I have so many ideas percolating, so many pictures flitting around my brain. I would love to bring them to reality, to create something physical, tangible, from my scattered, selfish brain.

I open the car door hesitantly, but I don’t get out. 

“Bell?”

I stare at my new Zara flats, a “happy boot-removal” gift from Ma, and pretend that I’m not on the verge of tears. Going to after-school lessons is second nature to me. Sling my dance bag over one shoulder, grab a water bottle from the pantry, and skip into the studio that feels like home. And now, once again, I’m heading off to after-school lessons, but the only thing I feel is terror. 

“Bella Rena. Hon. It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

I look at her. “Okay.” I still don’t move.

“Mrs. Cooperfeld is waiting, sweetie.”

Oh. Mrs. Cooperfeld. Sounds like a doddery old grandmother. Beautiful, graceful Shayna jetés through my mind. 

“Bella. I love you, now get out of my car.”

I make a face but jump out of the van, jarring my tender foot. 

Oh, that really hurts.

I lug my sewing machine out of the middle seat.

“Bye!” Ma drives off before I have a chance to climb back into the car like a five-year-old, sobbing hysterically to take me home.

Now alone, I stand and stare at the brown brick house in front of me. I would’ve stayed there all day, but a woman in a bright red sheitel sticks her head out the front door, tells me to “hurry, hurry, hurry,” and then disappears.

Oh.

Lugging my machine, I hurry hurry hurry my way up the path and am about to knock on the door when it swings open.

“Bella Rena? Judy Cooperfeld, so nice to meet you. Let’s get settled and then we’ll begin.”

I blink, because Judy Cooperfeld hasn’t taken a single breath in three sentences. I exhale loudly on her behalf.

“Are you okay?”

Am I okay? I’m not the one who doesn’t know how to breathe and talk at the same time.

“Fine,” I say.

I follow Judy Cooperfeld through a peacock-blue dining room and into a side room painted a really pretty shade of peach. 

“I love this color,” I surprise myself by saying. 

“Me too.” Mrs. Cooperfeld smiles at me and I smile happily back. Who am I? 

We settle at a white wooden table. I’m about to uncover my sewing machine when Mrs. Cooperfeld holds up a hand.

“We’ll get to that. First tell me, why do you want to learn how to sew?”

Is this a joke? I gaze into Judy Cooperfeld’s bright blue eyes; she seems dead serious.