them however she wanted—and she wanted Griffin to dance.
And my God did he dance—he was six the first year he performed in the Nutcracker. Harlequinade at nine, Coppelia at ten, A Midsummer Night’s Dream at eleven.
Sleeping Beauty.
Le Corsaire.
Raymonda.
My parents hated it.
They hated the practices, and the rehearsals, and the costumes, and the all-consuming vortex of hair spray and rhinestones. When Griffin (and I) were discovered by Conservatory campus police high as kites at the Kwickee Mart installation in May, our parents were delighted to force him out of it and into the kind of tech concentration—coding—that would eventually lead him to a career that would feed him physically but starve him spiritually.
My parents didn’t anticipate what I know, though: Griffin always finds a way. Just like that first sashay-step he took at my cousin’s wedding, he will always find a way to put dance first. Even if it means actively defying the very thing my parents told him that he could no longer do.
In front of me, an entire gaggle of tiny, squealing girls in matching black leotards press around Griffin on the sidewalk, all eye level with his navel and practically climbing over one another to vie for his attention. An older woman with shaggy hair lords over the chaos with a red-and-white megaphone in her hand.
It’s my turn to idle at the curb, waiting to pick Griffin up from his first day as an instructor. Dance!Alabama has an absurdly official process, and I hold up a pink card in the shape of a flower that signifies my place in line for the woman with the megaphone. Her voice booms loud enough to rattle through my windows:
“RIDER 153! 153? 153!!!”
Griffin frowns out into the parking lot, unaware until she finally swats him with the back of her clipboard. “153, Griffin!”
He blinks at her for a moment, processing, until recognition falls over him and he pushes past a group of girls watching videos on their iPhones, to open the passenger-side door of my car. He stretches out in the seat next to me, closes the door, and I take off before he can even finish clicking his seat belt.
It’s been mere hours since my showdown with Iliana last night.
Not even twenty-four hours since I felt in control of a situation with her for the very first time, since I watched her blink and stammer and paw at her hair through her hairnet with twitchy fingers.
I feel jittery still, and I’m going to need another hour at least to recover.
“Is the entire class like that?” I ask, thinking of the girls swarming him on the sidewalk.
Oblivious, Griffin downs at least half of the to-go cup filled with coffee between us in one swig.
“Imagine the whole thing set to Disney tunes being piped through the speakers,” Griffin says. “Allllll of those little-bitty kids—pretty much all girls, I heard there’s a boy that takes class during the week, but I think he’s half yeti because no one I’ve talked to has actually set eyes on him—and not a single soul paying attention.”
“Disney tunes are my description of hell,” I say.
When I swing around to the back of the strip mall and put the car in park, it’s as much for me to calm my nerves (and my shaking hands) as it is for Griffin to change out of his leotard.
“Here? Really?” Griffin’s eyes shift from the passenger-side window, back to me. “You couldn’t pick somewhere more secluded?”
“Are you kidding? Look: trees.” I point to the right. My hands are still shaking. “Building.” I point to the left. Still shaking. “No other cars anywhere.” I gesture all around. Still effing shaking. “Just make it quick, okay?”
“What if there are security cameras?”
“There aren’t security cameras.”
“You didn’t even look!” Griffin is frowning again.
This is the Griffin I know and love, mouthy and anxious in a leotard and compression shorts. I always miss him—until I have to deal with him again.
“Get out OF THE CARRRR—!”
“UGH, fine.” He snatches a duffel bag from my backseat and leaves the door open as a kind of privacy screen, ducks down under the tinted window, and gets to work.
“You need to hurry,” I say. “Mom and Dad are supposed to be at the school to pick us up for lunch in, like, ten minutes.”
“Chill! I’m hurrying!”
“Don’t tell me to chill, Griffin Ingram.”
“Don’t tell me to hurry—”
“Oh my God, put your jeans on.”
After a few moments of struggle and a brief glimpse of bare back that I couldn’t avoid, Griffin reappears in