“I’m not sure if it’s that. It’s hard to develop an eating disorder when you don’t consistently have enough to eat to begin with. Or if Iwasunusually self-aware, maybe it’s only because I was forced to be by circumstances.”
“Yeah.”
“You, too?”
“No. Well, maybe, but I was thinking of my sister. You remind me of her in a way.”
“What way?”
“We’ll do me later.”
We’ll do me later.I got a thrill at that notion. “Well, that’s pretty much it for me. I decided to open a dance studio, but I was determined that it be inclusive, that it not perpetuate all the harm that can be endemic to dance. Hence Miss Miller’s Morals. I have a one-strike-you’re-out policy on body-shaming, bullying, all that. I run a tight ship.”
“But? We keep almost getting to the ‘but.’”
I sighed. “I think it’s what you said about camp being a pause in the normal state of things. At the studio, I choreograph all the recitals—we have two a year. I’m known for my choreography, in fact. This is part of the Miss Miller’s Morals thing. I’m not into little girls shaking their asses in skimpy costumes. So oftentimes I theme recitals based around older music. Or they’re funny on purpose—once I did an entire ‘Weird Al’ Yankovic recital. But—and here’s the ‘but’ finally—being at Wild Arts has made me see how what I’m doingisn’treally choreography. It’s choreography lite. Or maybe that’s not fair. But the girls here, and the dance counselors, arereallyinto dance. They’re talented technically, but they’re also creative about how theythinkabout dance and what it can do. It’s exhilarating to work with people like that. To think about not only setting steps to music, but about telling a story, or communicating a message. It’s like solving a puzzle. It’s, well… it’s awesome.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I feel bad even thinking all that stuff I said, because it feels like it goes against Miss Miller’s Morals, like it goes against my whole life’s purpose. On the one hand, I’m saying everyone can dance, it doesn’t matter how good you are, dancing is about fun. I’ve built my whole professional life, and my livelihood, around that idea. But on the other hand, here I am with these elite, talented dancers, and it feels like… I don’t know, like it’s waking up this dormant impulse inside me.”
“Does it have to be one or the other, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, your studio sounds pretty great. Can it be great, but also not be enough for you at this stage of your life, creatively? It’s doing an important service, it sounds like, meeting a community need. And it’s paying your bills. But…” He trailed offand scrunched up his forehead. “It’s OK to want to do something different, or more.”
“Why do you have that funny look on your face?”
“We’ll do me later.”
That was the second time he’d said that. I hoped we didn’t get rescued too soon to “do him.” Look at me—suddenlynotwanting to be rescued.
“Anyway,” I said, “it’s a moot point. I literally just bought a new building.”
“Yeah? This is what you meant when you said you were expanding your business?”
“Yep. I’ve been renting in a strip mall all these years, but I’ve bought my own building, and I’m going to double the studio space and start offering yoga and Pilates. I’m about to be up to my eyeballs in renos and bills. So I can’t suddenly decide to ‘become a choreographer.’” I made air quotes with my fingers.
“What about Caleb’s offer to do something with him? You could do that on the side, even if you’re busy.”
“I don’t know how to write.”
“Yeah, but you know how to dance. Isn’t the point of what he’s suggesting that the story is told, at least partially, through dance?”
“Yeah. It’s just…”
“Terrifying,” he said with quiet surety.
Yet again, I was startled. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Is it time to do you now?”
We didn’t “do” Teddy for a while. He deflected, suggesting we try yelling for help again. “Maybe it took them a while to realizewe were missing,” he said. “Maybe they’ve doubled back for us.” After a round of shouting proved unfruitful, we used the scissors in the first aid kit to hack off sections of gauze, and Teddy began an exercise wherein he would walk away from our spot in a straight line and tie strips of gauze to trees to make a trail leading to us. We would call back and forth to each other as he walked, and he’d only go as far as he felt he could without losing touch with me. I imagined the finished product from above as a sort of mummy-sunshine hybrid, gauzy “sunbeams” radiating out from where we were at the center. It probably was going to make no difference unless they sent helicopters. And if they had to send helicopters, we were more screwed than I had imagined, even in my moments of panic. I told myself that Teddy was right: they would come back and find us. We couldn’t be that far off the path we’d walked as a group. Still, our little art installation gave us a purpose, and having a purpose was calming.
Eventually, though, dusk was upon us. The temperature began dropping, and I could feel the fingers of panic starting to slide up my spine.
