Rocco took a step toward me, and my husband took a step toward him. Then it seemed like the people around us turned into pieces of a chess game. Scarlett and Mia came to stand on each side of me, the women huddling around, and the men huddled around those two. But no one said anything. It didn’t seem like anyone was breathing. Everyone was holding their breath.
Rocco looked into my husband’s eyes, and my husband refused to move his. Rocco said something real low, and after a few seconds, Matteo took a step back.
And just like that, Rocco turned around and left.
Everyone seemed to start breathing at the same time, and without me even realizing it, Scarlett and Mia seemed to be moving me, Matteo right behind me.
“Mamma,” he said.
She lifted a hand, as if to say,I have this.
“Mamma’s man,” I mouthed at him, my eyes narrowed, my face pinched.
It was a lie, all but the man part. I wasn’t even sure why I’d said it. I was out of control, spinning like a top, and I had no fucking clue where I’d land. All I knew was that I felt like clawing at my clothes, at the anger and pain inside of me, praying I could rip it out with my two hands. It seemed so much easier than leaving it inside of me to make me sick, like Uncle Tito had said.
Scarlett opened the door to her studio and flipped all the lights on. She was moving quickly, and I noticed as I stood in the middle of the place that only Mia, Matteo, and Brando had come inside with us. Mia stood next to Matteo, and Brando took his place in the shadows, standing against the wall, arms and legs crossed.
I refused to meet any of their eyes, even though I felt my husband’s stare against my back. I took in the studio instead. Pale grays, the lightest of pinks, mirrors almost from wall to wall with ballet barres. It smelled like popcorn with a hint of rubber.
I hated it on principle.
This was a place a kid like me would have loved to go, and my mom tried, but she had to leave me. It was also a place some kids would hate but be forced into. I’d had a taste of both worlds—wanting to be a part of something fun, and being forced to do it.
Music started to play from the speakers, and a second later, Scarlett appeared, sans her shoes.
“Danse,” she ordered.
“What?” I breathed.
“Danse.” She started to speak French, and something inside of me twisted and turned, because it was sharp and cold.
Memories started to churn inside of me. It was like I was hearing Régine’s sharp, cold voice again.
“No,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, but it was only to hide my shaking body.
Scarlett walked around me, like she was appraising me. She said something in French, then said with a French accent, “You will. Now.”
I shook my head and turned around, but she stopped me from walking away by snapping, “I saidnow!”
My husband went to take a step toward me, but she snapped at him in French. He was moving because I’d started to, but it felt like an order had stabbed me in the back, and I was helpless to free myself from it, just like I had been all those years. I’d danced out of a fear so great, it would sometimes make me pee the bed when I was a kid.
“This is why you have straw instead of a real bed! You have not earned it!”
I faced Scarlett again.
“Danse,” she ordered.
I nodded.
“Good.” When she went to move around me, she said, “You are dancing for yourself, but against yourself. Do you understand me?”
All I could understand was that something inside of me was forcing me to move. The beat of the song seemed to match my pulse, and the rhythm rushed through my blood like hemoglobin, bound to crucial oxygen. The room disappeared like it always did, except for my reflection in all the mirrors.
When it was time to move, I did so to the exact beats of the music, my body in tune with every one of them.
Except.
I could feel something rise inside of myself that I’d never felt before.
