Page 28 of Just Playin'
Her big blue eyes look up at me in a plea, praying I won’t dob.
“Okay, I won’t say anything.” She exhales, relieved. “But you need to tell me why you’re crying.” When fresh tears roll down her cheeks, I wipe them away as gently as possible. I hate seeing anyone cry, let alone a little girl with a face as adorable as hers. “It can’t be that bad, can it? You’ve got a pretty leotard and a brand new tutu; what more do you need?”
Her lips quiver when she replies, “I want to dance.”
A giggle leaves my lips as they part into a smile. “That’s good. That’s why you’re here. This is a dance studio.” I wave my hand at the big “dance studio” sign spread across the front windows. “You can dance here until your heart is content.”
My hand falls to my side when she whimpers, “But Ms. Francesca won’t let me. She said I can’t be in her class.”
“Why would she say that?”
When she burrows her tear-stained face into her knees, I peer through the cracked-open door she’s huddled outside of. My heart rate breaks into an unnatural rhythm when I spot the class inside—a ballet class full of perfectly slender children and an even more svelte instructor.
My heart cracks when my eyes return to the little girl. She is beautiful. Flawless hair, a milky-white face without a single blemish, and the cutest little dimples in her rounded cheeks, she’s just wearing a leotard a size or two bigger than her dance partners.
I kneel down closer to her. “Do you know what? I used to be a ballerina.”
“Used to be?” She wipes the tears from her cheeks when I nod. “You’re not anymore?”
“No, I’m not.” Disappointment blisters in her eyes. “But I’m still a dancer. I have a class every Saturday morning just like yours. There’s just one difference: we don’t wear tutus and leotards. We wear leather jackets, bright pink pants, and sneakers painted with glitter.”
“Sneakers?”
“There kinda like running shoes, just flashier and more Australian.”
My heart soars when she giggles.
“Do you think you’d like to dance in clothes like that?”
Nodding, she removes the last of the tears on her cheeks before sitting up straighter. Just as quickly as her excitement arrives, it’s swiped out from beneath her. “I can’t. My mom said I have to do ballet. She was a ballerina, and so was my sister, so I have to be one as well.”
“Is that what you want? If it is, I’ll march straight into that lesson and rip Ms. Francesca a new butthole.” She giggles again. “But if you just want to dance, I have a dance class that wouldloveto have you.”
“What about my mom?”
You can tell I’m years away from being a parent when I say, “What about her? You arrive here every Saturday at eight, right?” When she nods, I add on, “Then I’ll meet you here every Saturday at eight.”
“You’ll do that for me?” She seems genuinely shocked, like no one’s ever had her back before.
I nod. “Of course I will. It will be my privilege.”
“And you won’t tell my mom?” she double-checks.
“No. She pays the dance studio good money for you to dance; we’re just making sure she gets her money’s worth.”
Excitement beams out of her.
“Good?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She throws her arms around my neck so quickly, she nearly bowls me over.
“You’re welcome. Now how about you head into the studio and warm up? Then I’ll update you on some routines before the rest arrive.”
Eager to get started, she springs to her feet and charges into my unlocked studio. I wait until she is out of earshot before entering the room next to mine. Francesca eyes me beneath lowered lashes when I cross the room, pretending she hasn’t heard my furious stomps.
“How dare you treat her like that. She’s a goddamn child!” My hiss is violent but not loud enough for any of the children in Francesca’s lesson to hear over the music they’re practicing arabesques to.
“Child or not, you know the rules, Willow.” She instructs the children to switch to pliés before turning to face me. “Diet and nutrition are directly linked to agility. The lighter the dancers are, the easier they’ll float across the stage. You know this, Willow, because it is a regime we’ve abided by our entire lives. . .” She rakes her eyes down my body before correcting, “Youonceabided by.”
