“It’s okay,” I reassure everyone gently. “That’s my friend Sven. He’s here to keep an eye on things today. All right, put your things away and get ready for warm-up please.”
I go to the stereo system and select my music, theninstruct the children to line up at the barre. My mood considerably lightens as our warm-up begins and the children settle seamlessly into their steps. This class of students is older than the one I normally teach. They are a little more disciplined and coordinated in their techniques. It’s fun to work with this different age group and I quickly settle into the lesson.
I referenced Miss Kimmie’s lesson plan earlier and now I guide the children into their next module. We’re just getting started when there’s a commotion at the front door. Sven is blocking the door with his stocky body, and though he’s attempting to keep his voice low, his angry tone rises above the music.
“Keep going,” I instruct. And then I move to the entryway to see what’s going on.
“Stay back, Ms. Barclay.”
Sven blocks me with an arm. I’m glad because I don’t want to go any farther, but I feel a responsibility to my students to know what the problem is.
“Ms. Barclay?” A voice cracks through the slight opening in the door. It sounds like a teenager. Just then a red rose is thrust through the opening. “I have a floral delivery for Ms. Barclay. Can someone just take these so I can get back to work?”
Sven and I look at each other. Still motioning for me to stand back, he opens the door a little wider and a beautiful bouquet of fragrant, red-and-white striped roses pops through the opening. Sven inspects them carefully before opening the door a little more and accepting the flowers. The kid mutters something under his breath and hightails it out of there.
That’s when I see the white van with the name of a florist shop stenciled on the side. Sven notices at the same time and shuts the door. “I’ll take care of it. You go back to your class.”
Still holding the flowers at arm’s length, he plucks a card from the holder and inspects it. His eyes shift to me right before he hands me the bouquet. “They’re from Mr. Windemere.”
To their credit, my students are still working instead of spying on me like my little ones would do. My body flushes with warmth when I see Nate’s name on the card.
I know this is a hard day. Thinking of you.
Taking a deep whiff of the stunning roses, I read the card again and let the sentiment seep into me. He’s thinking of me. I almost laugh at my silliness. It feels so schoolgirl, so high school crush. But I can’t help it. He’s thinking of me, and it means a lot.
Nate didn’t have to acknowledge what I’m going through today. We don’t have that kind of relationship and no matter how I’m growing to think of us asus, there isn’t anus. Not really. Riding high on the warm feeling flushing through my body, I set the roses down on a table and return to my class.
Moving onto the next section of lessons, I demonstrate the upcoming sequence to the students and walk them through each step one by one. This class is a little longer than the one I normally teach, but the time goes by quickly. The students are completely immersed in what I’m teaching, already so focused on becoming the best ballerinas they can be. I don’t have to stop and remind them to pay attention, or stop picking at their neighbor, or to please not lie onthe floor in the middle of class like I do with my younger students.
As much as I love instructing my group of five-year-olds, I consider that I might want to teach a higher age group in the future. Maybe once my father’s trial is over and all of this is behind me, I’ll have the opportunity to do more.
When all of this is behind me…including Nate. Because when this is over, he and I will go our separate ways. I won’t be lying in his bed at night wondering why he never asked me to move back into my apartment. Or waiting for the sound of his car to pull in through the gate in the evening, or enjoying the scent of his cologne that lets me know he’s home as he walks in the door.
I’ll be off to my new life.
We take a short break and I put the roses in a large cup of water to tide them over until I get home and can put them in a vase. The children get drinks and take turns using the restroom. I take a minute to join Sven by the window.
The deep lines beside his eyes are deeper than normal, and I know something’s wrong by the hard set of his shoulders and the way his entire body is taut, like a coiled spring.
“What is it?” I whisper.
He moves back so I can look out the window and my pulse quickens. I count five nondescript vans parked along the street. There could be more, but my view is blocked by traffic. A couple of cars drive slowly from the opposite direction, and someone snaps photos as he drives past the studio.
“Oh, no.”
“There are several more behind the building,” Sven says. “I’ve already called the police, but I’m going to stay here and keep watch. You stay inside and don’t open this door for anyone.”
Sweat beads along my hairline. My father’s trial must be done for the day and now the media is looking for any other juicy tidbit they can throw to their audiences to keep this dumpster fire going.
“My class is almost over. The children’s parents will be coming soon.”
Sven shakes his head. “Don’t open the door until I say so. Not for anyone.”
Tears sting my eyes. This is it. I’m done. My boss warned me that if anything like this happened again, I’d be let go…and now there are so many paparazzi outside that I can’t safely open the door to allow the children’s parents inside. The photographers might rush inside, too, putting everyone’s privacy at risk.
Even though I knew this was a possibility, I can’t believe it’s actually happening.
The students come back from their break, and I pretend like nothing is wrong as I lead them into the final part of their lesson. But I can’t focus, and I keep looking at the door, imagining parents lining up outside, trying to get in. They’ll call my boss’s emergency number when they can’t enter, and all hell is going to break loose.