Brando’s eyes held more power than his hands. A look, that’s all it took, and he could move me in ways that I had never experienced before. A ribbon lost to a controlled wind. The reason I had surrendered without regret.
Regret came when I thought of him never watching me again, never making me feel that same intense passion that allowed music to inspire a dancer to lose herself to the muse.
A longing akin to obsession moved me even deeper—a longing to be his angel.
My dancing pleased him, intrigued him, stirred his soul, and his eyes returned all that he took from me. Even more. So after our weekend had come to an end, the fire to move again ignited inside of me. Every morning before the sun, I woke, put on my pointe shoes, and got to work. My mother was cheered by this display of hard work and dedication, and there was a spark in Maja Resnik’s eyes that hadn’t been present since her dancing days.
True to his word, Brando and I saw even more of each other, despite my training, until he started to pick up more shifts at the refinery. Christmas, he had said, was the reason.
To fill the void, I spent more time at the studio, and I danced until the sensation of it made me dizzy and the days blended in a wonderful blur. No longer was there a void. Somehow, this was the more to life that had been missing. All of the connecting pieces finally showed themselves as an evolving beautiful masterpiece.
During my time at the studio, the younger children would come in, their faces bright, their feet eager. At times, they would watch me before or after their classes.
I found that I rather liked the times they watched me. All of their questions and their excitement were novel, yet familiar. This inspired me to teach a class full of toddlers. Pnina opposed this at first—you teach! she had gasped. But it was either that or I quit. I had learned how to draw a line, and she couldn’t stand that her power had somehow slipped. (My mother and father owned the studio, of course, so there was no problem there.)
Only those who can’t, teach was an absurd notion to me. If both could be done with ease, why not?
I fell in love with how uninhibited the children were, their smiles and giggles and even tears, and some days I wondered if that’s why Brando had stopped and watched me dance that night in the snow. Perhaps he had seen something in me that no one else had: whatever it is that causes one person to be in awe of another. In Brando’s case it was to fall in love. A few times he had said, in that casual but shocking way of his, that when I danced, I wore my heart, my soul, my spirit on my sleeve. The art of it turned me inside out. Perhaps that’s what it is, the ability to see someone inside, before the outside became relevant.
I looked forward to my classes with an enthusiasm I had never felt before. And to musing about Brando, but that was a given, not a surprise.
I enjoyed teaching so much that one night, while up late studying for an exam, the thought led me to Maggie Beautiful. How she had asked me to read the writing on the shirt. A curious burn ignited deep inside of me. And after speaking to Mr. Persons, my English teacher, who regaled me with astounding facts about illiteracy, the burn became a mission.
I could help her. More than that, I yearned to teach her, to give her the power to read.
Every book that I could find on the subject became mine. I read and read and read, until certainty became enough assurance to act. The approach had to be sensitive, unique, but that, too, came to me—and I went for it.
I knocked on her door, waiting for her to answer. I held my breath, anticipating how she would be dressed today. When she appeared, I released it in a rush. Plain clothes. I was almost disappointed. Then I made her an offer that I hoped she couldn’t refuse.
She lifted her red nail to her pouty mouth, deliberating. My offer had shocked her. I might not have known Maggie Beautiful all that well, but it didn’t seem like much shook the woman. Brando didn’t bring me over often, but when he did,