I’d never given my body much thought; it was simply a vehicle, and any movement was strictly utilitarian. So when I had to choreograph an original routine for dance class, it felt like trying to write an essay in a new language.
“I know this looks like a sheep, but I promise it’s a uterus,” I said, gesturing at the ambiguous cartoon in question.
My plan for eighth grade would have been perfect, if only Advanced Guitar hadn’t conflicted with Honors Geometry. But it did, so my counselor put me in Percussion, a class comprised of twenty foul-mouthed druggies and burnouts.