The 55-minute show opens with an aspiring dancer doing warm-up stretches on a bench. We catch bits of self-talk—“I can”—and I imagine her dreamy ambitions of making the team. Her longing conjures up the arrival of a team of actual majorettes, who enter the stage via the spotlighted aisle next to my seat. In spangled blue warm-up jackets and pants with one leg cut off at the knee, I can feel the game energy they bring, their self-assurance as they each grab a mic stand onstage and begin a rehearsal. The team captain calls out directions and demonstrates the routine: “Take hands and place on right hip. Pop elbows. Pop hip.” The sound score offers rapping with a hypnotic hip hop beat. One grinning dancer down front is doing everything except the demonstrated moves. She’s found her own groove, undulating and improvising. Soon all are conducting their own versions of the drill. 

The dancers clear the stage and re-enter in full performance regalia: form-fitting black lycra, glossy lips, glowing flesh. Rehearsal is over. The horn section of a marching band replaces the hip-hop music. A whistle blows and the team of six is running in place, then marching in pattern. They form a kick line down the center. The precision moves are conducted in unison, with thrusting pelvis and swiveling hips. They kick, turn, take a deep plié in second and slap the floor. The mood is playful, teasing, flirty. One of them gives the audience a wink. At the end of the number, they take seats on pedestals with arched backs, their arms crossed, hands perched in a stylized tilt on their knees. Even at rest, they are working a pose.