“It’s going to be a beautiful future,” she says simply. “You’ve got this, Bella. I know you do.”

I

enter the building that I know better than my school and look around. The lights, the air, the mirrors. I take a step forward, my boot thumping on the ground. There’s a class going on, I hear the faint strums of music and my heart starts to pound.

It’s a basic physical need, like eating or sleeping. I need to dance. My limbs know exactly what to do in response to the classical tune; I can feel the steps building up inside, but no, I promised Ma I wouldn’t.

I step right up to the mirrored wall.

The girl looking back at me is nice-looking. Large brown eyes, thick, straight brown hair, pale freckled skin with high cheekbones, great outfit.

My gaze travels down to the big, ugly walking boot marring the happy-teenager image. The boot that should have been removed already. The boot that is spelling out my future. I turn away in disgust.

Shayna comes out of the studio, calling instructions over her shoulder. “Extend those arms. I don’t want you to just look like butterflies, I want you to feel like butterflies.”

I can’t help grinning, it’s such a Shayna line. The smile feels stiff and forced and I let it drop as Shayna opens her arms and I dive into them.

***

“Knock-knock.”

Atara pokes her head into Shayna’s office where we are both sitting, nursing a box of tissues.

“I heard this is where the party is at,” she says and we laugh weakly.

“You know me, always partying somewhere,” I say hoarsely. Shayna points to the other chair in the room and Atara sinks into it gracefully. Her hair is already in a bun; I stare at it. My bunhead days are over. Every aspect of ballet has turned nostalgic; I miss it all already the way I do my childhood stuffed animals. You know, as if someone had ripped them out of my hands and snapped their legs off.

I must have a funny look on my face because Atara runs a hand over her hair self-consciously. I turn away with effort and refocus on Shayna.

“Bella, you have been such a part of the studio for as long as I can remember. And I have been your instructor all those years. Tonight, though, I’m taking out my other hat.”

Atara and I both stare at the pink kerchief Shayna always wears while teaching.

She laughs at our presumption. “My figurative hat, ladies. You know my husband is an esteemed rav, baruch Hashem. That has allowed me to soak in some of his insight into life. Can I share it with you?”

We both nod. I’m ready to hear what Shayna has to say, but also really not in the mood for a lengthy devar Torah. I just really don’t have the headspace for that right now.