Read Online Being Hartley by Allison Rushby - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Allison Rushby
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shorts, grab my iPad, and I'm off.
* * *
It's nice to have a cousin who has a fully decked-out private dance studio, I think to myself as I pause to wipe the sweat from my neck with one of the studio's soft white hand towels. One song down, four to go, I check the homework list on my laptop to see what's next.
I set this homework as a New Year's resolution for myself. The thing was, I knew I spent all this time whining that I couldn't go to this hip hop class, or that hip hop workshop. It took one of my dancing friends to point out that maybe I could use what I did have to my advantage—time and space. I had a bit more time than a lot of the other dancers I knew. I was tutored instead of going to school, so there wasn't all that driving, or walking to and from school, or minutes wasted getting to the next class. And, being an only child, I generally had a whole lot of space wherever we were—home, London, or even if we were in rented accommodations because Mom was filming somewhere else.
So, I made a plan. I was already learning all of the SMD routines by heart each week. That was a good start. To this, I added a new goal. I'd copy the routines from three music videos in the top fifty each week. After all, there was usually a whole lot of hip hop in the top fifty, and to stand out, the dancing had to be pretty amazing. Even if there were only a few sequences to learn per clip, that was something.
Anyway, that's what I did. I stuck to it. And after just three months, I already knew for sure that I'd made a huge improvement. My dancing was way tighter. I had to think about it less. It seemed to come more naturally. When three music videos started to get easier for me, I stepped things up to five. At this point, I found I had to start using the top one hundred chart, because the singles wouldn't move around enough week to week. And, every so often, to mix things up a bit, I'd add in something for some fun—I'd do something like go back a decade and pick out a music video from that same week ten years ago.
I'd been a decent dancer before, I knew that. But now, eight months into the year? I knew I was getting up there. Sure, I was weak in some areas, like tap. And pretty nonexistent in others (hello, ballroom). I was no all-rounder. But when I got to dance how I wanted to dance, I was good. Bordering on really good.
Of course, I still have no idea how being "really good" is going to be useful to me (studying dance at college, maybe? I don't know…). I used to ask myself that question a lot but stopped when one of the teachers at a workshop I was at pointed out it didn't matter. For now, she told me, I should simply enjoy the fact that I felt good about dancing while I was dancing. Maybe that was enough.
With a shake of my head, I remind myself to move on to the next clip before my body really does get tired. I take one last wipe at my sweaty neck, watch the clip again carefully, trying to memorize the sequence I'm supposed to be getting down. Then, when I think I've got it, I turn the music back up.
It's as I take a couple of steps forward closer to the mirrored wall that I notice a bright pink flash out of the corner of my eye, just outside of the studio doorway. Is that…? Yep, it is. I go over and switch the music off again. "Uncle Erik," I say. "You can come out now."
"Ah, yes. Thea. Hello!" Uncle Erik steps into the studio, half-hiding something behind his back.
"Off for a game of tennis?" I eye the ultra-pink racquet.
"Ha ha. Well, no. Not really." He looks sheepish.
"Isn't it meant to be a baseball bat that you beat up intruders with?"
He pauses. "I couldn't seem to find my baseball bat."
I nod. "Well, I hope I wasn't too noisy," I say. "Sorry, I should have closed the door."
"No, it's fine. I'm afraid I'm not sleeping very well these days. Any little noise, and I'm up."
I'm not sure what to tell him. He looks like he's having a pretty tough time of things. "Want me to get you a glass of warm milk or
* * *
It's nice to have a cousin who has a fully decked-out private dance studio, I think to myself as I pause to wipe the sweat from my neck with one of the studio's soft white hand towels. One song down, four to go, I check the homework list on my laptop to see what's next.
I set this homework as a New Year's resolution for myself. The thing was, I knew I spent all this time whining that I couldn't go to this hip hop class, or that hip hop workshop. It took one of my dancing friends to point out that maybe I could use what I did have to my advantage—time and space. I had a bit more time than a lot of the other dancers I knew. I was tutored instead of going to school, so there wasn't all that driving, or walking to and from school, or minutes wasted getting to the next class. And, being an only child, I generally had a whole lot of space wherever we were—home, London, or even if we were in rented accommodations because Mom was filming somewhere else.
So, I made a plan. I was already learning all of the SMD routines by heart each week. That was a good start. To this, I added a new goal. I'd copy the routines from three music videos in the top fifty each week. After all, there was usually a whole lot of hip hop in the top fifty, and to stand out, the dancing had to be pretty amazing. Even if there were only a few sequences to learn per clip, that was something.
Anyway, that's what I did. I stuck to it. And after just three months, I already knew for sure that I'd made a huge improvement. My dancing was way tighter. I had to think about it less. It seemed to come more naturally. When three music videos started to get easier for me, I stepped things up to five. At this point, I found I had to start using the top one hundred chart, because the singles wouldn't move around enough week to week. And, every so often, to mix things up a bit, I'd add in something for some fun—I'd do something like go back a decade and pick out a music video from that same week ten years ago.
I'd been a decent dancer before, I knew that. But now, eight months into the year? I knew I was getting up there. Sure, I was weak in some areas, like tap. And pretty nonexistent in others (hello, ballroom). I was no all-rounder. But when I got to dance how I wanted to dance, I was good. Bordering on really good.
Of course, I still have no idea how being "really good" is going to be useful to me (studying dance at college, maybe? I don't know…). I used to ask myself that question a lot but stopped when one of the teachers at a workshop I was at pointed out it didn't matter. For now, she told me, I should simply enjoy the fact that I felt good about dancing while I was dancing. Maybe that was enough.
With a shake of my head, I remind myself to move on to the next clip before my body really does get tired. I take one last wipe at my sweaty neck, watch the clip again carefully, trying to memorize the sequence I'm supposed to be getting down. Then, when I think I've got it, I turn the music back up.
It's as I take a couple of steps forward closer to the mirrored wall that I notice a bright pink flash out of the corner of my eye, just outside of the studio doorway. Is that…? Yep, it is. I go over and switch the music off again. "Uncle Erik," I say. "You can come out now."
"Ah, yes. Thea. Hello!" Uncle Erik steps into the studio, half-hiding something behind his back.
"Off for a game of tennis?" I eye the ultra-pink racquet.
"Ha ha. Well, no. Not really." He looks sheepish.
"Isn't it meant to be a baseball bat that you beat up intruders with?"
He pauses. "I couldn't seem to find my baseball bat."
I nod. "Well, I hope I wasn't too noisy," I say. "Sorry, I should have closed the door."
"No, it's fine. I'm afraid I'm not sleeping very well these days. Any little noise, and I'm up."
I'm not sure what to tell him. He looks like he's having a pretty tough time of things. "Want me to get you a glass of warm milk or
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