"Shh," I say gently, ruffling his green hair. "Let's watch."
The music starts, something sweeping that I don't recognize but sounds uplifting, and the dancers begin to move. Zoe is third from the left, and even among a group of talented kids, she stands out. Her movements are precise and graceful, each arabesque and pirouette executed with the kind of discipline that comes from hours of practice.
The group number finishes strong, the dancers holding their final pose as the music swells and cuts. The audience erupts into applause, and I clap louder than anyone, my hands stinging with the force of it.
Zoe's eyes scan the auditorium as she exits the stage. I see her gaze sweep past us, searching for something, someone, who isn't there. Then her eyes land on me and Rika, and her lips curve in the smallest smile.
That smile hits me square in the chest.
Matthew bounces in his seat beside me. "She was so good!"
"She really was."
The next few numbers blur together, more dancers, more scattered applause. I glance at Rika and see her hands areclasped tight in her lap, her knuckles white. She's dreading what comes next. So am I.
Onstage, the dance teacher, a tall, elegant elf woman with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, takes the microphone.
"Alright, everyone," she says, her voice crisp and authoritative. "We're moving into the Parent Partner segment now. Featured dancers, please line up stage left. Parents, when I call your dancer's name, please come down to the stage."
Rika goes rigid beside me. I glance at her and see all the color drain from her face.
"I have to get up there," she whispers, her voice tight. "It's a father-daughter dance, and she needs a parent to lift her up. I'll do my best."
What? No one told me about this. There's no way Rika can physically manage the lifts required for this segment. She knows it. I know it. And worse, Zoe knows it.
Onstage, fathers start making their way down the aisles. A broad-shouldered orc in a business suit. A wiry human man with dark jeans and glasses. A troll in mechanic's overalls who moves like he wants to be anywhere but onstage.
I watch Zoe's face as she lines up with the other featured dancers. She's watching the other girls' fathers take their places, and even from here I can see her fighting to keep her expression neutral. Her wings droop, the tips nearly brushing the stage floor.
She looks so small up there. So alone.
Rika begins to rise from her seat, clearly setting herself up for failure.
"I've got this," I say, standing.
Rika looks up at me, her eyes wide. "Noah, you don't have to—"
"I want to."
I'm already heading down the aisle. The dance teacher looks surprised when she sees me approaching.
"Oh. You're Zoe's—?"
"I'm filling in." I pause, not sure what to call myself, then decide on the truth. "I'm the nanny."
Ms. Langford's expression softens. "Of course. Just follow the other dads' lead. It's very simple."
Simple. Right.
I climb the steps onto the stage, and the lights hit me like a wall of heat. Jesus, no wonder the dancers are sweating. I can barely see the audience beyond the glare.
Zoe meets me in the wings, her expression a mixture of shock and something that looks dangerously close to hope.
"Noah?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "What are you doing?"
I grin at her. "What does it look like? Let's nail this."
For a moment, she just stares at me. Then her eyes go shiny, and she blinks rapidly, looking away.
