Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mallory

There's something overwhelmingly satisfying about a group of thirty-odd women—all different shapes, sizes, ethnicities, and economic backgrounds—shaking their asses to J. Cole's "She Knows."

"Six, seven, eight!" I yell, clapping out the beat as I walk around the studio.

Every Thursday afternoon, I offer a free hip hop class. It's open to anyone in New Hope, but over the past four years, it's become a beacon for tired, overworked, and underappreciated women. Memorizing choreography isn't important, so most improvise their moves. The class focuses on letting loose, being confident in your own skin, and embracing the flaws that make us who we are.

I stand next to Laura, a sixty-seven-year-old mother of five, popping my hip out along with her. She grins, twirling around and shaking her booty in the mirror. I give her a few encouraging pats on the bum, and the room erupts in laughter.

As someone who started ballet at a young age, it was a struggle to find my individuality in the dance world. My teachers were strict, as most ballerinas are. They made me keep logs of my food, penalizing me if I 'cheated' and ate an Oreo. They'd keep me after class for strength conditioning, saying I needed to burn off the extra sixty calories. It's a miracle I didn't develop an eating disorder.

When I opened my own studio, I vowed to be different. My students don't track their food, they eat whatever the hell they want, and I don't punish them if they forget a step or miss a session.

By far, my favorite class to teach is the Thursday hip hop group. These women deserve a break from their lives, and a chance to be their own cheerleaders, even if it's only one hour a week. Most of them are from the southern side of New Hope, which means they can't afford to pay for classes. It's one of the main reasons I make it free, and open to anyone.

"Nice lines, Jennica," I shout over the music. "Very clean."

Jennica is a young mother who just had her second child. Her boyfriend dipped a few weeks ago, leaving her alone to raise their infant and toddler. Jennica's sister watches the kids so she can come to class.

"Thanks, Mal!" she answers, jiggling her exposed belly. "Trying to work off this baby weight."

"You're gorgeous, sweetheart," Laura tells her, catching her breath. "It's okay to look like you just squeezed out a ten-pound human, because you did."

My phone starts buzzing in the pocket of my cargo pants. I'm wearing baggy, camouflage denim with fishnets underneath, which are visible on my waist because of the ripped crop top. I always keep a change of clothes for Thursday, and encourage the class to dress up. Or down, depending on how you look at it. As for me, I look like I just rolled off the set of an Usher music video. It's a wonderful break from leotards and leg warmers.

"Hello?" I ask, pressing the speaker to my ear.

"Miss Robinson," a deep, authoritative voice answers. "This is Dean Clark from Pemberton Academy. One of your children has gotten into an altercation with another student. You'll need to come to the school immediately."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, stifling a sigh. "What did Aidan do?"

"Not Aidan," the dean answers. "Blake started a fist fight with a boy in his class."

I whirl around, tossing my studio keys at Laura. "Lock up, would you?"

She nods, eyes widening at my obvious distress.

As I hop into my car, forgetting a coat, Dean Clark prattles on about suspensions and violent behavior. He tells me Blake got into a fight with Julian Heathrow, a boy who has been held back for two years. I know Julian. He's double Blake's size and doesn't mind throwing his weight around. He's a miniature asshole in the making, taking after his overprivileged parents. If Blake punched him, I'm sure he deserved it.