Erin

She stands by the only window in the dim room. The golden light of late afternoon shines through the blinds and illuminates the loose strands of her curly, cinnamon brown hair around her bun, creating a halo around her head. Her bronze eyes are fixated on an invisible point on the wall.

Slowly, she raises her arms to silent music in her head. Her arms gracefully cut through the air, creating swirls of dust. Her shoeless feet begin to glide across the carpeted floor. Her toes make a pounding “tap, tap” sound as she performs her a cappella dance to an audience of waiting room mothers, none of whom are paying any attention. Her legs follow her feet in a seemingly sporadic fashion. As she raises her leg and completes an attitude turn, her muscles ripple across her calf as waves across an ocean.

Her lips silently count, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.” Her face does not smile; she is concentrating on the task at hand. She does a jazz split and her tights, from the friction of the rug, rip and run. She drops her eyes to the fresh tear for an instant, only to continue her dance. Her black leotard is too loose in the front because she is not yet a woman at thirteen. Her skin looks baby soft, free of blemishes. Her face, still growing out of its baby fat stage, shakes as she jumps and leaps.

Her feet bang the ground as she lands. The mothers, waiting for their children to return from their dance classes, look up form their conversations to assure themselves that no one was hurt.

She catches me watching her and is by no means embarrassed. Instead, she suddenly smiles as she dances and the movements are brighter, more deliberate. She is used to spectators; she often practices in the waiting room of the studio before her class. When she comes to the end of her combination, she takes a short bow and sits down on one of the wooden chairs at the edge of the room. She looks into my eyes and beams.

“Was it good?” she asks. I nod, returning her smile.