My class schedule, however, waits for no plumbing disaster.
“The afternoon sessions can use Studio B,” I tell Mal, scrolling through my phone. “That’s the smaller room upstairs. It’s cramped but functional.”
“What about the junior class?”
“That’s—” I check the time. “That’s in two hours. Bianca usually assists, so I should be able to manage...”
My phone buzzes with a text from Bianca.
Bianca: Izzie I’m so sorry—woke up with a fever of 102 and can barely stand. Doctor says flu. I tried to power through but I literally can’t stop throwing up. I’m DYING.
A second later.
Bianca: Not actually dying. But close.
“Problems?” Mal asks, reading my expression.
“Bianca’s sick.” I stare at the text, feeling the familiar pressure building behind my eyes. “The junior class has twelve kids registered. I can’t handle twelve kids alone in a cramped space with half my equipment soaking wet.”
“So cancel.”
“I can’t cancel. There’s a recital in three weeks, and the parents have already paid for the costumes.” I press my fingers to my temples. “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”
Mal is silent for a moment. “I could help.”
I look at him.
“With the class,” he clarifies. “An extra set of hands. I’m already here.”
“You want to help teach a junior ballroom class.”
“‘Want’ might be a strong word. But I’m offering.”
“Have you ever worked with children before?”
“How hard can it be?”
I think about a chaos demon who is terrible at following instructions and constitutionally opposed to doing anything the expected way trying to wrangle a dozen eight-year-olds through a waltz. It’s going to be a disaster. But it’s also the only option I have.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “But you have to follow my lead. No improvising. No chaos. No teaching them anything inappropriate.”
“Define inappropriate.”
“Mal.”
“I’m kidding.” He holds up his hands. “Mostly. What time do we start?”
The children arrive at 2:00 PM sharp, a small army of energy and enthusiasm in an assortment of dance attire. I’ve managed to clear enough space in Studio B for basic movement. The room is cramped because it’s meant for private lessons, not group classes, but it’ll have to do. At least the floor here is dry.
“Good afternoon, everyone!” I clap my hands to get their attention. “I know things look a little different today, but we’re going to make it work. And I have a special helper joining us.”
Eleven pairs of eyes swivel to Mal, who is standing near the door looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“This is Mr. Malachi. He’s going to assist me today since Miss Bianca is feeling under the weather.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
The question comes from Emmalyn, a seven-year-old with pigtails and zero filter. She’s watching Mal with the intensity of a detective interrogating a suspect.
