Read Online Ameera, Unveiled by Kathleen Varn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathleen Varn
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choreography.” She walked toward the costume closet and sifted through the hangers.
“Please, let it be easy,” I murmured to myself.
“The troupe’s started working on dances for the North Charleston performance in May. I’m in one called The Gypsy. It’s a trio. I got permission from the choreographer to teach it to you.” She yanked a black gypsy shirt from a hanger and tossed it to Polly.
A skirt will be our prop? I thought. Sybil threw a red skirt my way.
“Kat, I think there’s a problem with the drawstring on that one. Would you mind fixing it before next week?” Sybil asked. I shouldn’t have told Sybil I was an accomplished seamstress.
I checked the drawstring openings on mine. It was an easy fix. “No problem,” I said.
She continued to look for one more skirt to complete the trio. Eventually, she tossed a green skirt to Cheryl.
“Does everyone have a solo song?” Sybil asked.
Polly pulled on her skirt and played with it, looking in the mirror. “I do. It’s a drum solo, but I’m still deciding where to fade it.”
“I like a song that talks about meeting in the desert. It’s romantic,” Cheryl said. Her green skirt hung lopsidedly.
“I’m picking a song that has a queen in it. It’s called ‘Drama Queen,’” I revealed as I fiddled with the red skirt. It was tattered and in need of tweaking.
“I want you each to have a copy of your song for next week. We’ll play them before class.” Sybil pulled on a yellow gypsy skirt and motioned for us to sit across the room. She put the CD in and pressed the play button before she turned and transitioned into a saucy wench.
She seamlessly performed her three-minute gypsy song with flamenco guitar. She swished her skirt, twirled, wrapped it around her body, dropped the edges, and road mapped from her toes to her head. She even used it as though it were a bullfighter’s cape. Her facial expressions were bright and lively, though she was dancing for us. As the song ended, she held a pose.
“Wow, Sybil! How fun is that!” Polly exclaimed.
“Good. Let’s get started,” Sybil said. “I’d like you to know this routine by auditions. It’d really impress the troupe if you had one of our dances notched on your belt. You can borrow the skirts until you order your own—black ones.” Sybil went to the mirror and pointed at the sailor-boy illustration. “We haven’t done this yet because I needed to move you into skirts.”
Ah, now that little stick figure’s making sense, I thought.
“Polly . . . you stand here. Kat . . . you’re there,” Sybil assigned positions. She pointed at the middle, “Cheryl . . . you’re there. Please stay in this order when we practice. Here’s the opening pose. Everything’s broken down in eight counts. Let’s do it.”
For the rest of our class, Sybil broke down the first four sets. Before we knew it, the hour was over. As Sybil peeled off her skirt, she threw us another dance tidbit. “By the way . . . this Saturday’s Dance for Women is at the mall. There’ll be a full Day of Dance troupe demonstration to support women’s health. Some of the troupe is performing, if you’d like to see them.”
“Man, I have to help my grandfather that day or I’d be there,” Cheryl sighed.
“What time Saturday?” I asked.
“Early. Somewhere around nine. Go to our website. It’ll be there,” Sybil quickly answered. Before anyone could pose another question, she asked us to close up the studio and disappeared into the house.
“What do you think?” I asked my classmates. My skirt dropped to my feet. I stepped out of it and gathered my bag.
Somehow, while we weren’t watching, Sybil had put a copy of the new Gypsy dance song on each of our piles.
“We’re learning a real dance,” Cheryl said. “Can you imagine us impressing everyone at audition?”
I silently wished the word audition would go into hibernation for a while.
“Driving to the mall at 8:00 a.m. for a 9:00 a.m.
“Please, let it be easy,” I murmured to myself.
“The troupe’s started working on dances for the North Charleston performance in May. I’m in one called The Gypsy. It’s a trio. I got permission from the choreographer to teach it to you.” She yanked a black gypsy shirt from a hanger and tossed it to Polly.
A skirt will be our prop? I thought. Sybil threw a red skirt my way.
“Kat, I think there’s a problem with the drawstring on that one. Would you mind fixing it before next week?” Sybil asked. I shouldn’t have told Sybil I was an accomplished seamstress.
I checked the drawstring openings on mine. It was an easy fix. “No problem,” I said.
She continued to look for one more skirt to complete the trio. Eventually, she tossed a green skirt to Cheryl.
“Does everyone have a solo song?” Sybil asked.
Polly pulled on her skirt and played with it, looking in the mirror. “I do. It’s a drum solo, but I’m still deciding where to fade it.”
“I like a song that talks about meeting in the desert. It’s romantic,” Cheryl said. Her green skirt hung lopsidedly.
“I’m picking a song that has a queen in it. It’s called ‘Drama Queen,’” I revealed as I fiddled with the red skirt. It was tattered and in need of tweaking.
“I want you each to have a copy of your song for next week. We’ll play them before class.” Sybil pulled on a yellow gypsy skirt and motioned for us to sit across the room. She put the CD in and pressed the play button before she turned and transitioned into a saucy wench.
She seamlessly performed her three-minute gypsy song with flamenco guitar. She swished her skirt, twirled, wrapped it around her body, dropped the edges, and road mapped from her toes to her head. She even used it as though it were a bullfighter’s cape. Her facial expressions were bright and lively, though she was dancing for us. As the song ended, she held a pose.
“Wow, Sybil! How fun is that!” Polly exclaimed.
“Good. Let’s get started,” Sybil said. “I’d like you to know this routine by auditions. It’d really impress the troupe if you had one of our dances notched on your belt. You can borrow the skirts until you order your own—black ones.” Sybil went to the mirror and pointed at the sailor-boy illustration. “We haven’t done this yet because I needed to move you into skirts.”
Ah, now that little stick figure’s making sense, I thought.
“Polly . . . you stand here. Kat . . . you’re there,” Sybil assigned positions. She pointed at the middle, “Cheryl . . . you’re there. Please stay in this order when we practice. Here’s the opening pose. Everything’s broken down in eight counts. Let’s do it.”
For the rest of our class, Sybil broke down the first four sets. Before we knew it, the hour was over. As Sybil peeled off her skirt, she threw us another dance tidbit. “By the way . . . this Saturday’s Dance for Women is at the mall. There’ll be a full Day of Dance troupe demonstration to support women’s health. Some of the troupe is performing, if you’d like to see them.”
“Man, I have to help my grandfather that day or I’d be there,” Cheryl sighed.
“What time Saturday?” I asked.
“Early. Somewhere around nine. Go to our website. It’ll be there,” Sybil quickly answered. Before anyone could pose another question, she asked us to close up the studio and disappeared into the house.
“What do you think?” I asked my classmates. My skirt dropped to my feet. I stepped out of it and gathered my bag.
Somehow, while we weren’t watching, Sybil had put a copy of the new Gypsy dance song on each of our piles.
“We’re learning a real dance,” Cheryl said. “Can you imagine us impressing everyone at audition?”
I silently wished the word audition would go into hibernation for a while.
“Driving to the mall at 8:00 a.m. for a 9:00 a.m.
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