African dance is like a bird song. Polyrhythm is a nest upon which wings beat... a base for taking off.
Lucy, not a dancer, swallowed hard. Her sweaty palms seemed superglued inside her pockets. Her butt felt unexpectedly cumbersome, and her feet like putty.
And yet, the dancers were using their bodies to escort her to stage center.
An entire fair full of people froze to watch her freeze. Big Tex murmured something and then chuckled into a belly laugh.
Lucy glanced up at his cowboy hat, ironically. The beat was chasing her. She glanced at her gleeful family, excited for what dance may come. Her eyes slid over a bus seat full of time into the new guy's eyes.
They looked strong and soft and calm, like he was floating under his favorite tree.
And so, whether it was the rhythm or the crowd or the boy or the incredibly insistent Africans, Lucy slowly began to move her hips.
This dance involved booty shaking.
She'd never done that before.
She didn't even hear the music. She heard one of her favorite runnings songs instead: "Crabbuckit" by Good Lovelies.
She began to spin. She began to kick. She began to reach. She began to hop. She began to wiggle. She began to pulse. She began to shimmy.
She began to smile.
And the whole world smiled with her.
Including a boy.
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