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I climbed back down and opened the box attached to the balloon bundle.
Inside, I found a strange set of props and costume pieces: a rainbow-colored parachute, some wooden sticks, a bright yellow bandana, and a pair of neon green leg warmers.
What was I supposed to do with this?
I looked up at Chester, who was already busy putting on his own costume.
The room was frantic with energy, everyone preparing for the upcoming challenge. I still had no idea what an interpretive dance was or what exactly I was supposed to interpret.
I threw on the bandana and leg warmers.
The bell sounded. Everyone threw their hands up.
It wasn’t nearly enough time. My insides flipped and flopped as I prayed someone else would go first so I had time to think and an example of what this challenge actually entailed.
"Let's dance!” Waylen waved me toward the front. “Morgan, you’re first.”
Oh no.
Music began playing, the fast flutter of a violin I recognized as “Flight of the Bumblebee.”
My heart raced in time with the bee's wings as I tried to figure out what to do. My mind was blank, no sudden spark of inspiration coming to my rescue.
In the grand scheme of life, it didn’t matter if I made a fool out of myself. I was here to secure a place to live and food on my table. I was here to do what I had to do to survive until I could begin the job I’d kind of gotten over the weekend. I could do this. Rising to meet uncertainty and kicking it in the face—that was my specialty, because that’s what boss ladies did.
Ignoring the alarm bells sounding in the back of my head, I held tight to my faux confidence and strolled straight up to the front of the set where production had marked off a large square of flooring with painter’s tape.
I pulled the edges of the parachute around my neck and tied it in place so it floated over my back like a rainbow cape. I took one drumstick in each hand, closed my eyes and let the quick and playful violin music fill me.
And I moved.
First came the most bee-like motion I could think of, a sway of my hips, more butt swirling than swaying, really. I shook that thing like I was warning everyone about my stinger.
They wanted a dance routine. I’d give them a dance routine.
I flapped my arms up and down like wings, zooming around the space. Everything outside the square disappeared as I frolicked and flailed. I felt profoundly bizarre yet bizarrely profound. I was doing it. I was the bee.
Then a yodel track was added to the orchestral piece.
My brain kicked on, confusion ripping me from my oneness with the bee. Yodeling? What in the actual heck…?
My legs faltered.
I twisted, catching my foot on the cape, and in slow motion I watched as everything fell apart.
The floor grew closer by the second, my body headed on a one-way track to Pound Town, and not the sexy kind. I put my arms down in front of me to catch myself and cushion the impact.
The drumsticks took flight, slipping from my fingertips and soaring through the air.
One smacked into the screen of one of the cameras.
The other beamed Waylen in the eye.
Waylen screeched and grabbed his face.
The drumsticks clattered to the floor.
So did I.
