Page 13 of Body Language
Ty dropped low in front of me and started doing what only she can do: Twerking. In Waves. Ripples. Shakes that made gravity question itself.
That cornbread-and-collard-green fed booty of hers was talking and had the room silent. Not a word. Just the sound of bass and disbelief. MeganTheStallion could never. Jell-O should sue.
That ass didn’t bounce, it floated. Like it had rhythm insurance.
I swung myself up the pole with one leg hooked, spinning sideways before I hit a split so clean, you’d think I was Elastigirl offThe Incredibles.
Upside down, heels in the air, I made them stilettos clap like I was cheering for all my naysayers.
And at the same exact time, Ty was on the ground making her ass clap. That natural percussion God gave her syncing perfectly with my heels.
Same sound. Same time. Same power.
We didn’t even have to look at each other because we already knew. She hit the floor and flipped her hair back as she bounced and couchie-popped like her rent was due and the water bill was waiting. She climbed the pole with all thighs and legs gripping like it was personal. She hit a full upside-down split. And as she did, I dropped too.
Split to split. Symmetrical sin. We landed couchie-to-couchie, still clapping, still locked in.
The other girls stopped breathing. Arlette’s pen dropped. The DJ damn near screamed.
When we move together, it's more than entertainment. We’re proof that survival has choreography.
She bounced. I popped. She swirled. I flipped. And when that final bass dropped, I landed and flipped into a handstand, and started walking on my hands in a circle around Ty, heels clapping like gunshots.
Ty arched into a full bridge on the floor—legs wide, head tilted back, tongue out and started throwing ass.
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
My heels. Her cheeks. Perfect. Fucking. Sync.
The sound hit the walls like thunder and temptation had a baby. When the beat gave us that final drop, we jumped up at the same time, backs to the crowd, and hit our final pose.
One hand on our hip, the other to the ceiling like we were collecting tips straight from heaven.
Unbothered. Untouchable. And we didn’t say a word because when you end a performance like that,the silence is the applause.
Arlette was still sitting with her mouth open like she’d just seen Jesus do the cha-cha in red bottoms.
She blinked and adjusted her bangles. Then slowly stood up, fanning herself with the clipboard like the Holy Ghost had crept into her spirit.
“I—”
She paused. Looked around. Then looked back at us.
“I don’t need to see another DAMN thing.”
The whole room turned. Arlette turned to the girl holding a second clipboard off to the side and snapped,
“Go ahead and tell the girls in Rooms B and C to head out. They can go home, rehearse, and try again next time.”
Gasps. The girls in the room snapped their necks like they’d just heard their man say he don’t like weave.
“Wait, WHAT?”
“I know tf not.”
“Hell naw. This some bullshit—”
She raised a finger like she was pressing pause on the mess.
