They say that those who can’t, teach. Well, that’s me. At the ripe old age of 14, I’ve taken off the dance shoes and put on the teaching hat. But since I’m sick and tired of wallowing, I’m just diving in without looking back at what I can’t have.

I meet Atara at the gym after school.

“Ready?” she asks, giving me a little hug.

“Totally.”

“Kay.” She puts her MP3 player on the floor, kicks off her shoes, curtsies, and presses play.

I love the music. It’s fast and light, swells up in the middle and then fades back down until a crescendo finish.

I watch her dance, and I’m impressed. She’s so graceful, and the dance is great, it really tells a story. She stops in middle of the track and shuts the music.

“Kay, that’s what I have so far. Thoughts?”

“Love,” I say slowly, rubbing my leg.

“Any changes?”

“Hmmm. Maybe I would change that box step into a grapevine? It’s much more fluid and flouncy.”

“Flouncy?”

I stick out my tongue in response.

“I hear you,” Atara thinks about it and then nods. “You’re totally right.”

I take a bow.

“And this Scottish step?”

I shrug. “I just think that once the girls are in the two lines, right after the grapevine, if they broke into a simple Scottish jig, that would really blow people away. And most importantly, blow the Pesach team away.”

We high five.

“Only problem,” Atara says, “is that I don’t know how to do a Scottish jig.”

“Ah, young one, but I do.”

She rolls her eyes. “Will you be imparting this wisdom?”

I get up from my comfortable seat on the garish blue-tiled floor and point my chin at the player. “Turn it on.”

Atara’s jaw drops. “Um, Bella Rena. You’re not supposed to dance.”

Shoots, she’s right. “Ugh, it’s fine, I’ll be careful.”

“Bella. Don’t.”

“Turn it on,” I say harshly.

She turns it on. I take the first step, and then I pause. Ma’s tired face flashes into my mind, and for her sake only, I stop and sit down hard on the floor.

“Baruch Hashem,” Atara breathes.

And so, I burst out crying for a change.

We walk home in silence. The almost spring day has faded into a freezing cold evening, and we shiver into our adorable bomber jackets.

I halt as we pass by Shayna’s studio and just stare at the low white building.

“Bella Rena,” Atara begins, but I just shake my head.

“Let’s just forget it, okay? I’m happy to still help with the choreography.”

Her face is covered in shadows but her voice is grateful. “Thanks…”

We stand in silence before turning toward our homes.

“I’ll walk you in,” Atara says once we’ve reached the good ol’ Martin residence.

“Kay.” I fumble with my key, and then we’re inside, the warmth hitting us like a solid wall.

“Wanna come up?” I ask, just as Ma calls out from the dining room.

“Bell, that you?”

I motion for Atara to follow me and head off to say hi to Ma.

Weirdly, the lights are off. “Ma?” I flick on the lights and,

“SURPRISE!”

I stumble back in shock and meet Atara’s grinning eyes.

Shoots, I’d totally forgotten it was my birthday.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 814)