“Oh, swan. Are you crying?” I tease.
“No,” she sniffs. “It’s these stupid pills.”
“Sure, the pills.” I kneel down beside her and let my voice get real low so only she can hear. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty close to happy tears too.”
21
EMMA
The crutches are an improvement over the wheelchair, but not by much.
I maneuver carefully across the community center studio floor, my right leg still encased in the surgical boot, my armpits already sore from learning how to navigate on these things. The physical therapist said I’m doing great—ahead of schedule, even—but right nowgreatmeans I can hop from point A to point B without falling on my face.
Progress.
“Miss Emma, are you gonna fall down?”
I look up to find one of my nine-year-old pupils watching me with concern.
“Nope. I’m totally fine.” I adjust my grip on the crutches and make my way to the front of the room where twelve kids are scattered in various states of attention. “All right, everyone. Let’s start with warm-ups.”
After almost three weeks doing little more than sitting with my leg elevated all day, I managed to convince Bones and my dad, and well,everyoneat the clubhouse that I could handle doing a little teaching—with an assistant. And while they’d tried to fight me on it, in the end, they knew I was just going to do it anyway—which is how teaching these classes became the highlight of my day. Not because the kids are particularly skilled—though a couple show real promise—but because teaching them feels different from performing. Less pressure. More joy. They dance because they want to, not because their careers depend on it. And now that I’m on my feet—well,foot—and can actually participate in teaching them a little more, I’m starting to remember who I was before ballet became a cage. Before discipline replaced joy.
I run them through stretches and basic positions, demonstrating what I can from my crutches and having one of the older girls help with anything that requires actual movement. The kids don’t seem to mind my limitations. If anything, they’re fascinated by the boot.
“Does it hurt?” one of the boys asks for the millionth time.
“Only when I forget and try to use it,” I say. “Which is why we’re all going to be very careful around Miss Emma and her crutches, right?”
“Right!”
After warm-ups, I have them practice the routine we’ve been working on—a simple combination they’re going to perform at the town meeting tonight. Originally, Josie was pushing to have it within the week of the club finding out Summit was acquiring property again. But the logistics had us waiting two weeks. It wasn’t ideal, but it meant the club had more time to rally thecommunity, and I had the chance to pitch my recital idea. Dad wasn’t super receptive at first. But when Josie pointed out that having kids stand up and demonstrate why this community is so important would help get the sympathy vote, all of a sudden, he was nodding along and calling itinspired.
“Remember,” I call out as the class moves through the steps, “this isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing people why Stoneheart matters to you. Why our home is worth protecting.”
The kids nod seriously, their little faces scrunched in concentration.
We’ve been talking about community and belonging and what it means to have a place that’s yours. Some of it went over their heads, but enough stuck that when I asked who wanted to perform at the town meeting, every single hand shot up.
One of the twelve-year-olds executes a nearly perfect pirouette and I feel that familiar ache—not in my ankle this time, but in my chest. I’ll never dance like that again. Never feel that weightless moment of perfect rotation, never push my body to those extremes.
But watching her? Helping her get better?
Maybe that’ll be enough.
“Beautiful!” I call out. “Let’s run it one more time, then we’ll talk about tonight.”
They run through the routine again and I make mental notes about timing and spacing. When they finish, I gather them in a circle on the floor. I lower myself down carefully, crutches clattering to the side.
“So,” I say. “Tonight’s the big night. Who’s nervous?”
Several hands go up.
“Me too,” I admit. “Public speaking is scary. But you know what’s scarier? Staying quiet when something important is happening.”
“My mom says the meeting might get loud,” one of the boys says. “She says people might argue.”
“They might,” I agree. “But that’s OK. That’s democracy. That’s how we make decisions as a community, by talking about it, even when we disagree.”
