We set a short phrase together—Horton spine, Broadway finish, a little flourish they’ll brag about in group chats. Lila gives notes with the same precision she saves for the stage: soft knees, proud chest, don’t apologize with your face.
During the water break, I pull her to the side bench. “If your rehearsal schedule allows, could you drop in once a month?”
“If Ms. Alvarez will tolerate me.” Lila nudges me. “You did this.”
“We did this.” I open my notes app, scroll the to-do list. “I still need a part-time coordinator, but Ms. Alvarez gave me three names. Oh, and I have to finish the MetroCard system. And the gear closet makes me want to cry.”
“I can send a trunk from the theater,” she says. “Old warm-ups, rehearsal skirts, legwarmers, extra tights still in their packets, a box of Therabands, and a couple of foam rollers. The costume mistress will sigh about ‘inventory integrity’ and then sneak in hair nets and rosin.”
I swallow around a gratitude that feels too big. “Thank you.”
She studies me. “You okay?”
My hand twitches, the muscle memory of a ring that isn’t there. “I’m better when I’m here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“He doesn’t want me,” I say. “He saw the name, the family, and bolted.” The girls practice turns, fail, and keep trying. “He’s present in the wrong ways,” I add. “Missing in the right ones.”
Lila nods. “Then build the parts he doesn’t touch.” A squeeze. “Either he learns how to show up—or he’s not your person.”
Class ends in a storm of laces and backpacks and promises to practice in kitchens. Ms. Alvarez hands out oranges. Julian pretends not to be moved by ten children thanking him for fans.
I stay to count the signup sheets and check the calendar Ms. Alvarez will tape to the door:Scholarship Assessments—Saturday at 10 a.m. Snack Pantry—Restocked Wednesday. Guest Teacher—TBD (watch this space).On the bulletin board outside, a new flyer hangs straight and hopeful.
Harlem Movement Fund—Free Modern & Broadway Classes—Ages 8–16
No fees. No proof. Just show up.
I tuck a stack of flyers under my arm for the bodega, for the laundromat, for the school around the corner where a nine-year-old learned to spot by fixing on an EXIT sign and refusing to look away.
The Sunday morning is cold and ordinary. I prefer ordinary. It’s what you build on.
14
POWER CLEAN (WESLEY)
The elevator doors almost close on her ponytail. Seven-thirty in the goddamn morning, and the universe decides to run a comedy set.
Joy—or Josephine, depending which circle of hell we’re in—steps in wearing running tights, a long-sleeve top, and enough confidence to make the elevator feel ten degrees hotter. She keeps her eyes forward, earbuds in, pretending I’m part of the wallpaper.
Fine. I can play that game.
The car hums down, floor numbers blinking slow as torture. My gym bag strap creaks, loud in the silence. Her reflection gives away the smallest flicker—a breath hitch, a jaw clench—before she kills it.
“Morning,” I say.
She hesitates, then, “Morning.”
That’s it. That’s the whole interaction.
A one-word autopsy of what used to be everything.
When the doors open, she strides out first. I hang back, watching the sway of that damn ponytail disappear toward thelobby doors. The citrus of her shampoo lingers in the elevator. I breathe it in, hating myself.
She turns left toward the park. I head right, the echo of her steps fading as I unlock the Porsche.
The gym’shalf empty when I get in. Morning skate’s optional today, but I need to hit something, even if it’s only the weights.
