.” I take a swig from my water bottle and head to my cubbyhole for my shoes and coat. I never take Angela’s doubts too seriously. She’ll be fantastic once she gets onto the stage.

  She shrugs and shakes herself from head to toe. “We’ll see.”

  “The festival’s going to be amazing. We’re going to be fantastic. Everything’s going to be awesome!” I say. The spirit of the dance is still in me, and it makes me jump around the room. Nini and Sarit laugh beside me.

  “You’re really looking forward to the festival, aren’t you?” Sarit says.

  “I am.” There’s no use pretending—I’ve wanted to be a professional dancer for at least the past three years, and they all know it. This is the first festival we’ve been invited to, and it makes me feel like shouting with happiness.

  “Let’s go before we miss the bus,” Angela says.

  Girls are packing up around us, and Angela and I pull on our shoes and coats, but before we’re finished, Amala comes into the doorway and says, “One last thing
, girls. I have a surprise for you.” She takes a deep breath. “Dana Sajala has asked me to choose three girls from my classes to join her studio.”

  The lobby goes silent. We stand frozen, water bottles partway to our lips, shoes half pulled onto our feet, coats hanging off our arms, as the news sinks in. Then Sarit says, “Dana Sajala?” and the spell is broken. My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it in my ears.

  “You mean to perform with her troupe for the festival?” Nini asks.

  “Yes—and continue on as one of her students.” Amala’s smile is super wide, because she knows the opportunity she’s offering. Dana Sajala is one of the best-known belly dancers in the world. A chance to dance with her would be the perfect start to any career.

  “Who have you chosen?” Nini asks. It’s what we all want to know, and I can almost feel everyone sucking in their breath.

  “I haven’t yet. I’ll tell you next week.” Amala holds up her hands and laughs as the noise level rises. “No, don’t ask me now. I’m not saying anything more until I’ve spoken to Dana and made my final decision.”

  When Amala heads back into the studio, leaving us girls alone, it takes a minute before we start moving again. The fabric of my coat brushes roughly against my arms, and my feet feel squished in my Toms. There’s murmuring all around me, and Sarit says something to Angela as we walk out the door, but I don’t hear what it is, because a voice in my head is shouting, Dana Sajala! Dana Sajala!

  It’s a chance of a lifetime!

  Two

  “She has to choose us!” I say to Angela as we wait for the bus home. The tangy ocean air fills me with energy, and since the music from class is still in my mind, I bust out a few hip circles in time to the beat. Two boys standing behind us laugh. Angela glances back at the boys and shuffles her feet.

  “Ignore them. Dana Sajala is taking on students, and we are going to be two of them!” I grab Angela’s hands and swing her around, but she resists and pulls her hands away. “What?” I ask.

  Before Angela can respond, a bunch of kids from a nearby school’s basketball team crowd into the bus shelter. Then the bus pulls up, and we all jostle on. I head for a free seat, but there is an old lady behind me, so I step aside and give it to her. The aisle is crowded, and somehow Angela ends up halfway down the bus from me. The basketball kids call to one another along the aisle, and one at the back says something that makes all of them laugh. It’s infectious, and I laugh with them, though I don’t know what’s funny. I’m just happy, that’s all.

  The driver pulls into the road, and we make our slow way down the hill toward home. The bus route takes us along the ocean, where the sound of the waves mingles with the laughter and chatter bubbling around me, and it’s easy to slip into daydreaming. I can see it now: we’re onstage in the signature costume of Dana’s studio—multi-tiered ruffle skirts in bright colors, with tassel belts and matching midriff tops called cholis. The music starts, and we begin our dance. We are like birds flocking, each girl so in tune with the others that we look like one being. Our movements are graceful, and our timing is perfect. Dana watches, and as we twirl around to the front, she catches my eye and smiles, and I know she’s seen me. Me. When the music ends and we walk off the stage, she pulls me over and says, “I’m glad Amala chose you to come to me. You’re going to be one of my star students.” A shiver tingles down my spine.

  The bus stops and a bunch of kids get off. It’s rush hour, and the lights and noise of downtown Victoria jolt me out of my dream. At the far end of the bus Angela is staring into space, a frown on her face. There’s something about her mouth and the way her body sags a bit into the seat next to her that makes me wonder if she’s upset.

  As we near our stop, I push my way down the aisle until I’m standing next to Angela. The bus hits a bump and jostles us, and she says, “There you are.”

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “Sure?”

  Angela smiles and flips her hair over her shoulder like she does when she’s happy. The bus pulls up at our stop, and Angela and I push past the basketball players to the door and step off. In the sudden quiet of our neighborhood, Angela and I shimmy our way down the sidewalk. We swing around cherry trees, shaking them as we pass so their pink and white petals spray over us.

  “Amala’s going to choose us,” I say. “She has to—we’re the best dancers in the whole class. By far.”

  Angela laughs and rolls her shimmy up her whole body.

  “I can’t believe we’re going to dance with Dana Sajala. Can you believe it?” I say.

  Angela stops shimmying and says, “She might not choose us. You do know that, right?”

  “Spoilsport!” I say. The wind has blown cherry petals across the path and into the spruce hedge in front of Angela’s house so that it looks like a dancer’s colorful skirt. I pull some of the petals off and put them in my hair for decoration.

  “Let me dream my dream,” I say as Angela turns into her yard.

  “Amala has a whole studio to choose from, Lila. She might not choose you. Or me. Or anyone else from our class.”

  “But she will,” I say.

  “Just…” She hesitates.

  “Just what?”

  Angela shifts her bag on her shoulder and doesn’t say anything for a few moments, but when she sees I’m about to ask her again, she says, “Don’t persuade yourself Amala’s going to choose us, that’s all.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because I don’t want you to be disappointed. I know you,” she says. “You always believe things are going to happen.” With that she walks up the path and onto the stairs in front of her house.

  “But…” I don’t know what to say, so I watch her fit the key into the lock of her door. As she opens it, I say, “Don’t you think Amala could choose us?”

  “She might. But she might not.”

  “You think there are others in the class who are better than us?” It seems unlikely.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want you to get super excited about something that might not happen.” Angela turns the knob, enters her house and leaves me standing on the walkway, wondering, Is there someone more likely to be chosen?

  Doubt gnaws at my stomach, making me feel sick. I really, really, really want to be chosen. But what if I’m not?

  Three

  “Girls, let’s show Dana our best,” says Amala as she opens the door and lets Dana into the room. We’ve been drilling the choreography, and now Dana is here to watch us dance. I can hardly stand it. I’ve been waiting for this moment for seven whole days—ever since last week’s class.

  “Hello, girls,” Dana says. Her skirt swirls around her knees, and her long hair shines. We all straighten our posture as she joins Amala at the front of the room.

  “Ready?” Amala asks. We settle into our pose. I can feel Dana’s eyes on me. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Amala presses the remote and we start.

  I love this music, and I love the way Amala’s choreography picks up the trills of the drum, the thick, sticky line of the cello and violin, and the quick movements of the accordion. We start with our chest lifts and hip circles, accenting the bass with our hips and the treble with our arms. As I dance, my mind drifts to what Dana must be seeing and thinking, and my body suddenly feels like lead. My arms stutter instead of flow, and my hips miss the beat. When it comes time to move into pairs, my feet drag, and when Nini bumps into me, I stop.

  “Ouch,” I say and rub my shin.

  “We’ll start again from the beginning,” says Amala.

  “Can we get a sip of water first?” says Nini, and before Amala can a
nswer, everyone scurries to the edges of the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Angela asks.

  I shrug and take a sip of water so I don’t have to answer, but I know what’s wrong. Doubt is kicking at me, making me clumsy. All through the class I’ve been glancing around at the other girls. Nini is so elegant, and Sarit bursts with energy. Ellen, Flora, Petra—they’re all so quick and supple. Any one of them could get picked. It’s making me panic. What if Amala doesn’t choose Angela and me?

  “Dana is making me nervous,” says Angela.

  She’s right. That’s all it is. Nerves.

  “I wish Amala would tell us already, so we didn’t have to do all this,” I say.

  “I guess she wants Dana to see her picks in action.” She smiles and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

  “Do you know something?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” she says, and she replaces her water bottle on the ledge and heads back to her spot. She doesn’t appear nervous. As always, she looks perfect.

  “Again,” says Amala, and in the second before the music starts I sneak a glance at Dana, who catches my eye and smiles at me. My heart leaps into the first drum beat, and the lead falls away from my body.

  The music continues, and from the corner of my eye I can see that our lines are straight, and our posture is strong. We are all smiling.

  The music ends, and Amala presses the remote. “The girls look good, don’t they, Dana?”

  “I love your choreography, Amala. You’ve caught the music beautifully,” Dana says as she weaves between us on a tour of the room. “And you’re right,” she adds when she reaches Amala’s side again. “I approve of your choice of student.”

  We all gasp. Like one big guppy, we suck in our cheeks and turn to Amala.

  Amala frowns. “I was going to wait until class was over, but okay. I’ll tell you now.” She pauses, and her eyes travel across the room until they meet mine. “Lila, would you like to join Dana’s studio as one of her students?”