32. EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE
brADY
TEN MONTHS LATER
Miss Joy (formerly known to some of us as Arrow) is our choreographer and costume designer, and as Gretchen leads the Twinkle Toes out onto the stage behind the curtain, Joy’s niece, Kit, stands front and center, proudly donning her red and black fluffy tutu skirt over a black leotard.
I give Gretchen the thumbs up from the side of the stage where the cu rtain ropes are.
Gretchen breathes deeply and then exhales hard.
“Okay,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Here goes nothing.”
She slips out between the ginormous curtain panels and stands on the stage in front of the red sheaths of fabric.
“Good evening, parents, families, and friends,” she says into the microphone.
“Thank you so much for being here with us tonight to celebrate All-In Dance Studio’s first annual student recital! ”
The crowd of about a hundred spectators cheers.
In the front row, Gretchen’s parents gaze up at her.
A huge bouquet of flowers sits across Annie’s lap.
Jenna’s sitting a few seats away, clapping wildly.
Next to her, Cherry, Indigo, and Saffron are all in a row.
Of course, they go by Cheryl, Kim and Maria now.
Big Mike is in the back row seated between Gina and my mom.
And backstage are Arrow and her sister, Jenny.
Notably missing is my dad, but that’s okay.
He’s been notably missing since my first dance recital, if we’re being honest, and it just doesn’t bother me anymore.
I’ll be a better father one day just by learning from his mistakes.
I got the idea for the studio from Gretchen when she started her gig as a nanny for Kit last September.
They had just moved here from Arizona, and Arrow turned herself into the Wellingham police.
She was arraigned and went to trial, and her attorney offered a plea bargain to the judge.
In exchange for a reduced sentence of three months at Barnstable County Jail, Arrow would commit to 200 hours of community service in the town of Wellingham, along with payment of a $30,000 fine.
It would wipe out about half of what remained of her savings, she later told Gretchen, but she didn’t need the money as much anymore now that she had her family with her.
Besides, she wanted to work closer to her home in Plymouth, so that she could be actively involved in Kit’s life.
Gretchen’s deferral of her final year of graduate school became permanent after her trial.
She pleaded not guilty to the charges brought against her, and even though she won the case, the local schools were all aware of what had happened and the fact that one of the people responsible for operating the club was the daughter of the Eastport Police Chief.
So she gracefully decided not to drag her father’s name through the mud or bring any further speculation to her family or the town, and instead figured she would begin to think outside the box about other potential career paths she might be interested in exploring.
She wanted to give back meaningfully to the community that raised her, she said.
She told her mom she really loved the self-esteem she felt from dancing, and I took it upon myself to do a little market research analysis during my extremely lengthy commute.
Turns out, the market for youth dance programs on Cape is fairly saturated, in that there are a good amount of studios.
But most of them focus on competitive dance, and all of them are very expensive.
A few have scholarship opportunities, but nothing is low cost or donation-based, except for the one-off programs offered at the Boys I’m in black pants and a form fitting black v-neck t-shirt. But Gretchen’s my star, so when I came up with my most recent big idea, I had to get her something incredible to wear.
The dress is black with silver ombre, covered from the neckline to mid-torso in sequins.
It hits at her mid-thigh, so it’s sexy without being too revealing.
The shoes are proper closed toe, t-strap ballroom shoes, appropriate for Latin dance.
The heel is low and they’re comfortable, which is the most important thing.
The groups of kids go out in succession, like we rehearsed, and I can tell Gretchen’s getting more and more anxious.
When the teen group goes up, Gretchen rejoins me by the side of the stage at the curtain.
She rubs her hands together. “I can’t believe we’re actually going to do this,” she whispers.
“Nah,” I say. “It’ll be fun. Plus, I feel like this is one dance that you actually owe me .”
“Depends on how you look at it, I guess,” she replies, smiling at me. “I mean, you’re the one who broke my toes.”
“Pretty sure I’ve repaid that debt.”
I slide my arm around her, hoping she can’t feel the bulge in my pocket .
After what feels like an eternity, our High School Musical group is done. “Come on,” I say, holding her hand. “Let’s do this.”
Arrow steps out on the microphone and says, “We have a very special final production for you this evening. Our owners, Brady and Gretchen, have put together a number for you. This is a rumba, but they’ve added some hip hop and their own little flair to it. We hope you enjoy.”
The audience applauds, and the lights turn red.
Then, the curtain opens, and we are standing, her facing away from me, poised and positioned center stage, as the music starts.
Of course, it’s our Christina Milian song. The one we really never got to finish.
There are some fluid steps before the beat drops, and when the lyrics begin, I spin her around, and, facing each other, we begin the steps. I count in my head, the way I always did when I was little. Slow, quick, quick, spin, quick, quick, lift, dip, slide, quick, quick.
We’re dancing. And it’s beautiful. My heart soars. My love for Gretchen is simply unmatched by any emotion I have ever felt.
During the bridge of the song, there is a moment where I slide across the floor on my knees. The prep for this is a spin out from her and a two-step away, just to create space. During this time, I slip my hand into my pocket and grab the box.
She doesn’t see it coming. But her parents know, and my mom knows, and Arrow knows because she worked the move into the choreo for me.
I s lide up to Gretchen on both knees, then, instead of popping up from the floor, I open the box and show her the ring.
She freezes.
The music keeps playing.
The audience screeches and whoops, applauding for us. It’s so loud that I wonder if she can even hear me when I ask her, “Will you marry me?”
But she nods, and smiles that perfect smile of hers, and tears streak through her stage makeup. I stand, place the ring on her finger, pick her up and spin her around.
My fiancée.
When I finally put her down, we embrace, and she squeezes me with all her might. “Damn it, Brady,” she says in my ear. “You interrupted our dance!” Her laughter lights my soul on fire.
“I guess I’ll have to owe you one,” I say.
The curtains close, and the show is over.
But everything else is just beginning.