“What if the bad people win?” another kid asks.
I take a breath. These are kids. I can’t promise them everything will be OK when I don’t know if it will be.
“Then we keep using our voices,” I say finally. “We don’t give up just because something’s hard. That’s what being part of a community means.”
The kids nod, and sometimes I think they understand how important our community is more than the adults do.
We spend the last ten minutes going over logistics—where to meet, what to wear, when to arrive. By the time parents start showing up for pickup, the kids are bouncing with nervous energy.
One of the moms stops to talk to me on her way out.
“Thank you for doing this,” she says. “My daughter hasn’t stopped talking about the meeting all week. She actually wants to go to a town meeting. Do you know how rare that is?”
I laugh. “I’m just glad she’s excited.”
“We all are. The whole neighborhood.” She adjusts her child’s dance bag on her shoulder. “What you and the MC are doing—organizing everyone, standing up to these developers—it means a lot. None of us want to lose our homes.”
After they leave, I sit on the floor for a minute, letting my ankle rest. My phone buzzes with a text from Bones.
Bones:
How’d class go?
Me:
Good. Kids are ready. How’s the research?
Bones:
Found something interesting to present at the meeting. You need a ride?
Me:
Dad’s picking me up. See you there.
Bones:
Love you, swan.
Me:
Love you too.
I’m still smiling at my phone when the studio door opens and Dad walks in with Josie right behind him.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve watched them circle each other like two people who know they want something but are too stubborn to reach for it. They’re not officially together—at least not that anyone’s acknowledged—but they should be together. The way he holds doors for her, the way she touches his arm when she’s making a point, the way they stay late at the clubhouseworkinglong after everyone else has gone home.
It’s cute. Also slightly weird seeing my dad act like a teenager with a crush.
“Hey, kiddo.” Dad crosses the studio and looks down at me. “You planning on getting up anytime soon?”
“I’m resting. Doctor’s orders.”
“Pretty sure the doctor didn’t say rest on the floor.”
“It’s a studio floor. Dancers rest on studio floors all the time.”
“Uh-huh.” He reaches down and hauls me up, handing me my crutches. “How’s the ankle?”
