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Aunt Ainsley presses a finger to her lips, her eyes twinkling.“We do now, but just for very special students.I think it’s the best way to handle the situation until we figure out a better solution.”
I wrap her in a tight hug.“Thank you, you’re the best.”
“We’re doing everything in our power to help her,” she reassures me.
The thought of her estranged father surfaces.“Couldn’t she go with her dad?”
Aunt Ainsley shakes her head.“It’s best if we keep him away, okay?”
An idea occurs to me.“Do you think my parents will let me drop by the academy during the summer?”
“We’ll see what we can do,” she says, winking subtly, leaving me with a spark of hope.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Sanford
Once school’s out,my friends and I join Mr.Bradley for a two-week camping trip.After we’re back, we agree to help Mrs.Bradley with her arts and music summer camp.It’s mostly an intro to arts and music where we’ll aid the teachers with fifty children who are determined to play around.
The first Monday, right after we’re done with the rowdy children, Beacon proposes we go to the basement, where they have a studio with instruments only grown-ups are allowed to use.According to Beac, it’s a good way to practice for our future.
Fish, Mane, Beacon, and I got this plan to form a band once we finish college.Well, we already have the band.We just can’t start recording albums or playing until we have a degree.Lang doesn’t want to be a part of the band but promises to tag along, maybe become a roadie.I just don’t see him carrying shit around for us.He’s too snobbish for that line of work.But if he says he’s in, I believe him.
“So, who’s getting the keys to the basement?”Mane asks as we make our way toward the main building.
“I’ll do it,” Beacon volunteers.“I just need someone to keep the janitor busy.”
“Why don’t we ask permission instead?”Mane suggests, ever the voice of reason.
“And miss out on all the fun?”Beacon counters, grinning widely.“Besides, they’d probably send us home or into one of those ‘regular’ music roomsfor kids.”
As we roam the hallways, planning our basement break-in, a flicker of movement from a ballet studio catches my attention.Leaving the guys to their own devices, I head toward the dance room.My heart does a little flip.It’s my ballerina, swaying alone to the gentle melody of Bach’sAir on the G Stringwafting through the room.
Seeing me, she freezes, her warm smile transforming the room.“Hi, Sanford,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, shyness weaving through her words.
“Hi,” I reply, surprised.“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Mrs.Bradley invited me to a special summer camp,” she explains.
“But it’s summer.Shouldn’t you be at home enjoying the break?”I ask, confusion knitting my brows.
“My mom wouldn’t allow me to just rest.I would be in the studio practicing with some teacher she hired from The Royal Academy of Angry Bitches.Here, at least, I get to read or swim during my free time,” she confesses.“Well, it’s not swimming.I should say,synchronized swimming.”
“Why is that?”I ask, my eyes narrowing as I lean forward.
“It was Mrs.Bradley’s idea.A way to give me a break during the summer without my mom suspecting.So far, it’s the best summer ever,” she admits, her dark eyes sparkling with joy.
“You’re only ten,” I point out.
“Eleven.I turned eleven last Monday.”
The mention of her birthday takes me by surprise.I knew it was during summer, but she never told me the exact date.
“And how did you celebrate?”I ask, already suspecting her answer.
She straightens her posture.“By practicing, of course,” she replies with a nonchalant shrug.It’s as though there’s no better way to spend her birthday.
Her response tugs my heart.I hate to think that her mother has never commemorated her milestones—unless they were related to ballet.
