Chapter 21 Butterfly Princess
BUTTERFLY PRINCESS
MORGAN
Mess By Noah Kahan
“My hair, Mommy! I need a bun!” Hazel emerges from the bathroom of Tiny Dancers Studio in her black leotard and pink tights, dance bag clutched to her chest.
I check my watch—two minutes until class starts. “Come here, quick.”
With practiced efficiency, I gather her wild curls into something resembling a bun, securing it with bobby pins and a hair tie. It won’t win any beauty contests, but it’ll keep her hair out of her face.
“There you go. Now scoot—Miss Julie’s waiting.”
She races into the studio as the other children are lining up at the barre. Through the observation window, I watch her take her place, third from the end, her small face immediately settling into an expression of intense concentration.
The waiting area is quiet this afternoon—a couple of moms with younger siblings, and several parents hunched over laptops or phones, making use of the forty-five minutes of child-free time.
I claim a chair near the observation window, setting up my own makeshift office.
The showcase details won’t organize themselves, and I’ve got at least three fires to put out before my next meeting.
As I open my laptop, I glance through the window.
Hazel’s wild curls are already escaping the bun, but her face is a study in concentration as she carefully positions her feet.
My heart swells at the sight of her determined little frown, the way she watches Miss Julie with as much focus as a four-year-old can muster.
For the next half hour, I split my attention between my email and the dance class.
I pause my typing to watch Hazel take her position with exaggerated seriousness, chin up, shoulders back, like she’s been taught.
This dance class has been a godsend—something that’s hers, a place she can pour all her energy and emotion into. The move from New York has been hardest on her—new home, new routine, her father across the country. Yet here she is, finding her footing in ballet slippers.
I return to my email, forcing myself to focus on a message from our sound engineer about equipment requirements.
When I look up again, Miss Julie is demonstrating what must be butterfly movements, her arms gracefully rising and falling.
The girls attempt to mimic her, with varying degrees of success.
Hazel’s little arms flutter with surprising grace as she moves about the room.
Miss Julie claps her hands, signaling the end of class. The children scatter to gather their things, and I pack up my laptop, having accomplished far less than I’d hoped but more than I’d expected.
Hazel bounces out of the studio, face flushed with exertion and excitement. “Mommy! Did you see? We did butterfly arms!”
“I saw,” I say, helping her wipe her sweaty forehead with a towel. “You were amazing.”
“Miss Julie says I’m the best flapper,” she announces proudly.
“The absolute best,” I agree, shouldering her dance bag.
Miss Julie approaches, her posture impeccable even in casual clothes. “Morgan, do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” I say, checking my watch. We need to get home for dinner and I can’t remember if I ate lunch today or not. God knows what Dylan fed Hazel.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the recital costumes,” Miss Julie says. “Specifically Hazel’s. She’s been chosen for a special solo as our butterfly princess.”
Hazel lets out a little squeal, clutching my leg. “Surprise, Mommy!”
“That’s amazing, sweetheart!” I kneel to her level, genuinely thrilled. “Your very own solo?”
“She’s earned it,” Miss Julie says. “She’s our most dedicated little dancer. We need some beautiful butterfly wings for her costume, and when she mentioned you could sew…”
I shoot a questioning look at Hazel, who’s bouncing on her toes beside me.
“You make all my Halloween costumes,” Hazel explains, as if it’s obvious. “And you fixed Miss Sparkles when her arm came off.”
“Ah, emergency teddy bear surgery. Very specialized,” I laugh.
“Mommy can make anything,” Hazel insists.
“I’d be happy to help,” I say, already mentally cataloging fabrics that might work and finding myself thinking of designs. “We can make something spectacular, can’t we, Haze?”
Hazel nods enthusiastically. “With lots of sparkles!”
“Perfect,” Miss Julie smiles. “The recital is coming up in a few weeks. I hope it’s enough time for you. Friday the 18th at 6 PM. We have a dress rehearsal the Monday before.”
Friday the 18th.
Something cold slides down my spine as the date registers.
“The 18th?” I repeat, my voice suddenly thin.
“Yes, the information was in the flyer I put in Hazel’s backpack last week,” Miss Julie says. “It’s our spring showcase, ‘Butterfly Dreams.’ Hazel’s solo is right in the middle—the highlight of the show.”
The showcase. The lynchpin in my father’s three-part plan to revitalize Left Turn.
If we don’t secure this distribution deal, we’ll lose crucial momentum—not the final nail in the coffin, but a significant setback making recovery that much harder.
All those executives watching, judging not only the talent but my ability to carry on my father’s vision.
“I—” I start, but the words jam in my throat.
“Mommy, you’ll be in the front row, right?” Hazel tugs at my hand, eyes wide with excitement.
“Of course,” I force myself to lie, unable to crush her enthusiasm right here in the studio with the other competent moms staring at me.
“Wonderful,” Miss Julie says. “I’ll email you some reference images for the wings. Nothing too elaborate—just something that catches the light when she dances.”
I make myself smile and nod, operating on autopilot while my mind spins in panicked circles.
“Hazel, why don’t you show your mom the special twirl you learned today?” Miss Julie suggests, seeming to sense my sudden distraction.
As Hazel demonstrates her move, pirouetting with concentrated effort, I pull out my phone and check my calendar. There it is, in stark digital clarity—the showcase taking up the entire day on the 18th, a string of meetings and preparations leading up to the 7 PM start time.
There’s no way I can be in two places at once. Everything’s locked in—venue, artists, those critical distribution executives who could help execute my father’s vision for Left Turn.
Hazel finishes her twirl with a wobbly curtsy. “Did you see, Mommy? Did you see me?”
“I saw you, baby. You were beautiful,” I say, meaning it completely despite the dread pooling in my stomach.
We gather Hazel’s things and thank Miss Julie. As we walk toward the parking lot, Hazel skips ahead, still riding high on the news of her solo.
My fingers hover over my phone, tempted to call Dylan and see if there’s any way to shift the showcase. But I already know the answer. It’s too late. Everything’s locked in.
It’s as if the universe wants to knock me down a peg, right when I think I have my shit together.
Hazel spins back to me, eyes bright. “Can we go get ice cream to celebrate my princess butterfly solo?”
“Maybe another day, sweetheart,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Right now, we need to head home and make dinner.”
“But we always get ice cream for special things,” Hazel argues, her lower lip starting to jut out.
Better to do this now than let her excitement build even more.
“Hazel, honey, we have to talk about the recital.”
Her face immediately brightens. “Are we going to make my wings tonight?”
“We can start planning them,” I say carefully. “But I need to tell you something about the night of your recital. There’s… there’s a problem with the date.”
She tilts her head, not understanding.
“The same night as your dance recital, Mommy has a very important work event. The showcase we’ve been planning for months.”
Her little brow furrows. “So?”
“So I might not be able to make it to your recital,” I say, the words physically painful to speak.
Hazel’s expression crumples so quickly it’s like watching a flower wilt in fast motion.
“But you have to come,” she says, voice rising. “Miss Julie said all the mommies and daddies will be there!”
“I know, and I’m so, so sorry. Grandma will be there, and she’ll record everything—”
“NO!” Hazel shouts, stomping her foot on the pavement. “I want YOU!”
“Hazel,” I try again, “I really wish—”
“You said you would!” Hazel cries, tears now streaming down her face. “You SAID!”
“I’m trying to figure it out,” I say, kneeling to her level.
I reach for her, but she twists away, running the last few steps to the car and yanking futilely at the locked door handle. Her small shoulders shake with sobs beneath her pink leotard, tutu bouncing with each hiccupping breath.
* * *
The silence on the drive home is suffocating. Hazel stares out the window, her small shoulders rigid with hurt, tear tracks still shining on her cheeks. I glance at her in the rearview mirror, my heart breaking.
“Hazel, honey,” I try, my voice gentle. “I know you’re upset.”
She doesn’t respond, just presses her forehead against the window glass.
“The showcase is important for Mommy’s company,” I explain, trying to find words a four-year-old might understand. “It’s like… it’s like your recital, but for all the musicians at Left Turn.”
“You like them more than me,” she mumbles, so quiet I almost miss it.
Her words cut straight through me, deeper than any business setback ever could. I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white.
“No, baby, that’s not true at all,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I love you more than anything in the whole world.”
“Then why can’t you come see me dance?” Her voice wobbles dangerously again.
I take a deep breath. “Sometimes grown-ups have to make hard choices. This showcase… it’s something very important for the company. But I promise Grandma will be there. She’ll film the whole thing so I can watch it after.”
“It’s not the same,” Hazel mumbles, turning to look out of the window again.
“I know, baby,” I say softly. “I wish I could be in two places at once.”