It wasn’t a shady deal in a parking lot where two cars pull up next to each other and try to act casual. It didn’t take place in an alley or in the dark corner of the park. The deals were all made via text, but I still felt like quite a … pusher. Not a drug pusher, though. A dance pusher.
The messages started flying early in the morning on the day registration opened for existing students of the dance school. Over the course of a few hours, I was popping in and out of group texts and individual texts — weaving an intricate web of plans involving weekday afternoon dance classes for six-year-olds.
Instead of just answering their simple question of, “What class/day/time is Charlotte doing in the fall?” I couldn’t help but try to lead them over to my side.