Before I Forget by Tory Henwood Hoen - 14

As I drive to Paula’s dance class the following Tuesday, I call my mom. I’m on a stretch of road where I know I will have exactly five minutes of reliable cell service: the perfect amount of time to check in and speedily exit the conversation before she starts giving me life advice.

She picks up after one ring. “Cricket! Perfect timing. I was just telling George we should have you here for Thanksgiving this year. Nina could pop down from Stockholm.”

My mother met George Ratliff-Jones, a very British man with a very British name, on a red-eye from New York to London four years ago. They were seated next to each other on the overnight flight, and to this day, they like to joke that they “slept together on their first date”—a quip that I could do without. At the time, my mother’s consulting career had her regularly commuting between New York and London. They struck up a transatlantic romance, and when COVID hit just a few months later, they decided to go all in. My mother moved into George’s house in St. John’s Wood, and less than a year later, they were married. I still don’t know him well, but he seems like a good match for her. And it’s fitting that, whereas she met my father in the sewers of New York, she met George in business class at thirty thousand feet. It’s where she always aspired to be.

“Thanksgiving—that’s months away,” I say. “And I didn’t know you still celebrated, now that you’re English.”

“We don’t, usually,” she muses. “But we could approximate it this year. Remind me: Do you like quail?”

“It’s a nice idea, Mom, but I can’t leave Dad here alone.”

“Of course you can.” She doesn’t seem to understand that I have a real responsibility now. I am neither as flexible nor as persuadable as I used to be. “You don’t have a job yet, do you?”

“Actually, I might. A consulting gig. I’m heading to a meeting right now to iron out the details,” I say, embellishing just enough.

“Fabulous! For whom? Where?”

“A local business in Locust.”

“Oh.” Her voice falls.

“Do you remember my old dance teacher, Paula Garibaldi?”

“Vaguely.” She swiftly moves on. “Have you thought about Europe? You know, George could easily find you something here. In fact, I was just…”

“Mom, I can’t hear you. I think you’re breaking up.” I timed things perfectly. She says something about taking your future more seriously and then something about Nina, and I hear her say quail again before the line goes dead.

Though we speak almost every week, she still won’t acknowledge that I have made a commitment here. It’s as if my choosing to live at Catwood Pond somehow offends her on a personal level. She still thinks I should want what she wants and do as she does. She has never really seen me for who I am.

A few minutes later, I turn onto the dirt drive that leads to Miss Paula’s. Carl has agreed to hang out with my father for the evening while I “do something for myself.” I keep my expectations low as I envision myself doing sad jazz hands in the mirrored barn where I used to prance in my youth, but I figure that, at the very least, a little exercise and human interaction can’t hurt—and if some employment comes out of it, all the better.

As soon as I park, I can feel a distinct energy in the air. The door to the barn is slightly ajar, and I tentatively poke my head in. The space is as I remember it: rustic but clean, with low lights and a huge mirror taking up an entire wall of the structure. There are four people inside: Sal from the hardware store, a middle-aged woman, a gangly teenage boy, and, of course, there is Paula, who is dressed in sheer black tights and a low-back tiger-print leotard. Her hair is loose, and her powdery purple eyeshadow fades artfully into her brow bone. The Pointer Sisters’ “Slow Hand” drifts through the air, and Paula calls out to me: “Jump right in! We’re warming up!”

I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and take a place in front of the mirror, where everyone is slowly writhing, hips revolving, shoulders rolling. For a moment, I regret my frumpy sweatpants and oversized T-shirt, but as I look around at the other outfits—denim cutoffs on Sal, a teal unitard on the teenage boy—it seems that anything goes here.

“Listen to the words. What’s she saying? I want a lover with an easy touch. ” Paula dips her pelvis and answers her own question: “So make it easy!”

She throws her upper body toward the floor in a half-fold, and then slowly rolls up, dragging her hands over her torso inch by inch. Everyone follows suit. This is a far cry from the bubbly modern jazz of my youth. Honestly, I don’t know what this is—but I like it.

The Pointer Sisters gives way to a smooth Janet Jackson jam, and Paula purrs in her authoritative rasp: “For our newcomer, we have only one rule for the next hour: no thinking. Let your body take it from here.”

The other three members of the class whoop in excitement, and Paula starts to call out dance steps that I used to know by heart. “To the right: chassé , chassé , passé , and body roll! To the left…”

This could be my opportunity to chassé my way right out the door, but I drove seventeen minutes to be here, so I decide to surrender to the experience.

Everyone seems to know what they’re doing. I try to follow along, but I’m always a few steps behind. When Sal (who is next to me in his short-shorts) swiftly changes direction during a sultry hip roll, I almost run into him. He gives me a forgiving wink, and I feel myself relax. There’s no question that I am by far the worst dancer here—my wild flailing in the mirror confirms this fact—but it’s equally clear that no one is keeping score. A moment later, we’re crawling across the floor like pulsating leopards, then popping up and spinning to the far wall. I had wanted a new life, and here it is: I’m 350 miles north of New York City, deep in the woods, shimmying around a barn with four people who are taking this just seriously enough. Suddenly it hits me: this is the most fun I’ve had in years.

By the time we finish our cooldown, I’m glossy with sweat and giddy from adrenaline. My fellow dancers come up to introduce themselves, and suddenly I feel like I’m part of a gang of unruly misfits. As they trickle out of the barn into the night, Paula approaches. “You’ve still got it.”

This is beyond generous, but I accept the compliment and say, “That was so fun. Were your classes always this saucy?”

Paula shakes her head. “I’ve gotten much saucier with age.”

“Well, I really needed that. It’s been an adjustment, moving here. But maybe I just needed to dance.”

Paula nods proudly, like a guru whose student has finally begun to see the light. “You know, I’m a Manhattan transplant, too. Years back. Way before I taught you the first time around.”

“Really? I don’t think I knew that. You don’t miss the city?”

“Of course I miss the city. I’d give my eyeteeth for one more run on Broadway, but you’ve got to dance where you are, baby.” She begins walking around the barn, tidying up and turning off lights. “So, let’s talk admin. I need all the help I can get to bring in new students. Word of mouth used to be sufficient, but I know I should be doing more. I’ve just never been a computer person. I mean, I do email—I love email—but that’s about it.”

“I get it,” I say. “I can definitely help. It won’t take much to set up a website, start building your digital mailing list, and maybe get you on Instagram, if you’re up for it.”

We settle on an hourly rate that feels modest but fair, plus Paula says I can come to any of her classes free of charge.

It’s not a career, but it’s a move in the right direction. I gather my things, and as I approach the door, Paula adds: “I’m glad you’ve come back, Cricket. You can have a nice life here if you’re willing to get a little creative.”