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I turned halfway toward the table and lifted one middle finger. That got louder.

Jade laughed. “Do not feed them.”

“I didn’t even look.”

“Professional instinct. I respect it,” Jade said.

I turned back to her. “Again.”

After that, I got it.

Not perfectly. Not beautifully. But enough.

My legs understood what I was asking them to do once my brain stopped interfering. I knew how to control momentum. I knew how to engage my stomach and keep my body tight.

My hands were another matter.

After several turns, my forearms had begun to burn in a way six miles of running had never prepared me for.

I flexed my fingers. “Running apparently prepared me to do exactly none of this with my hands.”

“Welcome to pole.”

She taught me a back-hook spin next.

“You don’t have to attack everything,” Jade told me.

“I feel judged.”

“You should.”

Eventually I got that one too.

The room had begun paying more attention. I knew because the noise changed every time I left the floor.

It did not particularly matter to me.

I had spent half my life running around Briar in shorts that barely qualified as an argument for fabric and a sports bra. I owned bikinis that covered less than what I had on now.

The skirt was a logistical problem, not a moral one. Every time I spun, it moved higher. I had black underwear on.

The republic survived.

Jade noticed me tugging the skirt down after one turn.

“Want to stop?” she asked.

“Because they can see my underwear?”

She shrugged.

“I’ve worn less to the lake.”

“All right.” She smiled. “I definitely like you.”

Then she taught me what she called a hair flip, which involved considerably less violent neck movement than the name suggested.

“You are not trying to concuss yourself with your own hair,” she told me. “Chest first. Let the head follow. Hair comes last.”