“My friend’s here today. Next week.”
There was a collective, “Aw, please?”
Bev blushed but didn’t meet my eye as I said to her, “I can step out?”
Before I could stand up, a small ballerina was leaning on my knee, her bright eyes meeting mine.
“Tell Miss Bev to dance. She’s so good.”
I let out a big sigh. “Bev, I can’t deny this one. Give us a twirl or two.”
“Yay!” The girls all plopped down along the wall next to me.
“She has to change her shoes,” one of the girls said to me.
A quick glance toward Bev confirmed their assumption.
She stepped out of what looked like dance moccasins and slipped into her ballet shoes. After lacing them up, she performed some sort of stretching and pointing with her feet.
Standing, Bev smoothed her lightweight skirt down and made her way to the music system. I’d never heard the music before, but it sounded like a combination of jazz and classical.
It didn’t matter, though, because as soon as Bev started to move, the music became an afterthought. Seriously, she looked like a gazelle floating through the air, her feet lifting off the ground with ease, her low ponytail swishing behind her with every circle and turn, as if she were grace personified.
Applause rippled through the air as she finished. The small army of tiny ballerinas jumped up and swarmed around Bev, gushing over her performance.
When she released them and they ran out to meet their parents, Bev began straightening up the room.
“That was incredible,” I told her. “You need to do more of that.”
“I don’t have the time. Wish I did. But the bakery, my mom ...”
“Maybe I could help with the bakery?” The words burst out of my mouth on their own, as if they knew how desperate I was to be close to Sheila and my mom.
Bev shook her head. “I couldn’t let you do that. You already work two jobs. Besides, it’s not a high-paying position.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”
I followed behind her, but I couldn’t shake the idea of her giving up her dancing for her mom and the damn bakery. That wasn’t her dream.
“Want to grab a coffee on our way?” Bev asked.
“Sure,” I said, still deep in thought.
Walking into the coffee shop, ordering a latte, it all felt like a dream sequence. Our feet carried us several blocks, and then Bev motioned toward a small building with a stoop out front and a few steps that led to the door. There was a buzzer for guests, but no doorman—this wasn’t a giant skyscraper like where Price lived. It was humble for New York, and it suited Bev and Sheila perfectly.
With her coffee in one hand, Bev used her key and then pushed the door open, ushering me inside. I followed her up three flights of stairs until we stopped in front of an apartment door.
“Come on,” she said.
We traipsed inside, setting our bags inside the door. I followed Bev’s lead and took my shoes off.
“Mom?” she called, making her way into the small kitchen to grab a banana.
“In here,” Sheila called from down the narrow hallway.
We found her in her bedroom, sitting on top of her comforter, her feet in slippers, a plush robe tied tight at the waist, and a recipe book in her hands.
“Hi, ladies,” she said.
“What are you doing, Mom?” Bev asked, eyeing the cookbook.
