Page 119 of Dancing in the Dark

“Can you tell me the rules again so I know you understand?”

“No leaning.” Grinning, she drags my hand down. “No shouting. And not allowed to come alone.”

“You’re an amazing listener.” I wrap my fingers around her wrist and press a kiss to the center of her palm. “When you’re a grown-up, you can come here any time you like.”

Her eyes widen to perfect golden saucers. “Anytime?”

“Well…” I snicker. “Assuming Aunty Minka is still the boss here. The next chief M.E. might not be so understanding.”

“Okay.” She glances left. Right. To the sky. “So this is my surprise? And my leotard, too?”

“Yes. But it might make more sense if you let me explain.” I gently tap her belly and draw her giggling focus down, then I finger the hem of her dress and wait. “Can I take this off for you?”

She shoots her arms into the air. “Yeah.”

So beautifully eager. So trusting.

I pull the dress over her head, careful not to mess up her bun, and lay it neatly on the ground by my feet. “You know I used to dance on the stage all the time, right? I’ve been in so many recitals, I don’t think I could even count them anymore.”

“A thousand?” she wonders. “A trillion?”

“The number probably sits somewhere between those two.” I grin, “I performed so many times, I didn’t even get nervous anymore. Not the happy, excited kind of nervous.”

Her awe transforms into a soft pout. “I wish I didn’t get nervous. It gives me a stomachache.”

“I know. I performed almost every weekend of my childhood. My mom would sign me up for everything. Different organizations. Different studios. Different reasons. That means I had to learn a lot of routines all at the same time.”

“That must’ve been tricky, huh? I sometimes forget my steps, and I only have to learn one routine.”

“Honestly?” I nibble on my bottom lip and search her eyes. “I don’t even know if it was tricky. I didn’t know any different, so I…” I shrug. “Did what I was told to do. I loved dance, Moo. I loved it so, so much, right up here in my heart. Until I didn’t. And then when I didn’t, I didn’t… a lot. I hated all the hours I had to practice and all the uncomfortable costumes I had to wear. I hated that my feet were always sore. And I was hungry a lot, too.” I peek down at my stomach. “My mom told me what I could eat and how much I could have. It felt like I could never get enough. Have you ever been so hungry it made you angry?”

She giggles. “Daddy calls that hangry.”

“Mmm. I was hangry my whole life, because my mom wanted to control every single bit of food I ate, and everyone knows meat is high in protein.”

She gasps. “But you don’t eat meat!”

“I know.” I take her hands and hug them between mine. “I stopped eating meat when I was a little older than you are now, which means I became even hungrier than I already was. Everything about dance made me unhappy, especially the pressure my mom put on me to be the best.”

She swallows, her throat moving with the action. “I fink you was the best. You dance so good.”

“Yeah. I was.” I sigh. “I was the best, and I have a lot of trophies that say so. But all of that pressure, and all the hunger and exhaustion and never getting to rest… it wasn’t worth it. Because even while I was holding my shiny new trophy and smiling for the cameras, my mom told me the things I wasn’t good at. Like how my turnout could’ve been better. How my jeté should’ve been higher. My plié should’ve been more elegant.”

“She was mean to you.” Her brows furrow and create a line in the middle of her forehead. “Moms are s’posed to be kind to us. They’re s’posed to tell us we did our best if we tried our best.”

“You’d think so, huh?” I reach up and smooth the line between her eyes. “When you get on the stage and it makes you feel sad, I know what that’s like.”

“Cos you had a mean mom who made dancing not fun,” she rasps. “And I had a mean mom who made dancing not fun?”

Where’s the line between respecting the dead and exposing the dead? God, I hope I don’t screw this up.

Nodding, I drop my gaze and pray I get this right. “This leotard you picked?” I place my hands on her hips. “It was one of my favorites.”

“Because it’s soft?” She wiggles her butt. “And it didn’t even give me a wedgie one time yet.”

“Right,” I snicker. “No wedgies ever, and it’s super soft.” I slowly bring my eyes up. “And it was from when I was about your age. Back when my dad was still alive, and I didn’t hate dance yet.”

“It’s a happy memory leotard.” Awed, she pinches the fabric between her fingertips. “You let me borrow your happy memory leotard?”