Page 16 of Tempt Me

Amanda doesn’t look convinced. “Whatever you say, babe. Hey, you should get going if you don’t want to be late.”

I check the time and start for the door. “Crap, you’re right. See you later!”

*

Two subway trains and ten blocks later, I make it to Miss Kay’s dance school just in time. “Sorry, sorry,” I apologize, hurrying into the second-floor studio and shedding my jacket. “Welcome everyone, let’s get warmed up!”

I cue up a bouncy pop song on the iPod deck and the class of five- to ten-year-olds starts wriggling and jumping around. They’re from a dozen different neighborhoods, dressed up in tutus and leotards and even some leopard-print leggings, but as the music starts and we all get into the beat, everyone is smiling and having a good time.

It’s a long way from the Joffrey School of Ballet. Miss Kay’s school is tucked away in the South End of Boston, above a dry cleaner’s and an Italian butcher’s shop. She runs two dozen classes out of the bare-brick studios, everything from salsa to tap to teaching nervous couples how to spin around on their first wedding dance. And every Sunday morning, I take the floor at the front of the room to lead my community ballet sessions, where I lead the kids through the positions, plies, and arabesque dance moves that used to form the foundation of my whole life.

“OK, let’s line up at the barre!” I clap my hands when warm-up is over. “Today, we’re going to see how many of those positions you can remember.”

They scurry over and take their places.

“Now, who can show me what first position looks like?”

Hands wave in the air, and then they’re moving their feet into the stance. “Good job, you guys!” I praise them as I move down the line, nudging stray arms and feet into place. “You look amazing. Now what about second position?”

I take them through the sequence, making sure to spend time with every student: giving everyone a word of encouragement, or some kind of compliment. It’s a world away from the ballet classes I used to attend. Back then, we were all fighting for perfection, and if you didn’t measure up, then you could bet everyone would know about it. We were locked in a constant audition: for better parts, for a place in the performing company, for solo roles, and the competition never ended. All it took was one critical word or look, and it felt like the end of the world. I must have stayed late every night, practicing until I was perfect, so I wouldn’t draw the disdain of my instructor. So I could be perfect, the way I desperately wanted to be.

Yes, I loved ballet, but it was easy for that love to get buried under competition and fear. The constant feeling like I wasn’t good enough—that nothing I ever did would measure up. That kind of pressure can drive you to the breaking point.

And boy, did I break.

Now, I make sure that every kid in the room can feel good about themselves, cheering them on as they clumsily move through the basic steps. Before I know it, it’s almost time for the end of the session.

“OK, you know what time it is...” I switch the music over and find some Beyoncé.

“Dance party!” the kids cry, and then it’s a free-for-all: everyone bouncing around and dancing wildly to the music, their faces lit up with the happiness that only moving like this can bring. By the time their parents arrive to pick them up, everyone’s worn out and happy from the day.

“Thanks so much, Chloe,” one of the moms says, as her two girls pull on their jackets. “They always have such a great time.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Another satisfied customer. Don’t tell me I need to give you a raise.” Miss Kay herself enters just as everyone’s leaving. She’s in her fifties now, but still as elegant as a picture—in a ballet cardigan and flowing wrap-around skirt, with her blonde hair twisted up. I’ve known her since I was a kid, when she lived in my hometown. She was the one who first saw my talent—and encouraged me to apply to real ballet schools—and she’s been my mentor ever since. “Soon you’ll be charging a whole ten dollars for class.”

We both laugh. Kay has tried to pay me a dozen times for my teaching, but I refuse to take more than my subway fare. It feels good to share my skills with the kids, and besides, I owe her more than I could ever repay.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you into teaching a more advanced class?” Kay lingers as I tidy the studio. “There are a few intermediates I think could really benefit from an experienced dancer.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I’m slammed at work. And you know I’m not the right person to push anyone to the next level.”

She sighs, but gives me an understanding smile. “I figured, but it’s always worth asking.”

“I wish I could,” I add, sorry to be letting her down, after everything, but Kay waves my concern away.

“Don’t worry, it was just a thought. Of course you should be focusing on your new career! I’m just happy you’ve found time for these classes. I know the kids adore you.”

“I love them, too. Thank you for suggesting it.”

She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “One step at a time.”

We share a quiet smile. It may not seem that way, but even teaching this class is a big deal for me. There was a time when I never thought I’d ever be able to step foot in a studio again, let alone pull on a pair of battered pink ballet slippers, but Miss Kay changed all of that. She’s the one who saved me—pulled me out of the wreckage of my life, and made me believe I was worth something, after all. My dreams may have died, but that didn’t mean my life was over.

I just had to find new dreams.

“Hey babe.” Max appears in the doorway, right on time to pick me up. Even though it’s the weekend, he looks smart and preppy in a button-down and navy pants. “Miss Kay, it’s lovely to see you. You’re looking beautiful as ever,” he adds with a charming smile.

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