8. Ashlynn
8
ASHLYNN
“Why can’t I move in with you?” I call out the question to Aunt Bonnie as I pull some more of Dad’s books off the living room shelves and stuff them into boxes earmarked for donation.
The physical activity is a welcome distraction, but it’s only temporary. It doesn’t change the fact that I am surrounded by half-packed boxes and the echoes of a house that no longer feels like home. Sunlight streams through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the floor. Over half of the furniture in the house has been covered in white sheets, and it shouldn’t take us long to finish the rest.
It will sit empty for now, until I decide to sell or keep it. Either way, it makes no difference; this house hasn’t felt like mine in a long time. It did when Mom was alive, emptier without her, and all that remains now are echoes of Dad’s fleeting presence. Without Mom, I always felt like a stranger here. This house has always been his, even if he was hardly around to truly appreciate it.
Aunt Bonnie is in the kitchen, carefully wrapping dishes in newspaper. The clinking of ceramic is the only sound breaking the silence — aside from my unanswered question, that is.
I poke my head into the kitchen and she’s watching the entrance. Watching for me, that is.
“How does pizza sound?” She suggests as she picks up her phone.
My nose scrunches, an involuntary reaction she doesn’t take offense to. “I don’t eat pizza. Too much grease. Why can’t I move in with you?”
“And why would you want to change schools a few months into your senior year? Because that’s what would happen if you do.”
“I won’t have to. Homeschooling is still an option; that way, I can fully focus on ballet.”
She gives me one of her we-already-had-this-conversation look — which we did, and revisit every year. Legally speaking, Dad would’ve been responsible for filing the homeschooling curriculums and making sure I stayed on track. Kinda moot for someone who could never be bothered. Aunt Bonnie has always been transparent about the fact that she doesn’t have the bandwidth to take it on. Her job requires travel, though not nearly as frequent or as long as Dad’s did.
“You already focus on ballet,” Bonnie counters as she taps away on her phone. “And that’s on top of maintaining a perfect GPA. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I had tutors.”
“One tutor for your AP classes. Didn’t she graduate last year?”
“She did. And before you ask, the answer is no, I don’t want another one. Kristen knew her stuff, worked around my schedule, and didn’t treat me like an ATM. What more can a girl ask for?”
“Your standards are shockingly low,” she quips, her tone dry and humorless. “I thought you liked it at Bluegrass High School.”
I shrug, tucking both hands in my jeans pockets. “I like it enough, but you know how it is.”
I am infamous for being Bluegrass’s wealthiest loner, and I like it that way. I don’t believe in buying friendships, so I keep my head down and mind my own business. That’s not to say there haven’t been two-faced sharks circling the wagon. Most of them have backed off, but some still push their luck.
It was worse when I was a freshman. Aunt Bonnie always pointed out how unbearably naive I was about how the world worked. A harsh lesson to learn at age fourteen, but a necessary one. By sophomore year, most of these so-called friends screened themselves out of my life as they realized I didn’t do cliques or teenage drama, my purse strings weren’t as loose as they liked, and Russ wasn’t letting anyone hitch rides with me. Mrs. Torres didn’t take too kindly to the house being used as a crash pad for unruly teenagers claiming to be my friends, so she either stopped letting them in or called the cops to deal with them.
Janice is right, I am pariah-lite. Sure, it gets lonely sometimes, but I have ballet to keep me occupied. If and when I have the time, the only other teenagers I hang out with outside the studio are other dancers. Things will be different when I’m off to Bayard next year, I’m sure of it. I just have to get accepted first, and everything else will fall into place.
Bonnie tucks her phone into her back pocket and rounds the counter. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some fresh air.”
I follow her outside and we sit on the front steps, the chilly evening breeze stirring the air. I pull my knees to my chest, feeling small and vulnerable.
“What’s really bothering you?”
“Taking a break from ballet,” I admit, my voice trembling. “The soles of my feet are fine, but Mrs. Janice insists I finish the remaining three weeks left on this break. Principal Shirley agrees with her. The only concession she’ll make is modified participation in group classes. No private classes and no competitions. What if it ruins my chances of getting into Bayard?”
Her eyes soften as she takes my hand, her grin firm and reassuring. “Lynn, even if that were true, which it isn’t, you are a legacy. And it’s okay to feel scared and uncertain. At eighteen, you’ve faced more than most people do in a lifetime. Taking time off doesn’t mean you’re giving up on your dreams. It means you’re taking care of yourself.”
“But what if I fall behind?” I blurt out, the anxiety bubbling up. “What if I’m not good enough? Ballet is all I have left. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore, and three weeks is an eternity to be away from it.”
“But you’re not away from it. Not really.” She squeezes my hand and then pulls me into a comforting embrace. “Change is hard, but you are a lot stronger than you look. Grief is a heavy burden, and it’s okay to not be at your best right now. It’s okay to take the time you need to find your footing again. Your talent and dedication won’t disappear just because you’re taking a break. Bayard will still be there, and so will your dreams. Right now, you need time to heal, physically, emotionally, and mentally. That’s what this break is for, and there’s no rushing the process. It’s not just about your body; it’s about your heart, too.”
I catch a sniffle. “Have you and Janice been exchanging notes about me?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She said the same thing to me last week. Almost verbatim.”
She presses a kiss to my hair. “Hmm. Great minds think alike.”
“A break is not what I need.”
“You’d be surprised at what you need. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I agree with Janice. Unless someone forces you to take a break, you won’t take one.”
“Aunt Bonnie!” I should give her some slack. She’s been my rock these past few weeks, but even she can’t fix this.
“Let’s find a way to dance that honors your mother’s memory. She would want you to find solace in your dance again, not more pain.”
Tears blur my vision, and I blink them away. “Maybe I like pain.”
“No ballerina likes pain. They tolerate it.” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “That said, I think living with Gilbert will be good for you.”
A knot in my throat makes it difficult to speak. We sit there in silence, her arms around me, grounding me. I lean into her, letting the warmth of her embrace seep into my bones.
Her phone rings, breaking the silence. She answers it, her voice low and calm. I can only hear her side of the conversation, but it’s enough to make my stomach twist. She hangs up and looks at me with a mix of concern and forced optimism.
“That was Gilbert,” she says gently. “We’ll have to take a rain check on that pizza and salad. He’s invited us to dinner at his home tonight.”
I nod, trying to push down the anxiety bubbling up inside me.
Ready or not, that trial starts tonight.