Chapter Three
At night, Lincoln Center is the brand of beautiful that makes you feel slightly inadequate just by being in its vicinity.
The David H. Koch Theater glows like a scene from a fairy tale, golden light and elegant lines, and I’m standing here in my best suit feeling like I’m about to be ejected for not belonging.
Lila, on the other hand, is vibrating with excitement beside me. She’s six, which means her capacity for wonder hasn’t been beaten down by years of disappointment and cynicism. Lucky her.
She’s not wrong to be excited. The David H. Koch Theater is where people wear real jewelry and actually know which fork is for salad. I’m surrounded by patrons, not guests, and it feels like any second someone’s going to ask me about my thoughts on Giacomo Puccini’s Turandot.
Inside the theater, the lights dim and I brace myself for what I assume will be several hours of twirling in tutus while I fight to stay conscious. Ballet isn’t my thing. The only reason I’m here is Lila, who’s currently gripping her armrest like she’s about to launch herself into orbit.
The curtain rises, and at first, it’s exactly what I expected—elegant, sure, but also slow. My mind starts to wander, calculating how long I’ll need to sit here before I can reasonably claim cultural enlightenment.
But then something happens. One dancer steps into the spotlight, and suddenly the whole energy of the performance changes.
Her movements are spellbinding, nothing like the soft prettiness I was expecting.
There’s power in the way she moves, a precision that reminds me of something I recognize—the feeling of a flawlessly executed power play breakout or the perfect timing of an offensive zone entry.
This is athleticism disguised as art. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe we’re looking at it backwards. Maybe all athleticism is just art that forgot it was supposed to be beautiful.
I find myself leaning forward, actually paying attention for the first time since the curtain went up. The way this one dancer moves through space is mesmerizing.
“Uncle Liam,” Lila nudges me with her elbow. “You’re supposed to clap when they finish the dance.”
I blink, realizing the first act has ended, and the audience is applauding. I clap belatedly, the sound awkward against the rhythmic tide of appreciation around us.
“You were watching really hard,” Lila says. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I mean it. “I guess I do.”
By the second act, I’m completely absorbed.
The dancers move like a single organism, their strength and unity building something that’s bigger than the sum of its parts.
And that soloist—the one who caught my attention earlier—commands the stage with a presence that’s impossible to ignore.
These dancers have that thing I’ve been missing: complete control over their physical selves, the ability to make the impossible look effortless. I want that feeling back.
When the curtain falls after the final act, the audience erupts in applause. Lila is bouncing in her seat, her clapping so enthusiastic it draws amused smiles from the sophisticated patrons around us.
“Isn’t it amazing?” she says, her face glowing with joy. “I like the girl with the sparkly pink costume the best.”
“Yeah,” I say, still watching the stage as the dancers take their final bows. “She’s really something.”
“She’s like a princess, but strong, too, like she doesn’t need someone to save her,” Lila adds with the kind of insight that catches you off guard. “Do you think you could lift someone like that?”
I shake my head. “Unlikely. I’d probably fall over and crush them.
” But even as I joke about it, I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve just witnessed.
The strength, the control, the absolute mastery of movement.
It’s everything I used to take for granted back when skating felt like flying, and my body was an instrument that played whatever tune I wanted.
Now I feel like a broken violin, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever make music again.
“Uncle Liam?” Lila says, pulling me back to the present.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think they practice a lot?”
“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I tell her. “You don’t get that good without a lot of work.”
She nods seriously, like I’ve just shared some profound wisdom. “I think I could be that good someday.”
I look at her. Six years old, eyes bright with possibility, untouched by the reality of broken dreams and failed comebacks.
“I think you could be even better,” I say, and for the first time in months, I mean something I’ve said.
I love spending time with her. She reminds me that children don’t dream in probabilities, they dream in absolutes.
They behave without calculation, which is probably why their belief can resuscitate the dead parts of us adults.
As we make our way backstage after the performance, I’m struck by how different this world feels from mine. The energy here is electric but refined, purposeful but artistic. It’s chaos, but controlled chaos, the kind that creates beauty instead of destroying it.
Lila is ping-ponging off the walls with excitement, as I tread carefully through the narrow corridors, my broad shoulders feeling out of place among the delicate costumes and movements of the dancers who flow around us like water.
And then we find her: the soloist who commanded my attention all night.
Up close, she is even more striking than she was on stage.
She’s not particularly tall, but she carries herself with a presence that makes height irrelevant.
Her blonde hair is swept into a perfect bun, and her blue eyes have this intensity that makes you feel like she can see more than what’s directly in front of her.
“Uncle Liam, it’s her!” Lila whispers, though her version of whispering could probably be heard in Weehawken. “Can we say hi?”
The soloist turns at the sound of Lila’s voice, and when she looks at Lila, her expression softens in a way that transforms her entire face. It transforms mine too. “Hi,” she says. Her voice has this quality that’s warm and welcoming. “Did you enjoy the show?”
Her name is Petra Montgomery, and what follows is the kind of interaction that makes me remember why kids are basically tiny drunk adults.
Unfiltered and with not a trace of self-consciousness, Lila launches into a rapid-fire interrogation about spins and costumes and whether Petra’s feet hurt, her hands gesturing wildly as she speaks.
Petra crouches down to her level, giving her the kind of genuine, undivided attention most adults forget how to give.
But every so often, her eyes flick up to me, and I can’t tell if she’s sizing me up or just wondering how someone like me crash-landed into her world.
“You were incredible,” I say when Lila finally pauses for breath. “The strength and control it takes to make that look effortless… I know it’s anything but effortless.”
Petra tilts her head slightly, studying my face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Thank you,” she says. “Most people don’t notice that part.”
“I guess I know what it takes to push your body to its limit,” I reply, though even as I say it, I’m acutely aware of the irony. I used to know what that felt like.
Her smile shifts. “Then you know it’s not always easy to make it look easy.”
“Never is,” I agree, and for a moment, we’re just two people who understand something about the pain and difficulty of making the impossible seem routine.
The conversation continues, Lila serving as our tiny, enthusiastic interpreter, asking the questions that adults would be too polite or too intimidated to voice. And then Petra does something that changes everything.
“I teach a beginner ballet class every Monday evening,” she says, looking directly at Lila. “It’s for children around your age. Would you like to come?”
Lila’s reaction is immediate and explosive. She gasps so hard I’m worried she might hyperventilate, her hands flying to her mouth like she can’t contain her excitement.
“Really? I can go?” she shouts with glee.
“Of course,” Petra says, smiling. “I’d love to have you in class.”
Lila immediately turns to me with a pleading expression that would melt steel. “Uncle Liam, can we go? Please? I want to learn to be like Ms. Montgomery!”
I’m caught off guard by the intensity of her excitement, by the way this chance encounter has suddenly become the most important thing in her six-year-old world. But I’m also caught off guard by the way Petra is looking at me, like she’s genuinely interested in my answer.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course we can go.”
Lila squeals and throws her arms around my waist. “Thank you, Uncle Liam! You’re the best!”
Glad someone thinks so.
“Monday at six,” Petra says, her eyes meeting mine. “I’ll save her a spot at the barre.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say. “Thanks for making her night.”
As we walk out of the backstage area, Lila skipping ahead of me, I catch myself glancing back over my shoulder. Petra is still standing there, watching us leave, her arms crossed casually, a thoughtful smile playing at her lips.
Exiting the theater, Lila and I spill out on the sidewalk into the brisk September New York evening, my suit jacket doing little against the chill. But for the first time in months, I feel the thrill of anticipation.
Monday can’t come fast enough.