“Look, you don’t need to make excuses,” I said, interrupting him. And I meant it.
Jamming the phone between my neck and shoulder, I resettled my baseball cap, shoving my hair underneath. It was a nervous habit, but hearing my dad’s voice brought out all the anxiety in me. What did he really want from me?
“I need to explain more in person,” he said. “I was thinking of coming into the city next week. I need to grab some files, and Monday is a dead day for me. Could we have dinner? Sit down so I can explain?”
“Sure.”
It felt rude to say no, in light of all the money he was spending on me and my current lifestyle. My mom kept telling me to enjoy it, and honestly, I was now happy that I could spend time with Emerson, and share some of the privileges he gave me with her. But at the end of the day, I was used to working for my own money, supporting myself.
“I’ll email you the time and place,” he said.
“Okay.”
Geez, he’s not even going to swing by and see the place he pays for?
A woman called out to him in the background, and my dad said he had to go. The call was over. Clearly, all my dad was interested in was paying reparations. Being a part of my life was never part of his plan, and it certainly wasn’t now.
Deciding to grab an espresso and call Emerson when I got home, I started to think about her mom. If she’d wanted to find her daughter, wouldn’t she have?
People only do what they want or feel they should be doing, right?
Emerson
Ifell asleep talking to Price the night before. It felt like such a girlie thing to do, something I’d want to tell my mom about, but ... I didn’t have a mom.
It was now Wednesday, and I’d taken the day off to be with Bev and see her studio. She was teaching a noon class, and I was going to watch, and then we were going to go see her mom. I couldn’t stop thinking,Sheila wants me to take the painting.
That thought was like an ever-present pounding in my head. Quite frankly, I hadn’t a clue what I would do with the painting once it was mine.
All of a sudden, my gut clenched with fear. I should tell Bev the truth. She was my only real friend in New York City. Bev and her mom were being so kind to me—what if they decided to stop sharing information? My conscience told me I should be honest with them, but I couldn’t risk it.
Making my way down the street after exiting the subway, I easily found Bev’s dance studio and yanked on the heavy glass door.
“Yay! You made it.” Bev was standing in the front by the counter.
“Told you I would.” I winked and looked around. Every inch of wall space was covered in light pink satin slippers and awards, likeBest of New York, Best of Broadway, Tenth Annual Macy’s Day Parade Attendee.
Bev grabbed my hand. “My class starts soon. Let me get you situated.”
We walked through a parent waiting area with a two-way mirror and into the studio where ten of the tiniest ballerinas all in pale-pink leotards and white tights sat waiting for Bev.
“Morning, ladies,” she said to the miniature people.
They all smiled brightly, the world set in front of them.
“My good friend, Emerson, is here today to watch you perform.”
“Hi, Emerson,” they sang in unison.
“Shall we get started?”
The girls scrambled to their feet and hurried toward the bar.
Bev worked them through a series of footsteps, calling out different positions, and the girls responded to every command. Next, they made their way out to the middle of the floor and practiced their upcoming recital piece.
Their adoring moms were on the other side of the mirror, watching each step carefully, hanging on every twist, turn, and plié. I couldn’t imagine a mother caring so damn much about another being, more than their own self, to want so much for another person, to fantasize about their future happiness. It seemed so foreign to me.
“Miss Bev, dance for us!” one of the tiny girls called out after they finished their class.
