The class schedule read “Adult Intermediate Tap.” I double-checked it, perched reading glasses on my nose, and ran my index finger along the paper taped to the wall. Adult. Check. Three other students, all teenagers, stood laughing, talking, warming up snapdragon feet on a scarred wooden floor. Our teacher, no older than nineteen, no taller than my shoulder, fiddled with the dials on a paint-splattered boombox.
Got Facebook or Twitter?Connect your FanBox to Facebook or Twitter & keep
your friends updated with all your activity on FanBox.
It's free and takes less than 10 seconds!