She laughs, genuine this time, and turns when the door bangs open and a rush of cold air tumbles in with three girls, all elbows and backpacks. “You’re early,” she calls. “Shoes in the cubbies. Phones silent. Tell your mother I need my Tupperware back.”
The girls giggle and scatter.
I reach for my bag to grab the attendance sheets, and the bracelet Wesley gave me flashes at my wrist. Gold. The tiny ballroom shoe, the camera, and that blank disk he said was “for what comes next.”
I should take it off. I should’ve taken it off the second he walked out of my apartment.
I don’t.
I can’t.
If I pretend we were nothing, then that blank charm is just metal. If I leave it on, it’s still a promise. Not his. Mine. That whatever happens, “what comes next” is this—this room, these girls, this fund that answers to me.
I pull my hoodie off and head for the studio. The floor is warm under my feet, rosin kissing skin. I run through the Horton sequence we set for the Sunday morning class: hinges, laterals, flat backs that demand respect from hamstrings with opinions.
“Where do you want the fans?” a voice calls.
“Back corners.” I turn. Uncle Julian stands in the doorway in an overcoat that belongs in a better neighborhood, carrying two industrial box fans and a bag that sloshes suspiciously.
“Those are not champagne bottles, I swear,” he says mildly. “Electrolyte drinks. Grapes. And fine, macarons. It is Sunday, after all.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“True.” He sets the fans down. “Ms. Alvarez told me the HVAC is Dickensian.”
“You had business on 116th?” I arch a brow. “On a Sunday?”
“I had business near 116th.” He scans the studio. “To support my niece.” A beat. “This suits you, jellybean. I haven’t seen you smile like this in weeks.”
My throat tightens. “It’s a good cause.” I let the words take their weight. “It will make a difference.”
He nods, as if that answers a question he didn’t ask. He salutes with a macaron and retreats to reception, where Ms. Alvarez will bully my billionaire uncle into moving folding chairs and filling paper cups—and he’ll oblige.
The class streams in, twenty-two small bodies, hair in every possible situation, nerves hidden behind jokes.
“All right,” I call, clapping once. “Horton to start. Then we’ll earn our Broadway.”
We line up. “Flat back.” The room lowers in unison, spines long, arms extended. A new girl in the third row shakes. I step behind her, palm hovering just above her ribs, not touching.
“Breathe into it. There. Yes.”
We move through the sequence—laterals clean, T balances brave, a collective wobble at count six that will be a legend by spring. I make them hold the stillness that feels impossible until it becomes a new kind of possible. When the music shifts, I cue the transition, flick the lights a notch, and their faces change. Playtime.
“Broadway.” I grin. “We’re on the downbeat today. Chest up, focus up. If you sell the face, I’ll forgive the feet.”
They sell the face. The feet survive.
Halfway through, the door opens again, and Lila slips in, cheeks pink from the cold, hair in a tidy knot that mocks my messy twist. She drops her bag, slides off her boots, and joins the back line without ceremony.
The air in the room lifts. Even the girls who don’t know who she is know who she is.
On the next pass, I stop the music and wave her forward. “Guest star,” I announce. “Straight from rehearsal, which means you are not allowed to tell her she looks tired.”
She bows, deadpan. “I haven’t felt my calves since Monday.”
“Giselle,” one of the older girls whispers, reverent.
“Wilis boot camp,” Lila confirms. “Which is just smiling while your legs die.” She flashes a grin at them. “Shall we die nicely?”
