Page 1 of Daddy's Tiny Little Dancer

CHAPTER ONE

Cady

I’m a little sluggish.

Oh, nearly anyone watching me wouldn’t be able to tell but I would. I think of a story about a professional classical pianist who once said if he misses a day of practice he hears it, if he misses two days of practice his wife hears it if he misses three days of practice critics hear it, and if he misses four days of practice the audience hears it.

I am not a classical pianist. I’m a dancer.

I’m not a professional dancer.

I’m twenty-six years old with a degree from one of the most prestigious schools of the performing arts in the world. That degree is proudly displayed on my wall in my little studio apartment. It’s dated four and a half years ago, and I use my degree every single day.

Of course, I use my degree not to dance in any professional capacity. Nope. I use my degree to internally berate myself for never having the guts to actually become a dancer and for instead working in a bank. That’s not the intended use of the degree but at least it gets some use.

At the moment, I’m nowhere near the degree. I’m seven miles from my apartment and I’m in a dance studio. It won’t be a dance studio for very much longer. Actually, it’s not one now. It’s just an empty building with dance studio furnishings. The building is on the market, and I know the real estate agent. She and I have a deal. I can dance here until the building sells.

There really isn’t anything about this deal required of me. I’m the person who handles the accounts for the real estate firm and I take care of them. So, I guess it’s actually not really a deal but favor to me. I look at myself in the mirror as I dance and yeah, I’m sluggish.

I almost stop.

I mean, this performance might earn a failing grade if I were still in school. What do I expect when all of my practice over the last few years is on my next-to-nonexistent apartment floorspace or at the park when I’m pretty sure nobody is watching?

I turn around so I’m looking at the wall instead of the mirror and hope that gives me a break from all the self-recrimination. I try to focus on positive thoughts and, naturally, my mind immediately focuses on my fantasy Daddy.

I don’t have a Daddy at the moment. I’m not fully familiar with the whole DDlg thing. My best friend Charity has a Daddy and she is so happy. I want to be happy like she is. When I think about having a strong man to hold me, spoil me, and protect me. I even let myself imagine a Daddy helping me get over my self-doubt so I can finally become a dancer like I want to be.

What did that movie say?

Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt.

Well, hey, I’m dreaming, right? What’s the point of a dream if you can’t dream big?

I close my eyes and let the music carry me away. As I float through the empty studio, I imagine a crowd of entranced people watching rapturously as my body tells a story of love and longing, and hope. I pirouette and glide and turn around the room and smile as the crowd oohs and ahhs and calls my name.

And sitting right there in the front row, smiling proudly at me, is my man.

My Daddy.

The music ends and the fantasy stops abruptly. I glide to a stop and open my eyes to an empty studio: no crowd, no Daddy, no dance career. Just me.

I pull my jeans and t-shirt over my leotard and replace my dance shoes with sneakers, then leave the studio. My footsteps echo in the empty room, every step a reminder that I will never achieve the life I was destined for.

On the drive home, I wonder what went wrong. Everyone told me I would be one of the great dancers of my generation. My teacher would say she’s never seen anyone with a natural grace as me. My parents would talk proudly of how I could perform the full nutcracker suite when I was four years old. My friends would all whisper enviously about how they could never hope to match me and wonder if it was even worth trying.

Jokes on them. They all have distinguished careers and I live in my friend’s spare bedroom and work at a bank.

Ha ha.

The worst part is that I actually do know what went wrong.

Absolutely nothing.

That’s right. Nothing went wrong. I graduated from school with top marks. I received offers from renowned troupes and theaters. I was never injured. I just… stop. Every time I receive an offer, I am struck with crippling cold feet, and I don’t respond—not even to refuse.

Everyone treats me like I’m insane, and they’re right to do so. My parents pleaded with me to just interview with someone. “Go see what it’s like.” “Give yourself a chance.” “You’ve worked so hard for this. Don’t you want to try at least once?”

My teacher is more insistent. “Years, Cady! Years I spend with you. Your whole life! Your destiny! What if Mozart had forsaken music? What if Shakespeare had never lifted a quill?”

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