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I nod, my attention refocusing on the petite figure huddled before me.“How old are you?”
“T-ten.And you?”
“Eleven,” I reply, gently holding her trembling hand.“It’s going to be okay,” I promise, trying to pour every ounce of sincerity into my voice.
Her eyes skitter to the door, brimming with apprehension.“He’s going for food.They’ll know.”
“Who are they?”I whisper conspiratorially.
“The teachers and maybe the principal.She doesn’t like Mom.”
I arch an eyebrow because Aunt Ainsley seemed to like everyone.Unless ...“Why would you say that?
She shrugs.“They got into a fight when I was five or something.I don’t remember.Mom wanted me to audition for the role of Clara, while Mrs.Bradley told her that I was too young to be a part ofThe Nutcracker.That she was pushing me too far.Something about her dancers having to have a childhood.”
“So, you’re a ballerina?”
She nods.
“My older sister Piper danced for a couple of years until she got bored,” I say casually, trying to find some common ground.
Her eyes dart back to mine, a flame of defiance flickering within their dark depths.“Dancing isn’t boring unless you can’t feel the music.”Her words are bold, almost daring.There’s a fight inside of her.She just hides it underneath her fragile frame.
“Pipe knows a lot about music.She creates it,” I share, pushing off the cold floor to approach the piano that dominates the room.As I settle onto the bench, my fingers instinctively graze over the smooth ivory keys.“It flows in our blood.”
Then, with a deep breath, I surrender to the instrument the same way I’ve done since I was a toddler.My fingers dance on the keys, playing the song that’s been trapped in my mind.
When I open my eyes, the room is alive with movement.The girl isn’t merely dancing.She’s performing along with her body.Each twirl, each leap, anticipates the rhythm and tempo of my song.I’m captivated by the harmony of her movement with my melody.
As the final note fades into the silence, Sanford’s voice cuts through, “That was ...unexpected.”He stands, clutching granola bars, fruit cups, and a bag with probably a sandwich.
“It didn’t take you long,” I say, swinging my legs around while I look at the tiny dancer.“You’re talented.”
She merely shrugs, downplaying the compliment as if it’s no big deal.
“You dance beautifully,” Sanford echoes my sentiment before shooting me an approving look.“That song has potential.Could you play it again after we eat?”
I nod in agreement, joining them on the floor.While I bite into my food, my attention is drawn to her.She’s taking small, deliberate bites, each morsel savored with a level of appreciation that’s inspiring but also worries me.It’s as if this humble sandwich is a rare delicacy to her.
“I don’t think I’ve had a peanut butter sandwich since ...”Her voice trails off, her eyes widening in surprise or maybe guilt.
“Hey, it’s okay.You need your energy.Especially if you dance with such intensity,” I reassure her.
“Mom doesn’t think a ballerina should eat much.Our bodies are supposed to be slim so we can move gracefully,” she murmurs, her eyes downcast.
I shrug.“Maybe she’s wrong.I wouldn’t know, but you can eat anything you want when you’re with us, okay?”
Sanford, sensing the need for a shift in conversation, breaks the silence.He lounges against the peeling corner of the room, the simple set of his shoulders making him seem older, more mature.“So,” he starts, his voice carrying a note of intrigue, “you love to read and dance.What else do you enjoy?”
Her eyes flicker in surprise as if unaccustomed to people taking an interest in her preferences.“I only read when I’m not practicing, or I have a school assignment,” she admits, a hint of apology creeping into her tone.“And you two?Do you always play music?”
“We do a lot more,” I reassure her.
“Music flows in his blood,” Sanford says.“It’s a family thing.”
She gives him a playful smile.“What about you?”
“Oh, their love for music is contagious.”He snickers.“But I also like to draw.”
