She gazed at me with a pained expression, knowing my circumstances.

“Don’t want your pity,” I said, thrusting my chest out. Pity is for losers and weaklings. “I want somebody to believe in me.” I backed up, bumping into one of the other girls, who quickly gave me room.

My body was cold, but I forced my limbs to work. “Look at this,” I said, attempting a simple plié. Giving my best, I did the duck-feet thing and bent my knees, keeping my heels on the floor, but in the end, my jeans were too thick to get a proper position, and I weaved. I powered on and tried again, this time keeling over and busting my butt.

The little girls snickered.

Red-faced, I stood, refusing to give up so easily.

To their astonishment—if their open mouths were anything to go by—I unsnapped my pants and jerked them off, throwing them across the room. Standing in my old underwear and sleep shirt, I put my feet in the proper position and did the plié again, this time without stumbling. This time summoning every scrap of control I had to stay put.

Sarah didn’t look impressed.

Fear of winding up like my mama spurred me on. “First position,” I said, executing the movement. “Second position, third, fourth.” I moved my arms and legs how I thought they should go, yet it felt awkward, my limbs not cooperating like the videos.

I needed lessons.

“And here’s my favorite, fifth position,” I said, lifting my arms up and rounding them out over my head. I tried to align my feet, praying I resembled a ballerina inside a music box.

Silence for at least a minute as she stared at me, her eyes lingering on my limbs. Taking advantage, I did a pirouette and stumbled, probably resembling a drunken Tasmanian devil.

She gave me a quizzical look. “Your form is off. But you’ve had lessons?”

I shook my head.

“Then how do you know ballet?” she said, waving her arms at me.

I tapped my noggin. “I’m quite gifted.”

She assessed me. “I’m not surprised.”

“My mama says I’m different.”

“It’s good to be different,” she added.

I nodded. Sure.

“Do you love ballet?” she asked me.

“More than anything.”

She sighed, her eyes wary. I’m no mind reader, but I recognized hesitation when I saw it. Being near me—teaching me—was dangerous because of who I was. No one wanted to associate with the little girl who belonged to the hooker and the rich man.

Her face softened. “Don’t make me regret this, Dovey. Extra ballet slippers are in the basket by the door. Oh, and put your pants back on, please.” She smiled.

I practically skipped over and grabbed a pair, elation erupting inside me. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

She knelt down to face me. “Today, we’ve been working on embracing our roles when we do ballet. Dance lets you be anything you want to be, Dovey. A snowflake, a toy mouse, a witch, a forest fairy. Who do you want to be today?”

“I don’t know.” It was all so much to choose from, and it was my first day.

Squeezing my shoulder, she said, “Whoever you become is entirely up to you. Remember that.”

I blinked up at her. “Someday, I will be a dancer.”

“Will you remember me?”

–Dovey

Eight Years Later

THE DELICIOUS SMELL of bacon tantalized me, drawing me into the kitchen.

“Dovey, Dovey, my lovey,” Sarah sang out, smiling at me from her spot in front of the white stove. She appeared fit and alert, dressed in gray yoga pants and a loose tunic, obviously ready for her eleven o’clock toddler class. At sixty-one, she had an air about her of someone much younger, sparkling with energy, luminous like the sun.

I opened my arms wide. “Sarah, Sarah, I love you,” I sang back in a theatrical kind of way, loud and off-key. Typical morning at our house.

She showed me the burnt bacon. “Once you get a load of this, you may not love me.”

I peered over her shoulder at the black pork lying on the plate. “Love you still,” I said in between munches on a stolen piece. She smacked my hand and I grinned.

“What if I said we were out of strawberry jam?”

“Still love ya,” I quipped, propping my hip against the sink to watch her scramble eggs. Her movements were brisk and efficient, which was a good sign. And although I’d woken up with a premonition of a sucky day, perhaps today would be fine. I needed a good day.

She presented me with the overdone biscuits, their tops a few shades too dark. “Still?”

I grunted, picked one up and took a bite, the rich flavor of heavy cream coating my tongue. I closed my eyes and moaned. “Holy best biscuit ever,” I declared, talking around my chews. “It’s like eating a piece of heaven. Maybe even better than the buttermilk ones.”

Her mouth twitched. “Now, I know you’re lying or starving. They didn’t rise and they’re too brown. I swear, you’ll eat anything.” She pointed to my chair. “Sit. You have fifteen minutes before you have to get on the road for BA.”

I touched her shoulder. “Tell me what day it is first,” I said.

Her faded green eyes clouded for a moment but then slid over my shoulder to the calendar on the fridge. “February 7,” she replied. “Monday. I have three classes of ballet to teach; you have math homework to turn in. And you have a three hour session with Mr. Keller at BA to work on your audition piece.”

“Where do you live?”

“201 Channing Street inside Beckham House. With a crazy girl.” She gave me a pointed look.

I grinned, anticipating the next answer. “Who am I?”

“Katerina Dovey Beckham,” she said with a sassy look. “You’ve lived with me since your mama died. I’m your guardian and I adore you. There, satisfied?”

“No, I’m not,” drawled a throaty, Southern voice from the door. “I need a good man in a bad way, and I’m hungry.”

We both turned to see the vision in front of us. As if waiting for a camera to start rolling, Heather-Lynn posed against the doorframe, dressed outlandishly in a pair of fringed Daisy Dukes and a red shirt. I shivered from just looking at her. At least I wore thick tights with my skimpy clothes.

She breezed in carrying Ricky, her long-haired, cream Chihuahua. Her claim to fame was a tiny part in a movie in the seventies no one had seen. At sixty, she called herself a retired movie star even though she’d been a beautician for twenty something years. Sarah and I went with it. We’re all dreamers, I guess.