Page 374 of The Winslow Brothers

Lou follows her without as much enthusiasm, and I try to act like I didn’t see where they went. Like, maybe, they’ll forget I’m here, and I can sneak out and ask Peppy if there are any Pop-Tarts in the lobby vending machine.

“Rae!” Lydia whisper-yells toward me, and when I don’t respond—and also pretend not to understand where the sound is coming from—she decides to raise her voice loud enough that Hip-Hop Holly looks up from her toe-touching stretch and directly at me.

Busted.

“Hi. Sorry,” I say and awkwardly shuffle over to where Lydia and Lou are located.

My sister-in-law gives me a look that saysnice try, and all I can do is shrug.

Lydia is already getting her stretch on, and I do my best to follow Hip-Hop Holly’s instructions as she guides us through all sorts of exercises that are thankfully pretty easy.

Some quad stretches. A few lunges. Several squats. A nice two-minute stretch that includes me sitting down and touching my toes.

Okay, maybe this isn’t going to be so bad.

As soon as the peaceful thought enters my mind, Holly starts to getrealhyped up. She jumps on the balls of her feet and claps her hands and starts shouting things like “Let’s get this party started, ladies!”

It’s that moment when she starts to lose me. And by the look on Lou’s face, I know I’m not alone in my underwhelmed, not-amped-at-all state.

Lydia, though, well, she’s following right along, jumping around and clapping her hands and shit. A whole lot of enthusiasm vibrates from her body.

When I see the rest of the class is loving what Holly is putting down, I make a concerted effort to make the best of it. To go with it. To search deep within myself and find some hippity-hoppity vibes.

But when Holly puts on a song called “Dirty Talk” and begins to show the class the dance we’re supposed to learn, things really start to take a nose dive for me.

Holly isall into her routine, rubbing her hands over her sports-bra-covered boobs as she mouths the lyrics aboutnot being an angelandwhipped creamanddirty talkandgoing downand all kinds of sexual shit with pouty lips and hips that won’t quit.

She’s up and she’s down.

She’s on the floor, rolling around, and then she’s back up again, spreading her thighs like she’s riding a dick and rubbing her hands seductively down her thighs.

She hip thrusts. She twerks. She even does the fucking splits.

At one point, she gets a chair and proceeds to do some sort of interpretative lap dance on it.

“Um…” I pause and look over at Lou. “Are we in the right class?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why do I feel like I need to pay her when this dance is over?”

Lou bites her bottom lip, fighting the urge to laugh again. Lydia glares at me. “Stop it, Rae.”

“Lydia, I love you, but, like, this is a lot for six in the morning.”

When the music comes to a stop, everyone in the class starts cheering, and Hip-Hop Holly smiles and takes a little bow. “Aw, you guys are too much! Thank you! Thank you!”

Once the fanfare is done, she grabs a towel, dabs the sweat from her forehead, and announces, “Okay, ladies, who is ready to learn the dance?”

Ha-ha-ha.No. It’s too early for this shit.

Self-preservation activated.

Hoots and hollers fill the room, and I proceed to utilize a dance move I like to call “getting the fuck out of here.”

“Rae, where are you going?” Lydia whisper-yells to my exiting back, and I don’t hesitate to point toward the door.

“I’ll be out in the lobby with Peppy.”

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