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Chapter 23
Afterbreakfast,Idroveover to the studio. It was around noon, but the lazy morning made me feel more relaxed. I heard music coming from studio A, which was unusual because there were no private lessons or classes on Sundays. I wandered over to the studio to take a peek.
Adele’s voice came blaring through the speakers, singing about finding someone like you. At first I didn’t recognize the dancer. Long red hair, and gorgeous, graceful limbs. Her upper body had poise and fluidity I hadn’t seen from someone at our studio. Then she faced the mirror, and I saw her face clearly.
Thea.
She was incredible. I had trained mostly in jazz and hip hop, a little ballet for the sake of technique, and some contemporary. But Thea was a ballerina with soul, a rare combination. Her technique was impeccable, but her heart was what drove the movement.
She still hadn’t noticed me watching in the window, and on closer look, I saw tears in her eyes. She wasn’t just faking the emotion; it was all real. I watched her, completely dumbstruck.
Her eyes caught mine in the mirror. She quickly wiped away her tears and ran to turn off the music, then rushed out the door and wrapped me in a hug. “Ivy, I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Thea.” I pulled back and held her by the shoulders. “You’re incredible. What are you doing here?”
“I was just messing around.” She waved me off. “Lisa lets me come here and use the studio when I need to clear my head.” She tilted her head at me. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to pick up the costumes, but I was hoping to talk with Lisa, too.”
“She’s not here right now. I’ll help you load the costumes in your car, though.” She squeezed my arm. “Are you really okay?”
I nodded. “I have to figure a few things out. But I’m getting there.” I shook my head at her again. “I had no idea you could dance like that.”
She shrugged. “I told you I trained in ballet.”
“That’s different.” I pointed in the studio. “You could be a professional.”
She shook her head and gestured at her chest and hips. “Wrong body type for ballet. But I love dancing. I feel like that’s the way I can finally let it all go. Sometimes I think and process my emotions better.” She tilted her head to the side. “Isn’t that what it does for you?”
Was it? I had been teaching for so long, I hadn’t spent a lot of time actuallydancinglately, just putting on music and completely letting loose.
“I’m not sure,” I said quietly.
She pulled me by the hand into the studio and turned the slow, soulful music back on. “Put your bags down and just move.”
I snorted, setting my bags under the barre. “This isn’t exactly my style.”
“Come on, humor me.” She switched the song. Coldplay’s “Fix You” came through the speakers.
“This has to be the most overused song for contemporary dances,” I remarked.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “There’s a reason for that. It’s incredible.”
She started swaying next to me, and I smirked at her. She shook her head at me. “Stop looking at me. Dance.”
I took in a deep breath and pushed it out. I looked at myself in the mirror, then closed my eyes and felt the music. Felt the pulse. Felt the rhythm.
Slowly, I rocked back and forth, letting my arms accentuate the movement. I opened my eyes and pushed forward with my hands while rocking back on one leg. A small, single pique turn into an arabesque (all I could manage without having taken classes lately). My hands clasped in front of my chest as I walked forward.
Feeling the music. Feeling the pulse. Feeling the rhythm.
Note by note, beat by beat, step by step, it all came together. And I felt the music healing a piece of me. A piece that I hadn’t realized was hurt or broken. The piece that had been torn apart after my parents and Katy were in that accident.
A turn with my leg tucked behind me. A kick to the side, leaning back with my upper body.
My mind kept swirling. The horror and fear I felt when I received that phone call at two thirty in the morning. The terror that my father was dead. The joy that he was alive, and the dread knowing he couldn’t walk. Maybe ever. And the never-ending pressure that I put on my own shoulders, carrying my family’s burdens in an attempt to fix the problems that were not their fault, but weren’t mine either.
But if I didn’t take on these burdens, who would?
