It's a Chick Thing. Ame Mahler Beanland

name again, along with the wistful look he sometimes gave me, convinced me of one thing. I was thankful for the fear of God, and (especially) Mom.

      —CILICIA A. YAKHLEF

      

      tHe dAnce Class

      Once again, my friend Sally and I have released our inner-crackpot crones. (Although I should record Sally’s objection to the word crone. Five years younger than me, she prefers to be known as a cronette.) Three weeks ago, she called with news of a Japanese modern dance troupe, Buto-Sha Tenkei, that was coming to Houston. She couldn't attend their performances, but the company's dance master would also conduct a master class.

      “Wanna go?” she asked.

      “A master class?” I demurred. “We're not dancers.”

      “Oh, come on,” she said. “You talked me into joining your dance exercise class. Besides, the class is for theater majors too.”

      “Okay,” I said, “sign us up.” Too late it occurred to me that the closest we came to being drama majors was our mutual talent for hyperbole.