“My supervisor.” Mom walked up behind me, frowning. “It’s only because of him that I have this job.”
Her voice was stern and disappointed all at once. I hated the idea of Mom answering to a boss as stony and exacting as Mr. Sneeves.
She bit her lip. “Malie, it won’t just mean losing a job. I’m not sure we could afford to stay in Marina Springs—”
“Stop,” I interrupted, feeling the urge to clamp my hands over my ears like a child. “That won’t happen. We’re not going to let it happen.” A hard resolve stole over me. “There’s no way Mr. Sneeves is going to fire you. We’ll figure it out. We’ll come up with some new flavors, and—” An idea blossomed in my head. “We’ll start using all fresh ingredients. Like Lanz suggested.”
She gave me a tired smile. “We’ll see what happens. This isn’t your problem to worry about. Only …” She sighed. “You were so upset over losing dance, I thought maybe if you understood more of what was going on, it might make it easier for you.”
Guilt trampled my heart. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m not giving up on the idea of dancing,” I added cautiously. “I know I’ll have more chances.”
Mom put her nearly untouched sandwich in the fridge. “Your dad used to talk like that about his art. No matter how many galleries turned down his paintings, he was convinced he could still paint as a career. It would’ve been easier for him—for … us—if he’d just accepted it and moved on.”
“Dad could never not paint. He’d be miserable.” Dad had always been the dreamer, while Mom was the practical one. Maybe that was why Dad understood my love of dance so well. Since Dad moved back to Oahu, he spent most days on the beach painting landscapes and then selling them at a sidewalk stall to tourists. He loved what he did, but making a living doing it was another matter entirely. That had been one of the many things he and Mom had fought about before the divorce.
“Well. He made choices.” Regret filled her voice. “And … that’s that.” She rubbed her temples, as if this conversation was giving her a headache. “I’m going to bed.” She gave me a quick hug. “Thanks for making dinner.”
I nodded, washed the dishes, and headed into my bedroom. My brain was too tangled with thoughts for sleep, so I sat in front of my laptop and FaceTimed with Dad. Seeing his smiling face always made me feel better. And since Hawaii was six hours behind us, it was still early there.
Dad answered right away, beaming. We spent a few minutes chatting easily about school and his painting. Then his expression changed.
“Kiddo,” he said soberly, “your mom told me about what happened with the tuition at the conservatory.” His face was pinched on the screen. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help out. I would if there was any way—”
“I know, Dad,” I said quickly, wanting to get off the topic. The less I said about dance, the better.
Dad grinned. “Hey, tomorrow I could sell ten paintings and then …” He raised his hand in the shaka sign. “Golden.”
“Golden.” My voice emitted a confidence I didn’t feel. As Mom once said, Dad was the master of hanging hopes on rainbows.
“Everything else copacetic?” he asked.
I hesitated, thinking about Mom’s job. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him, but … no. Mom wouldn’t want me to get into all that with Dad.
“Yup.” My voice rose cheerily. “Copacetic!”
“Great. Oof, it’s getting late, kiddo. Got to set up my booth. Love you.”
“You too, Dad.” I blew him a kiss and then the screen went dark.
As I got ready for bed, I wondered: Would Mom ever understand my dancing, when she couldn’t understand Dad’s art?
“Your allongé! No no no. Not like that.” Signora Benucci clucked her tongue.
A line of sweat trickled down my temple. My leotard was soaked. But I didn’t dare move a single muscle, or the arabesque I was holding would break. Signora Benucci stood in front of me, her expression strict but still kind. In the first two days of training with Signora Benucci, I’d learned that she was demanding, pushing me to the limits of my strength and endurance. She’d have me repeat a piqué or a glissade jeté over and over again until she was satisfied with my form.
“You must extend your arm, and reach,” she said now. “Imagine something at your fingertips. Something you must have. Chocolate, diamonds, your heart’s desire—”
I closed my eyes, holding the position, and I reached, seeing in my mind’s eye what I longed for. Cinderella. Every muscle in my body elongated, my rib cage opened, my lungs expanded, my chin lifted …
“Yes! Yes!” Signora Benucci smiled. “Brillante! Now, move into your pirouettes. Travel. And again, again, again …”
I led with my chin, fixing my eyes on the corner of the studio, turning and turning, channeling flumes of energy. When I reached the wall, I stopped, breathless.
“An improvement indeed.” Signora Benucci nodded her approval as she handed me a towel. “But there is still much work to do.”
I caught my breath as I wiped the dampness from my neck and face. “Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.”
She paused, studying my face. “I believe you will.”
I checked the wall clock. “I have to get going.”
“Before you leave, I have something for you.” She disappeared into the storage closet at the back of the studio, and a moment later, returned holding a pair of pale pink pointe shoes. “Here you are.” Signora Benucci smiled as she handed them to me.
My heart leapt as I took the shoes, cradling them in my arms. I giggled in spite of myself.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing. Only … well, for a second I thought you might throw them at me. Lanz told me—”
“That I
