Lily tugged on my sleeve, pulling me back to the present.
She’d set aside her math book and pulled out her sketchpad. When I looked down at the page, my chest tightened.
Another ballerina.
This one was more detailed than the others I’d seen. The dancer’s arms stretched upward in a perfect arc, one leg extended in an arabesque.
“This is beautiful. You’re really talented, you know that?”
Lily stared at the drawing, her small fingers tracing the dancer’s outline.
“Do you like ballet?”
She nodded without looking up.
“Have you ever taken ballet classes?”
Another nod, smaller this time.
I waited, giving her space to say more if she wanted. Lily was like a bird sometimes—easily startled by too many questions or too much attention. You had to let her come to you.
She set down the gold crayon and picked up the purple one. Added small flowers around the dancer’s feet, quick strokes that somehow looked exactly like the flowers were meant to look.
Then she whispered, so quiet I almost missed it, “Dance.”
Everything stopped. One word. The first word Lily had spoken in three weeks.
“You want to dance?”
Lily looked up at me and nodded. Then she reached out with one small hand and touched my sleeve, her eyes locked on mine like she was trying to tell me something important.
“Okay. Okay, sweetheart. I hear you.”
She didn’t say anything else, just went back to her drawing, but something in her posture had relaxed. Like she’d been holding her breath and could finally exhale.
After the session ended and I’d said goodbye to Lily, I found Mrs. Pearson in the kitchen.
Mrs. Pearson’s expression softened in a way I’d rarely seen. “Oh yes. Before the accident. Her mother used to take her, Lily loved it. She’d practice in the living room for hours, showing off everything she’d learned.”
“What happened?”
“Mr. Valdez withdrew her from the studio after Mrs. Valdez died.” Mrs. Pearson’s voice was impartial. “He said it was too much for Lily to handle.”
“But did Lily say she didn’t want to go?”
“Lily wasn’t speaking by then, dear.”
A spark of determination lit in my chest. Had Hector had made that decision without ever asking what his daughter wanted.
I saw him later that afternoon as he was heading from his office, jacket slung over one arm, looking like he was off to whatever mysterious business-tycoon activities filled his days.
“Mr. Valdez?”
He stopped and turned. “Ms. Tinsley. Is there a problem?”
His tone wasn’t exactly welcoming. In fact, it was the verbal equivalent of a closed door with a Do Not Disturb sign.
Not the best time to bring up ballet. Maybe I should wait until he was in a better mood—assuming he had moods other than cold and colder.
