I tried hard not to cry.
But I let the tears fall automatically anyway.
What would you do if you mother just died of brain cancer, and you had to look after a new born baby with deep green eyes called Logan? What would you do if you dad was dyslexic and you’re scared everything will fall apart and go wrong?
Tears poured out of my eyes like a water fountain. My sobs sounded loud as a few others who knew my mom from work sniffed.
I felt my dad reach out for my hand.
He squeezed it, and looked at me.
I stared back at him.
We knew what this meant.
We were all on our own, with the new baby, Logan.
The funeral went on. I was still clasping my dad’s sweaty hands.
“Why does this have to happen to us, dad?” I whispered.
My dad didn’t answer.
My heart beat loudly during the rest of the funeral.
The pastor prayed furiously.
“I guess God wanted your mom for something,” dad finally said. “After all, she is a clever woman.”
All of that was two months ago.
Since then, I have put all my energy into dancing; ballet dancing.
I learnt off the internet, from watching videos of ballet dancers on YouTube and learning the moves, step by step.
I know it sounds pretty stupid...but...it helps. A lot, in fact.
I’m always dancing – moving gracefully, unlike my little brother, Logan, who had developed my father’s tree stump-like feet, which I, on the other had, hand stolen my mother’s long, smooth legs.
Great for karate kicking as well.
The song of the sugar plum fairy engulfed me into the tune, and I nodded my head along to it, whistling slightly.
I stood up, and danced some ballet steps I had learnt from memory, trying to make an interesting choreography.
“...and Grande Jete!” I shouted, trying to conquer the move, also known as “splits in the air”.
I ended up face-planting the floor. I had tried to jump high – I really did, but...
“I can’t do it,” I muttered. Tears fell down my face, surprising me a little. I sniffed and stood up, my hopes of becoming a ballet dancer fading away.
“You know...” I hear a familiar voice says. “I can enroll you in a ballet class...”
I look up, and see my dad standing there. His once, smooth, happy face looked old and weary. And sad.
I sighed. “Oh really?” I raised my eyebrows, and I suddenly felt a spark of hope flame up in my heart.
“Yes, really,” my dad said, nudging me gently. He smiled at me, but I could tell he was forcing it – the glimmer in his eyes were gradually fading away.
“Tomorrow. I’ll just have to check out some close dance classes near this area...”
My dad nearly stopped breathing because of the huge bear hug I gave him.
“Thank you so much, dad.”
It was a week until my dad actually found a place where a dance class was held at. I had helped him with finding it on the internet, and he had emailed the person who ran the ballet class saying if there was a place. They emailed back saying that there was and I had to pay fifteen dollars every week on Wednesdays.
So, that was that.
Today was Wednesday, and I guess I was feeling a little nervous since it was my first time going to the ballet class.
I strapped my seatbelt in, and did the same for my brother, Logan.
My dad set off.
It was a silent journey, but at last I reached there.
“Good luck,” my dad said, quietly, “I’ll pick you up at six fifteen.”
I walked into the class, my pink tutu feeling odd. As soon as I saw all the other children, I knew there was something wrong. They weren’t wearing tutu’s ...they were wearing baggy clothes that people wear for...a different type of dancing.
A sign caught my eye outside the window.
STREET DANCE! FOR CHILDREN TO 9-15 FROM 5:05 TO 6:15. ?
I groaned and put my head in my hands as snickers from a few children rang out.
Hot, wet tears fell down my face.
I guess having a dyslexic dad had its disadvantages...
TO BE CONTINUED...