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pas de deux was being performed by a boy and girl. A man and woman, really; they were both in their early twenties.
    The boy was dressed in gray tights and a white tee shirt, tied tight at the waist. Conservatory trained, thought Lindy. The girl wore bright red nylon gym shorts, bare legs and pointe shoes covered with pink ankle warmers. Her long legs ended in boatlike feet that arched so much they threatened to break the shank of her shoe.
    “Pull out of your feet, Ginny.” The correction came out in a thick accent. Katarina Flick, the oldest of the teachers at the camp, beat the floor with a stick. “Ach, why don’t you lift up?” She raised the stick in the air. Madame Flick was dressed entirely in black and had seen thinner years. And though she couldn’t be over five feet tall, she commanded the room like a general on horseback.
    Ginny prepared for a pirouette in front of her partner. She pushed into passé position and began the turn; the boy’s hands encircled her waist to support her. She was leaning to the right. Lindy shifted in her seat in the opposite direction as if the motion could bring the girl back on balance. The boy had to pull her back into position.
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    Shelley Freydont
    The stick banged several times on the floor. “Stop, stop.” Madame Flick ambled forward onto the dance floor. Ginny collapsed forward on straight legs, pressing her hands to the floor.
    “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that it’s so hot and humid. I can’t find my energy.”
    “Ach, and dressed like that.” Flick pointed her stick at the red shorts. “You should complain? Come. We are aaall waiting.” She turned her back on the girl and looked over her shoulder. “I knooow you can do it.” The music started; Ginny took her preparation and completed a perfect triple pirouette. Her partner stopped her in passé and her leg developé d to the side until her foot pointed to the ceiling.
    Then she rotated to an arabesque. The boy dipped her forward into penché . The corps began to bourrée across the floor.
    Flick rested both hands on her stick, weight balanced between her two feet. “Sooo talented,” she said with an exasperated sigh.
    The piece ended a few minutes later and the dancers flocked around Madame Flick. She disappeared from view. Only the sound of her corrections could be heard echoing from the crowd that surrounded her.
    The dancers for the next piece took their places, forming a circle in the middle of the floor. They were barefoot and wore various styles of gym clothes. They were already sweating from warming up on the sides of the room.
    Lindy felt the sweat trickle down her neck. She ran her hand under her chin.
    “It’s the rain,” said Robert. “One minute it’s chilly and they’re all wearing sweats, and then the sun comes out and off come the clothes.”
    Robert popped a tape into the music system that sat on a trolley next to him. “ There is a Time. I reconstructed it a few years ago and it was so successful, I decided to bring it back this year.”
    Lindy nodded. “It’s one of the great classics.” José Limon, the choreographer, was the protégé of Doris Humphrey and the Rise and Fall school of modern dance. Not only an accomplished dancer, master choreographer, and superb painter, José had been the consummate gentleman. And though he had been dead for twenty years, he had been an inspiration to several generations of dancers, including Lindy’s. She knew that these young dancers probably only knew of him from dance history courses. Perhaps, a few had never even heard his name.
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    “They should have a chance to experience where their craft has come from.”
    “And you can’t do better than Time. It’s my favorite.”
    The Della Joio music began. The dancers rose on demi pointe.
    Lindy’s feelings rose with them, and her eyes misted over. It happened every time she saw this piece, whether in the theater or on the crackling and slipping old 35-millimeter