Page 30 of Dancing in the Dark

“You do?”

“Mmhm. I’ve been working really hard to get my routine right, and Miss Debbie is nice.” She leans closer, smiling conspiratorially. “She’s not as nice as you, though. And she’s kinda pretty, I guess. But not even close to as pretty as you.”

“You always say the nicest things about me.” I set my hands on her hips and tip my head the other way. She’s so little, and her attention span is short, so I place myself in her line of sight and hold her focus for as long as I can. “What if I had never been a ballerina? And what if your mom had never been a ballerina? Would you still want to dance then?”

My stomach twists as her smile drops away and a frown replaces it.

“If I tell you somefin, do you promise not to tell anyone else?”

Oh God. Oh no. Don’t make me promise that, baby.

I draw a deep breath and buy myself a moment to think, to search for a safe passage forward, and though I feel like I could hold this position forever, I buy myself a little more time by straightening my legs and taking her hand. I lead her around the counter and help her climb onto a stool, then I come back around and rest my elbows on the fake-stone countertop. Exhaling again, I count the freckles on her cheeks and the small smattering across the bridge of her nose. “I want you to tell me every single thing you ever want to tell me, honey. But the promise you want me to make is kinda tricky.”

Her brows pinch tight in the way only a five-year-old’s can. “Why is it tricky?”

“Because I always want you to feel comfortable talking to me, and I never, ever want to betray your trust. Do you know what that means? To betray someone’s trust?”

She shakes her head swiftly from side to side.

“Well, if I promise you something, and then I break that promise, I’ve betrayed your trust.”

“So don’t break the promise,” she giggles. “Easy!”

Easy. “I want to be someone you trust all the time, Mia, but there’s something I want even more than that. Do you think you can guess what that thing is?”

Matching my posture, she drops her elbows to the counter and nibbles on her lips. “More hugs?”

I snicker. “I definitely want more hugs. But the one thing I need most of all is for you to be safe. So if you ask me to promise you something, but that promise puts you in danger, then I might have to break that promise. If you tell me something that I think is really, really important for someone else to know, someone like your dad, or your teacher, or even Cato or someone else like that, then I might have to tell them, even if you asked me not to.”

“Oh… well… hmm…” She thinks for a moment, mulling over her options. “Well, the thing I want to tell you isn’t a dangerous thing, I promise. I just fink it might make my daddy sad if he found out.”

Fuckkkkkk.

“I’ll tell you anyway,” she decides. “And I won’t make you promise not to tell anyone else, so then you won’t have to tray my trust.”

“A-are you sure? You’re alright with that?”

She nods again. “You’re nice, and you would never do anyfing to hurt someone on purpose, so I fink that means you won’t tell him anyway.”

Because you’re relying on me not hurting his feelings?

“I love being a ballerina all the time, Fifi. It’s true, I swear.” She spins on her stool and slides off the edge, dropping to her feet and charging around the counter. Whipping the fridge open, she takes out a three-quarters full bottle of milk and slams it onto the counter, then she opens a low cupboard and snags two tall plastic cups. Setting them with the milk, she darts to the pantry, opens the doors, and searches high. Much higher than her head. “And I would still be a ballerina even if you and my mom weren’t ballerinas.” She steps closer and lifts her foot to the first shelf.

“No climbing.” I spin and wrap my arm around her stomach exactly how Mrs. Greene did it in class. Putting her back on the floor, I shake my head. “Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll help. Climbing is dangerous.”

She flashes a bright smile and darts back to her stool. “Chocolate sauce, please.”

Chocolate sauce.

I search the pantry and locate the sauce, but I keep her in my peripherals, too, and watch as she scrambles back onto her seat.

“I don’t like it when I have to dance on a stage.” She sets the two cups side by side, then, dragging the milk closer, she uncaps the top, lifts the heavy bottle, and grits her teeth as liquid splashes onto the counter. “Oopsie.”

“I’ll do it for you.” I drag the milk out of her reach so we don’t end up with the whole thing on the floor, then I pick up a cup, shake the sauce bottle, and earn her impressed grin as I spread a swirling line of chocolate around the inside to create a cute pattern. “Why don’t you like it when you dance on a stage? And why do you think that would hurt your dad’s feelings?”

She slumps forward onto her elbows and watches me closely. “I keep trying to do it. I swear. But every time it’s my turn, I get a sick feeling in my tummy, and when I get the sick feeling in my tummy, I forget all my steps. Then I feel like a big dummy, because I practiced so hard a gazillion times and now all the other moms and dads probably fink I didn’t practice at all.”

“I see. Hmm. That’s tricky, huh?” I finish working on the second cup, set it down, then I spin to the fridge and search the freezer for ice cubes. “Do you want to hear what I think about all this? Or do you want me to only listen?”