Page 105 of Dancing in the Dark

“Mm. Fifi’s still coming, isn’t she, Daddy? Do you fink Fifi will cancel? Do you fink that scoundrel mayor will say she can’t come? Do you fink Fifi will get mad at me if I don’t dance?”

Break my heart.

“Do you fink if I try really hard, Fifi will like my dancing, Daddy? The stage is always really bright, and the audience is always in the dark. How will I know for sure Fifi’s watching?”

“She’s such a sweetheart,” I sigh. “I wish I could convince her beautiful little brain to worry less about what others think of her, and focus more on enjoying the stage for herself. Other people’s opinions don’t matter.”

“I think she’s coming around.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head and drags my arm across to drape over his belly. “You foist so much positive energy on her that the voice inside her head seems to be changing for the better. Cato’s constantly telling her how amazing she is. Archer. Minka. Me.” He strokes my forearm with the side of his thumb and hums his contentment. “I think she’ll be okay. We just have to get through tonight.”

A spotlight flickers to life and illuminates the very center of the stage, then a woman ducks through the curtains and makes her way to the single microphone set on a stand. Around us, conversations taper off and cameras come out.

“Good evening, moms and dads. Grandmas and granddads.” She clutches a piece of paper between her hands, though she doesn’t look down at it even once. “Friends. Families. Loved ones. My name is Amanda, and I’m the director and owner of Twinkle Toes Dance Studio. On behalf of my beautiful students, their dedicated teachers, and myself, I want to thank you all for coming out tonight.”

Applause rings across the auditorium, and the flash of cameras creates a kind of lightning storm in the dark.

“For those of you who collected a program on your way in the door, you’ll see our evening will progress from youngest to oldest.”

“Here.” Charlie yanks a folded booklet from beneath his butt and sets it on my lap. “Moo’s is the fourth performance.”

“I’m thrilled the time has come where we get to showcase the things we’ve worked toward, and I thank you all for showing up for these babies, even though,” she coughs out a snickering laugh, “we had a night a mere few weeks ago, and another next month.”

“Money-spinners,” I mumble playfully. “Fifty bucks a seat. Two hundred dollars per costume set. Studio time. Private tutor time for those nervous parents who want their babies to have one-on-one attention.”

“It’s a sport for the wealthy,” Charlie smirks. “I might have to sell my body on a corner soon. You won’t get mad, right?”

“I mean… I’d be a little mad. Maybe we could discuss it before you decide?”

“Clear and honest communication,” he rumbles. “Sexy.”

A woman in the row directly in front of us spins and hisses out a violent shush, finger pressed to her lips and eyes wild with her bad temper. Just as quickly as she spun this way, she rotates again and leaves us staring. Grinning. Chests bouncing from giggles we trap in our throats.

“Mia would take care of it,” Charlie whispers in my ear. “If she knew someone dared disrespect her Fifi that way, she’d cut a bitch and laugh on her ashes.”

I plaster my palm over my mouth and stifle my squeak of laughter as the woman in front glares over her shoulder.

Oh, shut up, lady. You’ll get your chance to scowl and convince your kid they aren’t good enough soon.

“…without further ado, I’m happy to welcome our first performers of the night.” Amanda tucks her sheet of paper under one arm and steps back, clapping as the curtain opens and two dozen kids stumble forward.

Already, the crowd oohs and ahhs over the kids who are all smaller than Mia. They snicker and applaud, and giggle and aww as each little girl toddles out in an adorable tutu, and the boys, a half dozen by my fast count, strut forward in matching sweatpants and white tank tops.

“Mia was in this group last year,” Charlie murmurs, his lips touching the shell of my ear. “It’s always so fuckin’ messy.”

Giggling, I watch them find their positions and feel bad for one little girl, too confused and overwhelmed to know where she should go. She stumbles two feet to her left as another dancer points that way. Then another two feet as the next dancer adds her instructions. A little boy does his own thing, spinning on the floor and lapping up the audience’s rapt attention.

“Were you ever like this?”

“God, no.” I cross my legs and take Charlie’s hand between mine, twining our fingers and enjoying, for this moment, anyway, the silliness of children allowed to be goofy on stage without fear of reprimand. “I was like her.” I lift my chin, gesturing toward the perfect, ready, posed ballerina in the very center of her chaotic group. Her arms are already in position, gently held away from her body while her feet cross at the front. Plié. “I was highly strung and considered myself better than the rest of them. I hated that I practiced every single day, while they never practiced at all.”

Grinning, Charlie pulls back and searches my expression. “No way.”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up. I did everything that was expected of me, and when my mother wasn’t busy convincing me I was worthless, she was hammering home how I was better than everyone else. How being bundled with these other children was beneath me. I trained every single day, and it was easy to see as I performed alongside others my age.”

“Show off.”

“I liked being better than them,” I admit with a sad exhale. “I liked how it felt to be superior.” Because the rest of the time, I was made to feel like dirt beneath my mother’s shoes. “All that psychological ridiculousness led me to become a stuck-up bitchy teen with self-esteem issues, and then an adult, and…” I shrug. “Well, you met that version of me.”

“Mm. Still perfect.” He leans closer and drops a kiss on my lips. “Incredibly kind. Magazine model beautiful.”