Page 36 of Hush 3: Hidden Family

“You know if we eat any more of this ice cream, it’s going to ooze out of our pores,” Adriano says in his Italian accent as I grab another pint of vanilla ice cream.

“That is a lie. It is impossible for ice cream to come out of your pores because the digestive system breaks down food into tiny particles that are absorbed into the bloodstream, not transported to the skin’s pores; therefore, we could eat as much as we want and that would never happen,” I reply.

“I love that about you,” he snorts.

“Love what about me?” I ask and blink at him in confusion.

“The way you hold so much information and know almost everything about everything. Then you spill it out without having to think about it,” he says.

“I think about it. I think a lot.”

“I think a lot too. I think you should remember to be a sixteen-year-old girl. I think you should live your life here.

“Let Michael do what he has to in Italy or London or wherever he will be. You are brilliant, Symphony. Make the best of what you have come here to do,” he says.

I want to yell and shout at him. He doesn’t know what’s best for me. I know he is nineteen and older than me, but he doesn’t know it all.

“I know I am sixteen. I have no choice but to live my life. I will go to school and do my best. That is what I must do for Michael to come back to get me.”

“So you plan to wait for him to come back for you? What about making friends or having a boyfriend. You’re very pretty. I don’t think finding someone who’s interested will be so hard.”

“I will make friends, but I don’t want a boyfriend. I have a husband. I will not dishonor my marriage.”

“I just thought?—”

“Please keep your thoughts to yourself. Good night.”

I turn to leave the kitchen. I want to go to sleep. This day has been long and confusing.

CHAPTER 20

Choosing Pointe

Symphony

I walk the halls at school, waiting for my practice hour. I need to get lost in the music. Everything has been so melancholy since my family left me.

Michael has kept to his word and calls me every day, but I still miss him and want to be with him. When I play, I feel like I’m closer to him.

I turn toward the dance rooms and breathe deeply as their music floats into the hall. The dancers are all so beautiful. I have tights and a leotard beneath my jogging suit because I love to sneak into their practice rooms after my practices.

I pass the ballet rooms and excitement fills me. The ballerinas are dancing. I’m always fascinated by how they lift on their toes.

Stopping, I watch their movements, planning to try them later. I have purchased a pair of their shoes. I have a black pair.

They spoke to me when I saw them. I slip my backpack with the shoes inside off my back and hug the bag to my chest. I believe I could move as gracefully as they do.

I’m so lost in my awe of them, I don’t notice when the instructor starts for the door. She opens it and peeks her head out. I look at her with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry. I will leave,” I murmur.

“If you are late you don’t stand there and watch. Come inside and join in.

“I do not punish my dancers for tardiness by turning them away. Your punishment will be to perform the piece as a solo for my critique. If you don’t want to be in the spotlight, you will be on time.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m not one of your students.”

“Nonsense, I saw you practicing. Now come, stop wasting time. Put on your shoes and dance.”

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