I smirk. “Pori, why do you always comment? Just try to accept me, flaws and all, and you’ll have a lot less stress in your life”

My name is Bella Rena and I love ballet. No, seriously.

My parents say they didn’t even realize my name sounds like “ballerina” when they named me — Bella was my Bubby, and Rena was because they were so happy to finally have a girl after four boys. Three more boys followed me, so I’m sure they wish they’d added several more names, but what can you do?

So I’m stuck with Bella Rena and a passion for ballet. Chicken? Egg? Who knows?

My good friends call me Bells, and my brothers call me “Bellka” in a thick Russian accent, which is, obviously, hilarious.

I tried to explain to Mommy once how embarrassing my name is, but she wasn’t getting it. “To tell you the truth, zeeskeit, you were dancing before you could walk,” she’d said proudly, stroking my thick brown hair. Which would be a nice story, except I have a nephew and he does this whole stand-up-and-wave-hands-frantically-in-the-air-before-falling-flat-on-his-face thing and that’s probably what Mommy means. It does look a bit like dancing if you squint your eyes. And close your ears so you don’t hear him crying.

I contemplate all of this as I lace up my ballet slippers and step flat-footed out of the dressing room of Shayna’s Dance Studio. I’ve attended Shayna’s since I was five, and somewhere along the way, ballet has become a part of me. Shayna herself is incredible, she’s the wife of Rav Goldman, rosh yeshivah of Simchas Moshe, and for anyone who says it seems a strange job for a rebbetzin, she says, “We all have our special ways with which we serve Hashem.”

Hers is through dance. So is mine. When I’m thinking about it on a deeper level, which, I admit, I don’t always do.

I sashay over to Studio 6, where the Advanced class is waiting for the Intermediates to finish.

Pori snorts when she sees me, her blonde bun sparkling under the lights. She’s sporting a new pink leotard that I immediately want.

“Bells, why are you always late?”

I smirk. “Pori, why do you always comment? Just try to accept me, flaws and all, and you’ll have a lot less stress in your life.”

We high-five while the other girls laugh. Atara comes up and gives me a hug. “Math homework?” she asks.

“Math homework,” I confirm. I’m terrible at math, especially ninth grade math, and it takes me the same amount of time as all the rest of my homework put together. But Mommy says no math, no ballet, and we can’t have that.

The door opens and a group of excited Intermediates come spilling out into the hallway. They sober up at the sight of us, walking straighter; we nod regally at them and then crack up as soon as they’re in the dressing room.

Ballet dynamics are hysterical, because we played Machanayim with these same girls on the playground when we were in elementary school, but in the studio, there’s a hierarchy.

Shayna is cleaning up as we walk in, but she straightens gracefully and waves at us. The chattering dies down, we walk to the barre and start to stretch as music begins to play softly.

And for the next hour, I lose myself in dance.

Benny is there when I get home, his old battered Camry parked in the driveway. Him I’m not so excited to see, but my nephew Effie is a different story.

I barge into the house, practically knocking Aharon over. “So graceful,” he remarks dryly, rubbing his banged nose.

I apologize, and rush into the living room to scoop Effie off the floor.

Miri is on the couch with Mommy, and Effie is holding onto the coffee table proudly.

I wave at the women and then sink to my knees next to my nephew. “My love,” I say, pulling him onto my lap. He gurgles happily and tries to catch my ponytail, but it’s too high for him.

I see Mommy and Miri give each other a look.

Oh no, something is up and I can tell already, I’m not going to be a fan.

“What?” I say, standing up, holding Effie tightly in my arms.

“What are you guys not telling me? Did someone get hurt?”