Drenched in Light (12 page)

“Greetings, Ms. Costell. Welcome.” The teacher delivered a wise, slow smile, and everyone turned to look. “I see that we have a professional in our midst.”

My heart lurched, and for a fleeting instant, I was afraid that she’d recognized me, that we’d met sometime in the past, perhaps worked together on some performance long ago. What if she knew the truth about how I’d ended up here? If word got around, Mrs. Morris would have all the ammunition she needed to bury me. When I’d applied for the job at Harrington, I hadn’t mentioned my hospital stay, or the back-stage collapse that ended my dancing career. I’d simply acted as if, now that I’d obtained my master’s degree, it was time to stop dancing and get a real job—as if that had been the plan all along.

Mrs. Mindia wheeled a hand gracefully in front of herself. “I can see that you are well trained,” she explained, and the tension melted from my body as quickly as it had come.

“Oh, not that much,” I stammered, skirting the subject so as not to pile a new lie atop old ones. Better just to offer fewer details.

“She’s from
Harrington,
” Dell interjected, with a note of pride that surprised me. When she was actually
at
Harrington, she didn’t seem nearly so positive about the place.

Mrs. Mindia studied me from beneath her headdress, her face stern with some hidden meaning I could only wonder at. “Well, we’re glad to have someone from
Harrington
joining us. Welcome to our dance, Ms. Costell.”

“Julia,” I corrected, wondering if it was my imagination or if Mrs. Mindia had become less delighted with me as soon as Harrington was mentioned.

“Ms. Julia.” Presenting me to the class with a queenly wave of her hand, Mrs. Mindia brought the lesson to order again. Every student fell silent, and all eyes immediately faced forward. A young dancer scooted to a boom box nearby and changed the CD, cueing up a soft, slow Latin rhythm.

“Now,” said Mrs. Mindia, clapping her hands over her head, “because we have all been so attentive and done such impressive work in our yoga stretches and our study of ballet, and because all of you have been so perfectly quiet . . .” She paused to look at Justin, who was vibrating like a windup toy in the front row. Her smile widened, white against mocha-brown skin, as she went on. “We will have time to continue our around-the-world tour of dance. Because we know that as dancers, it is important to study all cultures. When we understand all cultures, we understand all things, and all people, and the world becomes a smaller place. When we think of the world as a small place, we see that there is not so much difference between ourselves and other people. Not so much distance between here and there.

“So now, let’s close our eyes and listen to the rhythms of Mexico. Perhaps you are a young child who lives in a tiny village where the wind is hot, and the streets are made of sand. Can you feel the warmth between your toes as you walk many miles to Mexico City for the
días de fiesta?
Or perhaps you come from a wealthy family, and you live in a big hacienda where the rooms have colorful clay tile, and wide wooden doors swing open to the courtyard. Today, you run to your balcony and listen, because it is no ordinary day. Can you hear the music of Cinco de Mayo coming from the plaza? Girls, will you put on your new
china poblana
dress or, boys, your handsome
traje y sombrero de charro,
and come with me? Can you hear the
zapatillas de baile
on your feet, tapping against the brick streets as we run along? Are you ready to join
jarabe tapaí,
the hat dance?”

On cue, the students opened their eyes and cried, “Yeeesss!”

“Then let’s dance!” Picking up her yoga towel, Mrs. Mindia held it around her shoulders like a shawl and said, “But first, ladies, we must have our
rebozo,
our fancy shawl made of Spanish lace so fine we could pass it through the space of a wedding ring.
Jarabe tapatío
is about color, and movement, and fabric, as much as it is about dance. It is a feast for the eyes and the senses. Young men, you may tie yours around your waist. Perhaps later, you will use it as a cape, to face the bull in the Monumental Plaza, the bullfighting ring. But, not to worry, we will never hurt the bull. We will only join him in a fierce dance, then send him on his way to smell the flowers, like Ferdinand.”

The children giggled, and Mrs. Mindia turned sideways, stomped her foot, and clapped her hands over her head. “Our
jarabe tapatío
begins like this.”

Following her lead, the children began joining her in the dance, learning the basic steps slowly at first, then more rapidly as the tempo increased. Dell, Karen, and I joined in, but this time I was no fine example. The only Latin dance I knew was a smattering I’d learned while dancing in the living room with my father, and some flamenco taught to me by my grandmother’s housekeeper, Carmen. Even though my Mexican hat dance left something to be desired, at least I was appropriately attired. My filmy flowered dress might not have been right for Red Day, but it was perfect for
jarabe tapatío
in the grade school gym.

When the dance lesson was finished, most of the kids went to the cafeteria to write about the day’s experiences in their Jumpkids journals. A few older kids proceeded to instrumental music lessons in various rooms around the school.

“I wish we had more to offer them,” Karen commented as we stood in the hall watching kids pass by. “Some of these children have real talent, and if they can’t develop it in the after-school program, they can’t develop it at all. School funding being what it is, the music and art programs here were cut long ago. The sad thing is that these kids need it more than most. In large part, they come from deprived home environments, and they go to underfunded schools. Music and dance and art open doors in their minds, but you can’t make state legislators see that.” She winced apologetically. “Sorry. I’m on my soapbox again. Coming from the corporate world, where you do what has to be done to get results, I’ve found the politics of public education a little shocking.”

“I’m just beginning to deal with that,” I said.
And it’s driving me crazy.
Nothing in my formal education had prepared me for the frustration of school bureaucracy. “How did you go from a corporation to after school arts, anyway? That seems like a huge switch.” It was hard to believe Karen was new at her job. She seemed so competent with the kids, so into her work.

Lifting her palms, she shrugged, as in,
Search me.
“It just kind of happened. The company downsized in Boston. I was laid off. I came out to Missouri to visit my sister, and the next thing I knew, I was a Jumpkid.” Her brown eyes twinkled in a way that told me there was more to the story, but in the cafeteria, the natives were getting restless. “Better watch out,” she teased. “It’s addictive.”

Laughing, I rubbed the small of my back. “I don’t think I could do this very often. Mrs. Mindia has me twisted up like a pretzel.”

“You get used to it.” Karen grinned as Mrs. Mindia came out of the gym, carrying her boom box and yoga towel-slash-flamenco skirt. “Thank you, Mrs. Mindia.”

Pausing in the doorway, she nodded, seeming regal in her turban and a long African-print dress. “As always, it was my pleasure. I must hurry off to rehearsal now, but I will see you again tomorrow,” she said to Karen. Then, turning to me, she added, “Come again and join us, Ms. Julia. I have enjoyed dancing with you very much.”

“Thank you.” I felt as if I’d been invited to tea by the queen of England. “I’ll try to do that.”

“Some Ben-Gay will help that sore back.” A wide grin spread on Mrs. Mindia’s face as she turned away and started down the hall. “Ben-Gay and regular exercise. A dancer of merit should never allow her gift to wane.”

I gaped after her, taking in the compliment.
A dancer of merit.
I hadn’t thought of myself that way in months.

“That’s high praise,” Karen commented. “Mrs. Mindia directs and dances in the Kansas City Black Dance Theater. She knows what she’s talking about. We’re really lucky to have her as a Jumpkids volunteer.”

“Wow. I guess so,” I breathed as Karen and I stood transfixed, watching Mrs. Mindia walk down the hall, her disappearing figure casting the shadow of an African queen, floating through the long beams of evening light, until she finally vanished altogether.

“Y
ou know, I was just thinking about something,” I mused after the door fell closed behind Mrs. Mindia.. “I wonder if there would be a way to partner the Jumpkids program with Harrington. Our storage closets are full of old instruments that could probably be made usable. Maybe we could even set up some Harrington students as volunteer instructors.” It was one of the ideas on the antidrug Web sites—get kids involved in the community. Give them activities that matter. Help them develop a sense of purpose.

Karen’s expression said,
Oh, you poor little thing. You’re adorable, but you don’t have any idea what’s realistic, do you?
It reminded me of Mr. Stafford. “I’ll be honest,” she said finally. “I’ve already tried the Harrington route, and I was shown the door.”

“Really?” I drew back, surprised. “I can’t imagine why, because part of the school charter is arts as a community service. Harrington kids are supposed to complete school and community service hours as a curriculum requirement. Back when I was a student, we did everything from concerts for famine relief to collecting school supplies for orphanages in Mexico.” I sounded like a tour guide, a Stepford counselor, describing the perfect school environment, full of happy, extraordinary, high-minded kids who wanted to make the world a better place.

One of the older Jumpkids, passing by on her way to the cafeteria, stopped to ogle me. “Pppfff,” she scoffed, with an in-your-face head bob that seemed far too grown up for a girl who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. “Harrington kids don’ leave Harrington, unless they goin’ by the buzz bomb stand to pick up some weed or score some bolt. And das the truth.”

Karen flushed. “Shamika, that’s enough. That was rude, wasn’t it?”

Pressing her lips into a straight, tight line, Shamika muttered, “Yes, ma’am. Sorry,” and hurried on to the cafeteria.

Karen apologized. “Naturally, the children here harbor some resentment toward Harrington. It’s hard to be where they are, watching the have-everything kids drive expensive cars, wear nice clothes, and carry instruments that cost more than the household incomes of families in Simmons-Haley. I hate to sound cynical, but I did try to get Harrington involved with the Jumpkids program last fall when Dell started there. I pushed pretty hard, and finally I was afraid I might be jeopardizing Dell’s situation, so I let it go. She’s had enough drama in her life this past year, and she’s adjusted so well, I didn’t want her to start having trouble at school.”

She’s already having trouble at school,
I thought, and my mind began sifting through a complicated web of counseling ethics, confidentiality, school rules, professional confidences, and the overriding promise I’d made to Dell:
What’s said in my office stays in my office.
How far should that go? Where was the dividing line between communicating with the parent and betraying the child? The truth was that I didn’t know. A few semesters in a master’s degree program and a short internship don’t prepare you for what awaits in the real world.

Passing through the cafeteria with an armload of notebooks, Dell eyed us warily, and started in our direction.

Karen, her back to the door, kept talking. “No offense intended, but the powers that be at Harrington only seem to be interested in a
certain
”—holding up her fingers, she encased the word in invisible quotation marks—“kind of kid. I’ve had the nagging feeling that there are some who resent Dell’s presence there, in spite of the fact that she made it through the audition process, and she has an incredible talent. If she isn’t the
kind
of kid Harrington is intended to serve, I can’t imagine who is, but I get the impression some people think her being there might open up the floodgates to every underprivileged child with an uncommon talent. You’d think the admissions committee would be seeking out kids who need a leg up, but the former Jumpkids director told me she sent some talented kids through the application process, and not one of them was accepted.” Face tightening with frustration, she braced her hands on her hips. “Explain that to me, will you, because I don’t understand.”

I didn’t have an answer—not one I could share with a parent, anyway. Dell had come within earshot and was obviously listening, so I diverted the subject to something safer. “Maybe some donations of old instruments and student volunteer hours would open the lines of communication. People are afraid of what they don’t understand.”

Dell slipped into the hallway with us, her brows rising with interest as she propped the stack of notebooks on her hip.

“True enough,” Karen acquiesced, but her expression was doubtful. Absently, she slid Dell’s loose ponytail holder from her hair, smoothed the tangled strands with her fingers, and replaced the hairband. Kissing Dell on the top of her head, she leaned over to look at her. “What did you need, sweetheart?”