“They might shut this place down?”
The feathers crumple in my grip. I don’t move.
The kids’ voices ebb and flow, their concerns rising like gentle waves lapping the shore, some fading into the tide, others lingering. And then this one, sharp and sudden.
“Hey, psst. Why is Holly sad?”
A pull of the current, inescapable.
“‘Cause if they shut here, she can’t do it anymore.”
“She can come to the other improv with us!”
I swallow a lump in my throat.
“She can’t. She got a certificate to practice here.”
“Certificate? You mean scholarship.”
“Whatever. It came in the post. A letter. She got to come here.”
“Holly! Holly? Please come with us if this place shuts down?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. I said I’m fine!”
She’s not fine. When I pull myself out of the cupboard, the kids and Holly have already gone into the studio.
Moana catches my eye as I hand her the feathers. Her fingers curl around them, but her gaze stays on me.
What she’s asking is: Can we save this place?
What she’s really asking is can we save their moemoea, their dreams?
The curtains are open, letting in the bright afternoon light, and I look over at Holly practicing her lines. Her eyes are red, where she might have rubbed at stinging tears.
His voice again.Why can’t I?
It presses at the back of my throat.
My stomach jerks, a sharp tug at my centre.
But from where? From him? Or from me?
Ten-year-old Holly. Dancing makes her smile. She’s young.
Her moemoea are still alive.
Unlike other moemoea... the ones you can never get back.
Moana grips my elbow. A smile for the class, hushed words for me. “You look like you swallowed a live fish.”
And its bones are choking me.
I could save this studio. Them. Their dreams.
If I take on that job.
