The Prologue Read Free

best in her class, owing to both incredible talent and relentless practice. Ballet had been her rock, even when my mom had gotten cancer when Cindy was seven and I was thirteen. It had taken a year, but my mom had healed. And then she had run off, leaving us with a heap of medical bills and a bad taste in my mouth about love, family, and dependability. We never would have been able to afford to keep Cindy in dance if the studio hadn’t both known about the tragedy, and also badly wanted to keep Cindy since she was nearing competition age. They saw prestige and medals and trophies for their studio in Cindy’s graceful twirling. Not to mention, they all loved her.
    They had bartered with us; a year of free dance lessons, if we could keep her supplied in everything she needed. Dad had flatly refused, but I was determined that Cindy, at least, should keep her dreams. I hadn’t drawn, hadn’t picked up a pencil or paintbrush, since my mom had run off. It had been a struggle, finding someplace within walking distance that would employ a fourteen year old kid, but eventually a café directly across the street from our apartment had taken a chance on me. They’d employed me as a busboy, and while at first I’d hated it, I’d made just enough to get Cindy everything she needed to compete, and pay half of all the fees for entering the competitions, per the agreement with the studio.
    Cindy had kicked ass, and eventually the experience at the café had landed me my current job at the local country club, which paid a lot better, especially in the summertime when I could work days, and even more during wedding and golf season. Now, Cindy pays half price tuition, and the cheap extra lessons from Jenny, who is also one of the studio’s stars and teaches there part-time. I pay for all of it, since Dad is still struggling underneath the medical bills.
    Cindy’s room is full to bursting with trophies and awards, and with the help of her teachers and Jenny pulling some strings, she’d achieved one of her dreams – performing in the Nutcracker at the Palace Theatre. I was proud enough to burst when we’d gone and seen her dance. My dad had sat woodenly throughout the whole performance, hadn’t even stood up and clapped at the end when Cindy had come out for her curtain call. I still despise him for that moment.
    Usually, Cindy is the one subject that we could agree on, the only thing we don’t really fight about; we both believe she deserves the best in life, and to hell with the two of us. Our relationship is filled with tension, and usually I do my best to simply avoid being home whenever possible. Between work, school, and getting Cindy everywhere she needs to go, it isn’t all that hard.
    There’s just something incredibly calming about watching Cindy out on the dance floor, twirling and skipping and hopping. Her skin, just as brown as my own, flashes and blurs with the pink and black and white of her ballet outfits, the strange contortions of her body impressing even me. I can watch her dance for hours, and when she begs me to do drawing and paintings of her dancing, it’s the only time I’m really tempted to break my rules.
    Then, and when I look at Evie Parker’s face.
    High pitched, feminine chatter pulls me from my deep thoughts, and I’m grateful. I look over at the door, and sure enough, the dance moms and their daughters are entering in waves. They’re a flood of neatly pressed pants, precise hems and securely tucked blouses. Their daughters are all pressed from the exact same cookie cutter, a little tall, lithe and skinny, leotards and tights neatly arranged, not a hair on their bunheads out of place.
    They all file past me with similar glances of confusion and distaste, and the only thing that keeps me meekly in my seat is the knowledge that all these girls are only a year younger than me, and my eleven year old sister is a better dancer than all of them. For Cindy’s sake, I keep quiet and avoid any