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churn.
    The sweat is now beading up in the crevasse between my breasts and I blow softly to dry it. Why can’t I just be careful with the money and stay hidden away until my memory returns? But the answer is clear: the few days in the motel proved to me I can’t be alone and I don’t know when, if ever, my memory will return. Still, at the moment, some dull restaurant job looks pretty appealing.
    Breathing in deeply to calm my nerves, I smell the sweaty bodies and the wooden floor, the distinct tang of a dance studio. The scent and feel of a dance studio were familiar the minute I walked in to take class two days ago. Dispelling nervous energy through quick jumps on the floor, I know that it’s wood with space underneath, not wood laid over concrete , which hurts the legs. How do I know this? Perhaps the same way I knew exactly what to buy at the dance shop, choosing the items that would be just right for the audition and class.
    My legs are warmed up enough to do side splits and it feels good now to slide to the floor , even though my muscles are still sore from class. Taking Hip Hop was awkward for me, but not impossible. My body knew what to do some of the time. When I was thanking the instructor afterward, she said, “It’s tough to make the transition from ballet to street dancing, isn’t it?” She was right. My body craved the order and militarism of ballet. It must have been obvious to her. I just nodded, oddly saddened. She knew more about me than I do.
    My thoughts are interrupted by the sudden entrance of several official-looking people. The tension in the room vibrates with the arrival of a woman in her thirties and a younger male, both in dance clothes, and three older men. The men settle themselves behind a folding table, scraping back chairs, surveying the room. The two dancers busy themselves with the sound system and ignore us completely.
    The tension feels unbearable. My legs scissor me into a standing position facing one of the mirrors lining the walls, so my back is turned to everyone. The reflections disturbingly multiply the number of people in the room, pressing in on me. The woman—skeletal, black hair slicked back into a ponytail—seems to be in charge. Choreographer, undoubtedly. She gracefully gestures while talking to the male dancer, her swan neck moving liquidly with her words. Soon, addressing our group with a British accent, she tells us the format of the audition, but I don’t hear it because a roaring has begun in my ears. She finishes her description with a dramatic flourish of her arms and glides away to speak with the men at the table.
    My bowels begin to act up and my right knee starts shaking. How can I dance when my muscles are seizing up and I might have diarrhea? This thought propels me toward my gear lying by the wall. I can’t possibly do this. I have to get out of here . Stumbling with my things toward the door, my foot catches the leg of another dancer and she cries out in surprise. An apology dies on my lips when her expression changes to a smirk as she notices I’m leaving.
    Embarrassment and anger make my face feel hot. We’re caught in time staring at one another: me with my face glowing scarlet and her with that smirk that makes me want to slap her. She blinks first and it takes me a millisecond to change course. I fling my bag to the wall, march straight back to the center of the dancers, and stretch furiously. I may have stepped on the smirker’s toes a little on the way back. I’m not sure.
    My c hest tightens painfully when the choreographer’s assistant moves to the floor and announces they’re going to begin. This is it. I look around wildly and catch the eye of an auburn-haired, long-legged dancer who gives me a charming, crooked grin. It calms me down and makes me feel better.
    They begin by teaching us the ballet combination. Ballet is good. This should be lucky for me. Then why do I feel like I’m going to vomit? The other girls seem just fine,