What Makes A Man

4. Mates that'll Stick through Thick and Thin

"Class, meet Robin Hans. Robin, meet the class." 

I suddenly felt like one of those displays in a museum. All eyes were on me. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I managed to say, in a somewhat steady voice, "Hi, I'm Robin. I'm from Thailand and......"

The door slid open, and in strolled Ashton Baker, his arm still in bandage. "Morning Greg." He gave me a passing glance.

“Glad you could grace us with your presence, Mr Baker.” Greg waved him to a corner dismissively.

“Now, Robin. We have a tradition here at Heaven Academy,” He turned his attention to me. “Here, any introduction isn’t complete till the new student struts his stuff. You see, here at Heaven, your identity is defined by your moves, so to speak.”

I gulped. The entire class, including a sleepy Ashton Baker faced me expectantly. Greg too, raised his eyebrows. It was time to do what I had come to do: Dance. The butterflies left my stomach immediately. The nerves I had before meeting the class became a distant memory. Someone shuffled over to the boom box and turned it on. As the beats of “Shawty Got Moves” filled the dance studio, I forgot all my worries, I forgot my audience, and I forgot myself even, as I let myself go. This was my world, where there would be no language barrier. This was the real me, and complicated as my life was, dance was the only language that could sum up my entire self. Greg was right; there wasn’t a better way to introduce a person……

I opened my eyes as the song ended, suddenly conscious of the stares directed at me. A flash of satisfaction fleeted through my mind as I caught Ashton Baker staring at me, agog. Ha! That would teach to not belittle me.

“Robin,” Hearing my name, I turned to face Greg.

“That was amazing. Dean Harper wasn’t joking when he sang praises of you. I’m impressed. You sure can dance, no matter how raw you are.” He smiled warmly at me, and then addressed the rest of the class. “Snap out of it, boys. Let’s begin the class. Robin, you may sit.”

Greg Burnstead, or Doc Burns, as he was better known in the street dance community, was as amazing a teacher as I had imagined. The man was a live wire, and with him, the entire class came alive. He began by breaking down a simple routine and then threw it in our faces, cranking up the music, encouraging us to improvise and make the choreography our own. Soon, we were all moving to the wicked beats of David Guetta.

Midway through the remix, we started an impromptu battle. Anyone who was pushed into the centre would freestyle and be open to challenge. Winner stayed on while losers were pulled out, not unlike the street battles I took part in back home, just milder. Fully intending to just be an audience, I was enjoying the show when someone gave me a hard shove and I found myself facing Ashton Baker, and was treated to one of the best routines I had ever seen. He was good, fluid without rough corners. But I had not once faced someone I could not beat, yet. Nodding my head in time with the music, I did what I did best: I hit the floor, spinning fast, baring all my floor moves to the class. It was an exhilarating feeling, like flying. The music stopped abruptly. And I stopped, stood straight up, and looked straight at Ashton Baker, who was staring at me with an expression I could not comprehend.

A low whistle broke our eye contact as I swivelled around to find the whistler. It was Greg. I realised he had been the one that had turned off the music.

He strode over and looked from Ashton to me with an amused expression. “You’re a floor master too, Robin? What a pleasant surprise. Looks like Ash is in for some stiff competition. That was some neat floor work you got there, kid,” He looked me over appreciatively. Then, he waved the rest of the class out. “That’s it for today, boys. Dismiss.”  I turned to leave, when he spoke again. “Robin, Ashton? Hold on for a moment. I want to speak to you both. Come on, We’ll talk in my office. I am craving for a cup of good strong tea.”