“Good work today Jenna,” Madame says as she walks by, her steps steady and precise as always. “Thank you,” I say, secretly pleased she actually knows my name. It took me almost all of freshman year last year to make it into her elite dance class and staying here during the summer means I get to take classes from her where most of the other dancers at Garvin are off swimming, eating fried catfish and flying off to Hawaii. I wipe my face with the towel again, enjoying the last few breaths of cool air from the air conditioner before braving the inferno outside that is Texas in August. Even with the window unit firing at full blast, the ancient machine is no match for the heat outside and the studio is sticky and humid. I pile my hair on top of my head, securing it with one of the hundreds of elastic bands floating around in the bottom of my bag, slip my flip flops on my feet and step out into the blazing afternoon sun. No matter what anyone says, you never get used to this kind of heat, and I feel the sweat roll down my back as I walk toward the stadium.
