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I can't help but gawk at him. “You're giving me a dance studio?”
“Does it make you happy?”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Happy? Leo this is amazing!”
He smiles wide, gesturing toward the window. “I know a guy who can put your studio name up on a big sign outside. And whatever equipment you need, you just let me know and I'll put the order in. Whatever you want, it's all yours. I know how much dance means to you, so I want this place to be perfect.”
I grab the lapel of his jacket and hop up on my toes, tilting my head upward so I can kiss him sweetly. “I love it,” I say against his lips. “You're a dream come true.”
Epilogue
Nikita
Five Years Later
Piano music plays over the studio’s speakers, which have been mounted to the corners of the room to make sure there's ample space to move. I don't need some clunky grand piano in the way taking up precious real estate. Do I miss having a live performer play music during classes? Of course. It's a wonderful experience to be able to tell the pianist what adjustments to make and when, but Leo hooked me up with a very intuitive surround sound system. It's honestly the next best thing.
“And everyone in first positions please,” I say to my students.
I make sure to check each of the girls' forms. Good posture is everything, the foundation of every young ballerina. There are even a few boys in my class, and I always make sure to pay extra attention to them. I know they can be a little self-conscious at times, but they've shown signs of great promise. I'm protective of all of them, eager to watch them learn and grow into brilliant dancers.
When the music finally comes to an end, I clap my hands twice. “That’s great! Well done everyone. That's all for today's class. Remember to change into your street shoes. You don't want to wear your ballet flats on the sidewalk. And don't forget the next week will be our recitals, so be sure to tell your parents to bring you a little earlier so they can get good seats.”
“Thank you, Miss Nikita,” the kids say in chorus together.
I watch them shuffle off in their pink leotards and tutus, chattering amongst themselves about homework and the latest episode of their favorite TV show. Parents are waiting outside, some of them pressing their noses to the glass to watch their kids during class. Slowly but surely, the children file out while I start the cleanup process. It's almost a guarantee I'm going to find a forgotten lunch box or backpack, so I get to organizing quickly.
While working, I notice Anya, my sweet little girl, holding on to the barre, anxiously nibbling her bottom lip as she stares at her toes.
“Honey?” I call out, making my way over to her. I place my hand on her little back. Feels like yesterday she was big enough to fit in my arms. We just celebrated her fifth birthday a few weeks ago with all of her aunts and uncles and cousins. “Is something the matter?”
“I don't want to do my recital,” she says, chewing on the inside of her cheek, a habit I have no doubt she picked up from me.
“But you've worked so hard, honey. And just yesterday you were saying you were so excited for it.”
“Changed my mind,” she mumbles under her breath.
I take a seat on the floor beside her, tenderly brushing a few of her loose hairs away from her face. She takes after her father. Dark black locks and dark eyes. She has my nose, though, as well as my smile. When the two of us team up together against her father, Leo never stands a chance.
“Will you tell me why you changed your mind?” I ask my daughter patiently.
“I’m scared,” she confesses. “I have bad dreams about tripping. What if I fall? What if everyone laughs at me?”
I wrap my arms around her and give Anya a big hug and kiss. “Have you ever fallen before?”
“Once.”
“And can you tell me what happened?”
Anya shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Um… Nothing?”
“Did someone laugh?”
“No.”
“So what makes you think anyone will laugh again?”
She shrugs. “I don't know.”
