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I am about to say that I’m impressed with the fact that this monstrous tent is already set up so quickly when I realize what she had just said.
“What do you mean ‘the floor is open’” I ask, falling into step behind her. As soon as I enter, I almost trip on my own feet. There are no chairs right now, but the floor is set up. There’s a makeshift stage that sits behind one large circus patch, which lies empty.
“I mean,” Delila stomps on her smoke, putting it out, “I want to see you lose yourself.” Her eyes drop to my feet. “Let me guess, ballet?”
My eyes snap to hers after hungrily eating up the space. “Yes. How’d you know?”
“The way you walk.” She snaps her fingers, and a boy around my age comes rushing forward, swiping sweat off his forehead. I don’t pay him much attention because Delila is still talking. “Fetch me a chair and some scotch. Is the sound ready?”
The young guy nods submissively. “Enough to run some music through, but not all the way set up.”
Delila nods, and he disappears, running off to grab her royal highness her items.
She watches me carefully, as if intrigued. “You’re not drinking with the rest of them. Why?” She lights up another smoke, and I seriously wonder what this woman’s act is and how she keeps so fit while smoking so many cigarettes.
“Drinking isn’t really my scene.”
“Hmmm,” she answers, sitting down on the chair the young man brought back. He also places a small table beside her that holds a bottle of scotch and a clear tumbler glass. “Interesting for a girl of your age.”
I want to remind her that I’m not a teenager. I don’t need to party like one either, but instead, I say, “When life has taken control of you in the form of tragic incidents, it’s hard to allow something so hollow to fill the empty parts of your life.”
She flicks the smoke between her thumb and her index finger. “Huh. You’re smart. Lucky me.” She exhales, flicking her wrist to the stage. “Sorry to say I don’t have a leotard, but there are some slippers there and shorts and a hoodie. I want free, Dove. I don’t want a dance that you have to work for. I want Dove Noctem Hendry flying across my stage.”
“Okay.” I turn, making my way to the makeshift stage. I have no idea what I’m doing in regards to whatever it is that she expects, but I’ll do what she advised I do—dance.
As soon as I’ve ducked onto the stage, I hide behind a red curtain and strip off my skinny jeans and shoes, squeezing on the white shorts she left me—that are more like booty shorts—and then throw on the grey hoodie. I prefer to dance in tight clothes when it’s constricted movements that I want to accentuate.
Pink silk slippers catch my eye, and my heart slows in my chest. I haven’t worn them in so long. Since before my parents died. I tug at my hair, pulling it down from the high ponytail. I run my fingers through it as I weigh my options. I want to see if I still have it, but another part of me thinks I’m not ready. The part that thinks I’m not ready is usually the same part that keeps me awake every night from overthinking.
“Sorry,” the guy from earlier interrupts my pacing. “Do you have a song request?”
“‘Breathe from Mako, please.”
The young guy disappears back the way he came, and I go back to stressing about the slippers. Slowly, I reach down to touch the soft silk. “Your arabesque is so much better, Dove. Keep at it.” Sharon, my tutor, looked down at her phone and answered it. “Hello? Yes, no, Dove is here. She’s doing great, Mrs. Hendry. Much better. Okay, thank you.” She hung up the phone and smiled sweetly at me. “Your mother is proud of you. You are very lucky.”
I yank my hand away as if I’ve touched a raw memory.
Which I had.
Deciding to leave the slippers for another night, I make my way out to the center of the stage.
“Ready when you are, Dovey!” Delila yells out from somewhere in front of me. I can’t see anything because she dimmed the lights. “I want your all.”
I can’t give her my all because I lost crucial parts of myself years ago, but I close my eyes and breathe softly. The guitar to the song starts, and I curl my body around in a circle, slowly sinking to the splits with both feet facing outward. I drag myself out, letting the music float through my limbs, and possess my movements. I haven’t danced this style since I lost them. Since that night. It’s not traditional ballet, but it’s somewhere in the middle of gymnastics, hip-hop, and ballet. With every beat, I swing my leg up to standing splits and roll my body over in fluid movements. God, I love this song. It’s not until the music stops that my breathing and tears catch me off guard. I quickly swipe them away as I come to my feet.
