“It’s funny, I’m here to dance too.” Charlotte sat on the floor, took off her shoes, and pulled her pointe shoes from the bag.
Amelia’s eyes widened so subtly Charlotte almost missed it. But she remembered the appeal of pointe shoes when she was Amelia’s age. She wanted to learn to dance on pointe more than anything, mostly because Marcia said she wasn’t ready and she knew she was.
Amelia likely had another year or two before she was old enough, but maybe watching Charlotte would help her remember how much she loved to dance.
Charlotte walked over to the Bluetooth speaker in the corner, pulled out her phone and connected it. “I’m a little rusty, but I need the workout.” She found a classical piece that would be perfect for warming up, and she turned it on.
Amelia hugged her knees to her chest, as if to cement her position right there on the floor.
Charlotte decided not to push her. How many times did she wish she could ease in on her own terms? How many times had Marcia forced her? Charlotte didn’t want to be that kind of teacher. She wanted to be the kind of teacher she imagined Jules was. Kind. Encouraging. Fun.
Did she even know where to begin?
She moved to the barre, faced the wall, and began treading up and over her shoes, warming up her ankles. She tossed a quick glance at Amelia, who still wore a vacant expression, but who, she noticed, was watching Charlotte’s feet intently.
Charlotte continued to move through a warm-up she could do without thinking. She moved from plié, pushed up over the shoes, then straightened and came down.
She continued, then the song ended and the familiar music from Romeo and Juliet began to play.
Amelia sat up a little straighter.
“Do you know the story of Romeo and Juliet?” Charlotte asked.
Amelia hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“Did you know it was a ballet?”
The little girl shook her head.
Charlotte smiled. “Would you like to see a bit of it?”
Amelia nodded again.
Charlotte went to her phone, changed the music, and took her place on the floor. How many times had she danced this pas de deux?
But this time, it was different. This time, she had no partner. This time, she wasn’t dancing for an audience of strangers. She was dancing for a little girl who’d lost her love of dance.
A little girl not wholly unlike herself.
She began to move through the familiar dance, as if her body had been made to perform the steps. It was a role she’d danced only a few months before—Juliet. She’d been born for that role, they’d said. The critics were blown away by her performance.
And every night, after the curtain closed, Charlotte realized she felt nothing. Technically, she nailed it every single time, but didn’t any of them realize the emotion was all manufactured? Charlotte herself felt nothing. She had no connection to the movements or the role she was playing.
Was she even capable of connecting?
She wanted to find out, if only for herself. She zeroed in on how each move challenged her muscles. She paid attention to the way the music cued her how to feel, what emotion to portray. She knew the story, but now she wanted to feel the story. Not for an audience. Not for Marcia or her director.
She wanted to dance for Amelia. For Julianna. For herself. She wanted to let herself feel something, to use this gift she’d been given to help a little girl with a broken heart.
And as she danced, the memories of Julianna spilled out in front of her. Her laugh. Her smile. Her absolute love of dance, of life. All of it rolled out in front of her as she leapt, then landed perfectly, muscles tense and ready for whatever was next.
She danced the solo, which she’d performed over and over, night after night, a solo she could’ve done in her sleep—but she wasn’t sleeping. She was wide awake and able to feel everything for the first time in ages.
Even her sorrow. Even the hollow space inside of her that had been carved away the day Julianna died. Emotions she preferred to ignore bubbled up from somewhere down deep, and she channeled them into her dance.
Another leap. Another turn. Another perfect landing.
Until finally, the music ended, leaving Charlotte breathless on the floor.
She glanced up and saw a small crowd had gathered in the hallway, watching through windows meant for parents of tiny ballerinas. Some of them held their