Skye sat in the corner of the dance studio elevating her swollen ankle on a Recovery Lounger. The gel-filled La-Z-Boy alternated from hot to cold every twenty minutes to keep injuries from turning into surgeries. It also worked wonders on swelling heads. One more class on the sidelines and Skye’s ego would be the size of an airbrushed pore. Mimi sashayed by while demonstrating a cabriole. She landed a yard away from Skye’s foot and gasped, “Music, pause!” Every dancer stopped along with the music, and Mimi heel-toed over to the Recovery Lounger. She gripped her hips. “Sleeves, have you completely given up?” “Of course not, no.” Skye’s melting spine stiffened. What was Mimi talking about? She had spent the better part of an hour committing every step to memory; couldn’t she see Skye’s eyes working overtime? Her mind’s feet were moving to Mimi’s choreography, her ankle throbbing to the beat of the smoky jazz.
