Box step. Feather step. Whisking. Winging. Weaving steps in the shape of a grapevine. Swiveling hips and pulling arms: flossing, flossing. Feeling the electric slide. Twisting. Twerking. Fountaining arms and shimmying middles, like a sprinkler. Hey, Macarena!
I have never been much of a dancer myself, but I love watching others move and learning the names for their steps, something I picked up, perhaps, from eighth-grade cotillions.
Maybe the best viewing of all? Michael Jackson moonwalking: gliding backwards as if on bladed skates and smooth ice. Pulling up to tips of toes. But before it was moonwalking, it was backsliding. The buzz is what jazz singer and bandleader Cab Calloway called it when he dazzled audiences with the move in the 1930s.
An uprooted stalk dangled from one hand, pink and fleshy, slender as a neck. A thrill bloomed in Hannah’s chest. Rhubarb, she thought, and she became excited in spite of herself, in spite of knowing better (because of it?), that they should never rip plants from the garden.
Ma recognized the feral look in the reptiles’ eyes, the desperation in their throat flares—hunting for a mate. At least Fred had left the girlfriends behind and there was nowhere on this lake to find another.
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