Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,42
tall building at my back, and watch as he swings open the glass front door to Matt’s Meat without hesitation.
Inside, Cam dances in front of the mirrors, and my breath comes to a complete stop. My heart gives an actual twinge, a shot of pain as she spins to the door with, first, a concerned frown, but then the smile she reserves just for him.
Cam wears black leg warmers like we’re in a movie from the eighties. A black leotard. Ballet slippers – the pointe kind – and a cute little skirt around her hips. When she spins, her back is all but naked, her hair tied up high into a bun, her smile as big as I remember it.
She doesn’t often smile so unrestrainedly, so when she does, it’s like a kick to the gut.
So fucking beautiful.
I wish I could be in the studio with the pair. I wish I could hear them. Instead, all I get is the sight of them, and that’s between ambling cars, farting buses, the smoke wafting from Joe’s hotdog stand, and sleeting rain.
Cam pulls back from her hug with her brother to speak about something – lips flying, hands moving like she’s Italian and needs them to emphasize many of her words. Her hair is a little messy, like she’s been dancing a while already, then, from a doorway on the other side of the studio, a dozen toddler ballerinas burst into the studio amid giggles and bouncing feet.
A flock of toddlers.
A drove of toddlers?
An army of toddlers!
A couple of moms – or at least, I assume they’re moms – follow the babies into the studio, fussing hands, bobby pins, hairbrushes. They help the little girls get ready for class while Cam moves away from her brother and shoos him to a corner, and all the while, the moms pretend they don’t see him.
They fix their hair, they tidy their shirts, and pop their asses so they look good in jeans. And the whole time, they pretend they don’t see the fighter just feet away.
The little girls – ten of them, by my fast count – try their best to form two lines. But Matt’s Meat isn’t a huge space, so when they form their lines, their tutus touch, and then their hands, and then one little girl tugs on another little girl’s skirt, and shit’s about to get dicey.
“All right!” Cam turns away from a stereo and claps her hands.
I can hear her words from out here.
She smiles for the children, moves amongst them, and helps them find their places, and every few steps, she pops up to her toes, because I guess she likes showing off.
Making her way back to the front of the class, she stretches her toes so the girls copy, then she does the same with her calves, her thighs. She ends it all with a pirouette – I’m not ashamed that I know the name of the move – but my brows draw close together when she lifts only one arm above her head.
I lean against the wall at my back, and narrow my eyes when she goes back to position – fourth; yeah, sue me, I know the moves – then she pirouettes again so her students copy, but that arm stays low.
She’s hurt herself. She’s babying that shoulder, and hell, but if I’m as mad at Cam as I tell myself I am, then why the fuck am I so worried about an aching shoulder?
Time passes, my jeans act as a sponge and absorb rainwater up past my boots, almost to my knees. But eventually, Cam’s class ends, the toddlers disperse without any tears, besides one bratty kid, then the moms continue to pretend like they’re not noticing every miniscule move Will makes. They pack their kids away, they palm cash to Cam like they’re paying for something coveted and illegal, then they herd the kids out again, to what I imagine is a minivan at the back of the building.
I stand in the rain under the eaves of a sandwich shop, and watch as Cam packs away a bunch of teddy bears – she had the girls walk in a large circle and balance the stuffies on their heads – and while I watch, I’m forced to admit that she’s doing what she wanted.
Maybe they’re toddlers, and not a massive Broadway production. Maybe Cam is choreographing children, and not professional, adult dancers. And maybe she’s doing it inside a butcher shop that doesn’t belong