Page 31 of Dancing in the Dark

“I want to know what you fink,” she decides.

I crack a few cubes from the tray and drop them into each cup. “So, first of all, I don’t think the other moms and dads think bad things about you, baby. They have little boys and little girls at home who work really hard, too, and anyone who knows you knows you’re always trying your very best.”

Her eyes glitter with emotion. “You really fink so?”

“I really, really think so. But secondly, even if they did think bad things about you?” I set the ice cube tray aside and fill both cups two-thirds of the way with milk. “It doesn’t matter what other people think of us, Moo.”

Frowning, she creates a small wrinkle between her brows. “It doesn’t?”

“Nope.” I set the milk down and twist the cap back on. “As long as you know you’re being your best version, as long as you’re kind and fair and honest—which is exactly who you already are—then nothing else matters. We can’t control how others feel about us, baby, even if not being liked really hurts our hearts. And ya know what?” I meet her eyes. “There are some people in this world who don’t even like themselves, which means they’re incapable of liking others. But that’s okay. We don’t have to worry ourselves with that stuff.”

“Do you fink that’s why my mom was the way she was?”

Mayday! Oh my gosh! Someone help me!

“Uh…” I spin and lob the milk back into the fridge. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“I fink maybe my mom didn’t even like herself.” She stares at the duo of milky drinks, her fingers flicking and fidgeting. But she doesn’t take. She doesn’t help herself. “I don’t like dancing on the stage, cos every time I did, my mommy didn’t smile or anyfing. I tried really hard,” she rasps. “And I danced as best I could. I practiced all the time, and sometimes I messed up, but Miss Debbie always says it doesn’t matter if we mess up. It only matters that we work hard and correct our mistakes.”

“Miss Debbie sounds like a wise woman.” Coming back to the counter, I choose the cup with a fraction more milk in it, then I slide it across and hope to earn another smile from the girl who deserves them all. “I agree with Miss Debbie. Messing up is completely fine. We all do it. As long as you keep trying, that’s all that matters.”

“My mom said I’m not a very good dancer.” She looks down at her milk, her long lashes kissing the tops of her cheeks. “Even when I tried really hard and even when I got all the steps exactly right, she told me the bits I got wrong. That’s when my mom and my dad would fight the most.”

I want to punch her in her friggin’ face. I want to shove Jada bitchy Watson on a stage, shine the spotlight only on her, and then I want to pick her apart, flaw by flaw, if only to make her feel what she made her baby feel.

“When my mom said those fings, my dad told her to stop. When he told her to stop, she would sometimes cuss. Or she would tell him to shut up.” She brings glassy eyes up to mine. “She would tell him to mind his business, cos if I was a policeman, he could tell me if I’m good, but since he’s not a ballerina, he doesn’t get to say I’m good.”

My sweet, sweet, wounded baby. “I think she was being a little unfair. And you know what I think?” I lean against the counter, reaching across and tapping the underside of her jaw with the tips of my fingers. “I was a real-life ballerina, remember? And I’ve seen you dance in videos.”

“You have?”

“Mmhm. Your dad shows me sometimes. Cato shows me a lot of the time, too. Since I was a real-life ballerina, that means I’m qualified to say if you’re good or bad. And guess what?”

She dips her thumb into the milk and suckles the chocolate from the tip. “What?”

“I think you’re the best five-year-old dancer I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

“Really?”

“Yep! And I’ve seen a lot of them, since I used to be a five-year-old dancer in a class full of five-year-old dancers. And it’s not even your plié, or your turnout, or your relevé, or literally anything else that makes you the best, baby. It’s your heart.” I press my fingers to the middle of her chest. “It’s your kindness and sweetness and your determination to make the world a better place. I think you could be right about your mom—that maybe she struggled to like herself sometimes—which is why she was mean to you. And I think it makes complete sense that your dad told her to stop. Most of all, I hope you remember that just because she said those things, it doesn’t mean those things are true.”

“My dad told me you used to dance on a stage.” She places her hand over mine, holding me close so I can’t escape. “And you said you don’t do it anymore.”

“That’s right. Both of those things.”

“How come you don’t dance on a stage anymore?”

I choke out a pathetic, barely above a whisper snicker and draw our hands back. Surprising her, I press a kiss to the side of her wrist. And I definitely don’t overthink the weird, tangy taste lingering on my lips when I’m done. “I think you and I had the same kind of moms.”

She gasps, her throat bobbing up and down. “Really? Was yours mean to you, too?”

“Yeah. Mine used to tell me all the things I did wrong, too. She used to want to be a famous dancer, but I guess for whatever reason, she quit, and then she had me, and then no matter how hard I tried or how many hours I practiced, she could never find something nice to say about my performance.”

“Like mine,” she sighs, the sound almost completely silent. “Do you get a sick tummy when you try to dance on a stage now, too?”

“Well… not exactly. I love to dance, even now, but it always made me sad that my mom could never find a reason to smile. I wore myself out trying to get better and better, but I never made it to a point where my routine would make her happy. As soon as I was old enough to finish high school and move out, I came to Copeland, and once I got here, I stopped dancing on the stage. Like I said before, we can’t control other people, and we can’t make them like us, no matter how hard we try. But ya know what we can control?”

She drops her head forward and licks the rim of her glass. “What?”