Page 23 of The Tiger in the Sack

I put the phone face down this time.

Productivity. Was. A. Choice.

I called Zahra Smith the next morning.

I had spent two days putting it off. Not because I was scared. Because I was being strategic. There was a difference. I was an engineer. I made plans. The plan involved waiting until I had something concrete to bring her, something that would prove I had actually heard her on Monday.

That was the version I was telling myself.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

She had a different voice on the phone. Lower. The voice she used when she was in her own world and the Tigers facility was not it.

“Zahra, hi. It’s Clover Freeman.”

“I know.”

“Right.” I exhaled. “I’m working on recruitment for the squad rebuild and I want to hold workshops in places where dancers don’t usually expect a League team to show up. I don’t know this city yet. You do. I’d like your help building the list.”

There was a long pause on her end. Long enough that I started counting the small dings in my office ceiling.

“You want to know where the dancers come from,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Come see.”

“Come see what?”

“Studio Loretta. Tomorrow morning, eight AM. I have a class at nine, so don’t be late and don’t expect tea.” She paused for a moment and a text popped up on my phone. “That’s the address.”

“I’ll be there.”

I stared at my phone for a second and didn’t know what kind of face to make at the screen. Somehow it felt like that was a phone call I had won and lost simultaneously.

Studio Loretta was on a side street in Avondale, above a coffee shop with hand-painted lettering and a chalkboard sign that read - Chess Night Thursdays! Bring your sharpest game.

I climbed the narrow staircase next to the café entrance at seven fifty-three.

The door at the top opened into a long, beautiful, just a little bit beat-up dance studio. Mirrors down one wall, a barre, hardwood floors that had been refinished maybe twice and were due again. A speaker in each corner. A folding-chair row along the back wall for parents who had not yet left.

I studied the photos along the wall opposite the mirror, little black girls in dance costumes just like I used to wear, kids in groups mid-performance, a smiling older woman with her arm around a younger Zahra holding a trophy.

The important action was in the middle of the room. A clump of young girls, mixed ages from maybe around six-years old to pre-teens were in the middle of the floor doing pliés. Mismatched everything. One in a Disney leotard, one in athletic shorts and a Tigers T-shirt knotted at the waist, one in fuzzy socks she was going to regret, a tiny one in a Hello Kitty unitard who was off-counter and recovering and off-counter again, smiling each time like she was getting paid by the recovery.

A couple other past squad members who I recognized from the roster and social media, were leading the warm-up.

I hoped both ladies would be at tryouts in a few weeks.

Zahra was at the front, in sweats and a sleeveless top, a stainless water bottle on the floor next to her, calling the count.

She did not turn around.

“Grab a seat, Clover.”

I sat in a folding chair against the back wall. For twenty minutes I watched a class I had no part in.