hornpipe in magic marker out of my dance bag. My heels clicked on the floor as I stepped around the dancers to where Ms. Slannon laughed with a few stragglers.
“And how is McKayla doing this evening?” Ms. Slannon winked and took the CD out of my hands. She slipped it into the player and clapped to the dancers who were scattered around the room, some waiting at the door for their parents, others getting their ballet shoes on for our advanced ballet class. “Girls, pay attention. McKayla is going to dance an Irish jig.”
I raised my eyebrows at Ms. Slannon. When I’d asked if she could watch what I’d learned so far, an audience wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind. Ms. Slannon laughed.
“The practice will be good for you. Now go ahead.”
Ms. Slannon shooed me to the center of the gym and started the music. I squeezed my fists at my sides, my back straight and unmoving—like the dancers in the online tutorial I imitated. The music jump-started my heart, and I held the first step in my mind, ready to dance. The steps of the hornpipe came naturally, but the watchful faces of the girls I danced with threw me off. I missed a step.
Tip-down, tip-down, shuffle hop back. I fell into the rhythm, and soon forgot about the girls.
When the second half began, I relaxed, falling into the dance and letting my body take over what it had learned. In the back of my mind I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, but I no longer cared. The music and movement immersed my senses, filling me with the familiar rush that comes when I can express myself through dance.
The sound of my steps echoed back to me. The energy flowed from somewhere deep within. I focused on the feeling of confidence and contentment, allowing myself to drift to that place where nothing else mattered.
Christa had come in while I danced, and now she leaned against the wall, smiling at me when I finished. The girls from the tap class clapped for me before rushing outside to waiting parents.
Ms. Slannon squeezed my shoulders. “That was wonderful,” she whispered as the smattering of appreciation died away.
I looked past her, noticing Rourke near the outside exit, garbage bags in hand. Leaves blew swirling eddies around him as the door shut behind him.
“I think your Irish dance number would be a welcome addition to the Christmas program.” Ms. Slannon clapped toward the waiting dancers, “Shoes on, girls, let’s get going.”
“Can I be excused for a minute?” I asked. Ms. Slannon nodded her approval and I slipped off my tap shoes and made a beeline for the door.
Christa caught up to me before I made it outside.
“If that’s the same dance you found on YouTube, you’ve been working hard on it.”
“Yeah, it is. Thanks.” I pushed open the door. A gust of frigid air blew past us into the gym. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
“You can’t go out in bare feet.”
“I’ll be fast.” I didn’t give Christa a chance to answer. I propped the door open with one tap shoe, and scanned the grounds for Rourke. I spotted him dumping bags of leaves into the dumpster—the lizard standing sentry beside him.
“Rourke!” I called against the wind.
He lifted his head at the sound of my voice, a scowl on his face. For a moment, teaching myself to Irish dance sounded preferable to asking the irritable janitor.
Before I could change my mind, I brought my hands in front of me and forced them to sign the words I spoke out loud.
“Please,” I began with a circular motion, “Will you teach me to dance?” My hands tingled, and I let them fall to my sides.
Rourke watched my attempt at communication, and went right back to tossing the garbage bags. The lizard regarded me with wary eyes and a flick of its tongue. I stuck my tongue out in return.
“I love to dance,” I tried again, fumbling with the newness of speaking with my hands. “Will you teach me to dance?”
Rourke ignored me, hefting bags into the dumpster until there were none left on
“And how is McKayla doing this evening?” Ms. Slannon winked and took the CD out of my hands. She slipped it into the player and clapped to the dancers who were scattered around the room, some waiting at the door for their parents, others getting their ballet shoes on for our advanced ballet class. “Girls, pay attention. McKayla is going to dance an Irish jig.”
I raised my eyebrows at Ms. Slannon. When I’d asked if she could watch what I’d learned so far, an audience wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind. Ms. Slannon laughed.
“The practice will be good for you. Now go ahead.”
Ms. Slannon shooed me to the center of the gym and started the music. I squeezed my fists at my sides, my back straight and unmoving—like the dancers in the online tutorial I imitated. The music jump-started my heart, and I held the first step in my mind, ready to dance. The steps of the hornpipe came naturally, but the watchful faces of the girls I danced with threw me off. I missed a step.
Tip-down, tip-down, shuffle hop back. I fell into the rhythm, and soon forgot about the girls.
When the second half began, I relaxed, falling into the dance and letting my body take over what it had learned. In the back of my mind I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, but I no longer cared. The music and movement immersed my senses, filling me with the familiar rush that comes when I can express myself through dance.
The sound of my steps echoed back to me. The energy flowed from somewhere deep within. I focused on the feeling of confidence and contentment, allowing myself to drift to that place where nothing else mattered.
Christa had come in while I danced, and now she leaned against the wall, smiling at me when I finished. The girls from the tap class clapped for me before rushing outside to waiting parents.
Ms. Slannon squeezed my shoulders. “That was wonderful,” she whispered as the smattering of appreciation died away.
I looked past her, noticing Rourke near the outside exit, garbage bags in hand. Leaves blew swirling eddies around him as the door shut behind him.
“I think your Irish dance number would be a welcome addition to the Christmas program.” Ms. Slannon clapped toward the waiting dancers, “Shoes on, girls, let’s get going.”
“Can I be excused for a minute?” I asked. Ms. Slannon nodded her approval and I slipped off my tap shoes and made a beeline for the door.
Christa caught up to me before I made it outside.
“If that’s the same dance you found on YouTube, you’ve been working hard on it.”
“Yeah, it is. Thanks.” I pushed open the door. A gust of frigid air blew past us into the gym. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
“You can’t go out in bare feet.”
“I’ll be fast.” I didn’t give Christa a chance to answer. I propped the door open with one tap shoe, and scanned the grounds for Rourke. I spotted him dumping bags of leaves into the dumpster—the lizard standing sentry beside him.
“Rourke!” I called against the wind.
He lifted his head at the sound of my voice, a scowl on his face. For a moment, teaching myself to Irish dance sounded preferable to asking the irritable janitor.
Before I could change my mind, I brought my hands in front of me and forced them to sign the words I spoke out loud.
“Please,” I began with a circular motion, “Will you teach me to dance?” My hands tingled, and I let them fall to my sides.
Rourke watched my attempt at communication, and went right back to tossing the garbage bags. The lizard regarded me with wary eyes and a flick of its tongue. I stuck my tongue out in return.
“I love to dance,” I tried again, fumbling with the newness of speaking with my hands. “Will you teach me to dance?”
Rourke ignored me, hefting bags into the dumpster until there were none left on
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