“Text me the address. I’m coming for you.”
“Sam, you don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t, but Iwantto.”
Reluctantly, I give in and find a place out of sight of the windows to wait for my Soldier Boy. My heart wants more than anything to dance, but I can’t bring myself to face the music. The scars of the past are still too strong to overcome.
Fifteen
“What are you wearing?” I gawk as Sam strolls down the block toward me.
He has on a thin white undershirt, white knee breeches with socks that could pass for tights, a pink pancake tutu, and combat boots. His face is made up like a camouflaged mime. There are greens, whites, and blacks acting as a foundation. His eyes are surrounded with thick eyeliner. But the strangest of all are the two red circles on his cheeks and the bright ruby-red lipstick.
“What ballerinas wear,” he responds, straight-faced.
I try hard to contain my laughter but can’t help myself. The cackles escape from my lips and turn into me clutching my belly at the ridiculousness of it all. It doesn’t help that Sam rises up onto his toes and impersonates a ballet dancer by twirling around in a circle, leaping with horrible form side to side. I laugh until my body is sore everywhere and tears have pooled out of my eyes.
“You might have a new nickname headed your way, Soldier Boy. Maybe I should start calling you General Odette.”
He slides beside me on to the low stone wall a building over from the dance studio. “Call me whatever you want. Do you feel better?”
“Yes.” I wipe my eye with the back of my hand. “I needed that.” I peck him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“Then it was worth all the effort.”
“Where did all this come from? Who did your makeup?”
Sam cracks a grin. “The undershirt and breeches are mine. They’re part of my ceremonial uniform. The tutu is my sister’s. She accidentally left it here last Saturday. The makeup was donated by Trooper Smith and done by Trooper Mason. They had a brilliant time transforming me into a combat ballerina.”
“What did the ride-share driver say when you got in his car?”
“He didn’t bat an eye.”
I snigger again.
“So, where is this famous dance studio?”
I point to the sign suspended in front of the building two doors down.
“What time was this class supposed to be?”
“Six.”
“Well, you’re in luck, it’s only five to six. You can still make it.”
I shake my head.
“What if I did the class with you.”
“Have you ever done a ballet class?”
“With my sister when she was about five.”
I snort. “I mean arealclass.”
“No, but if it’s the only thing that will get you inside, I’ll do it.” He stands. “I’m good at twirling.” He performs his best attempt at a pirouette, but it’s more of a jumpingup in the air and spinning around. “See? I even stuck the landing.”
“That’s more of a gymnastics thing.”
