Re: Studio: Wren & Ryan
Ry knew about doors. She'd left one and gone to another, right. Had the phone in her locker, the one that scrolled through other people talking. But she didn't know nothing about being younger, about what was ahead. She knew Wren was older but youth didn't demand una explicación and way she remembered Wren, it wasn't age. It was movement.
She could of said, right. The ballet studio was home the way Harlem was home but different. Home was people, jostled together and laughing big and eating with the music in the background. Maybe a brother was in jail and maybe her sister, she was knocked up again but Harlem didn't expect her to be different, right. She was just a Ramos. They didn't know nothing about ballet and her family, they didn't sit in the stalls and clap. They were proud but they didn't walk that world easy. Maybe she didn't want to see them try and watch them falter, not when her brothers walked their world with confidence.
The company, it didn't give a shit she was Ramos, she was steps on a stage and it didn't say nothing to intercede when the white girls had been bitches to start with. Nah, it was studios like this one that didn't make no difference between brown and white, Ryan and Ramos that was home. A place she could be both and nobody gave a shit.
"That how you wanna be?" Ry, she wanted to be read by everyone, if she was words anyplace. Neon, six feet high. She wanted to be known, same place she wanted to dance, deep and burning. But Wren, maybe she wanted to be a secret nobody else knew. The dark eyes upturned to Wren didn't say nothing about judgement.
"I think you say it fine. And nah, it's here." Curled fist, knocked against breastbone. "It's me, no matter what. But sometimes I like it outside, 'stead of in. Dance is who I am."
But Ry grinned in response to that shining smile because OK, the woman with the yoga pants didn't need dance to make her something. She didn't want to be lit up by a man - but that was her, right. "So what's the problem, chica. No one else does?"