Page 22 of Maximum Bet

Looks like a direct flight to Puerto Rico is out of the question.

Chapter 10

Cassandra

Plié in second.

No, wait. That’s not what they call it.

Down?

That’s all the instructor keeps saying.

Thenup, turn on my heel, hit, hit, hair, attitude.

But not the ballet positionattitude, like a sassy attitude.

Ugh.

I’m never going to get this.

“Okay, from the top!”

I turn to Whitney, exasperation written all over my face. How the hell am I supposed to keep up with this hip-hop routine? I should never have come to class with her. I’m aballetdancer. I don’t belong here.

Whitney laughs and sends me a flippant, “You’ve got this.”

So, without another choice, I take a deep breath and hit my beginning position. The music starts, bass thumping, and I force myself to relax, feel the vibrations, let my body move to the beat.

I’m standing in the back, allowing the seasoned girls to lead from the front. I keep my eyes half on the mirror and half on them so I can follow their steps if I lose the choreography.

Hit, pop, pivot, down.

Trip over my own feet.

Damn it. I recover and fall back into step. I spot myself in the mirror and want to groan. I’m not exuding any of the confidence I usually have when I dance. I look as lost as I feel.

The piece ends, and my shoulders slump.

That was a burning dumpster fire.

“See, that wasn’t bad.” Whitney turns to me with a grin.

“Maybe not for you.” I scoff. “Did you see me? I look like a baby giraffe that hasn’t learned to walk. All stiff limbs.”

“You’re exaggerating.” She steps aside to grab her water bottle. “It just takes some time to get used to new choreography, that’s all.”

I sip my water through the straw of my Stanley cup. “If you say so.”

“All right.” The instructor, a man with dark skin, dreadlocks, and more positivity than I’ve ever seen in a dance teacher, claps once, spurring us back into the center of the floor. “You guys killed it, but let’s work on loosening up. I can tell who my jazz and ballet dancers are.” He winks, and I groan. “From the top!”

We run through the dance again and again, getting corrections each time. By the end of class, I understand the movement minutely better, but I’m nowhere close to a professional level.

“I hope to see you all again on Thursday morning,” the instructor says as we collect our belongings. “I’ve got new choreo you’re gonna love!”

I dry my neck off with a towel while Whitney chats about last night’s date: a guy she met at a club. She’s sure he’s the one.He drives a Porsche, which in her world makes him marriage material.

“Hey, new girl.”