Break

“Don’t worry about me. We need to get you a place to live. How do we do that?” I’m clueless. I know nothing about housing or how you go about applying for emergency shelter. “What about your dad? Can’t he go live somewhere else and you and your mom move back into your house?” It seems simple enough to me. His father is in the wrong so he should be the one to leave.

“It’s not that easy. Nothing is in her name. I’m his stepkid, and I got in trouble. Like, a lot. He can walk away. We own pretty much nothing,” he tells me, full of dismay. “My mom had me young, and my biological dad took off. I’ve never even met him. I think my mom remarried for stability and not because she was in love. He’s always treated her like shit.”

The bell rings loud and shrill and it seems to make Dash jump in his skin. He gathers the trash and begins to stand.

“What’s your mom do? Maybe we can take that angle instead,” I suggest.

“Oh, well, Mom was an actress, or an aspiring one. She did comedy stuff, like a circuit theatre group. Then she got pregnant with me at eighteen. Ever since then, she’s cleaned houses and stuff, sometimes offices and banks. Once, she did a stint in a hotel. She’s super easy-going and funny, but my stepdad did a number on her, and she’s not herself anymore.”

Maybe his mother isn’t up for working. I scrunch up my face until my tight bun pulls at my hairline. There has to be a solution for Dash. He can’t live at the Bradbury Street shelter. I’ve been to the West Side, and it’s dangerous.

“My mom is… I don’t know how to put this. You know when someone gets hit a lot, like especially if they get hit in the head and they—”

“Yes.” I cut him off. I don’t know if I can bear to hear him say it.

“I got to go this way, Tayla. I’ll see you in Vauganova’s class.”

“Dash, wait. Can your mom answer phones? They give you a script. My mom is on the board and there’s this gala coming up. It’s a fundraiser, so they need…just give me your phone number.”

“Don’t got a phone, Sam.” Dash lifts his hands out of his pockets and shows me they’re both empty. “We’re at the shelter on Bradbury. Her name is Lizzy. Lizzy Stewart. She can do phone stuff—no sweat. I probably could, too. Shit, anything at this point.” He walks backward down the hall as he moves away from me.

I feel this desperation clawing at my chest. It’s familiar like the ache, but it’s different, too. More hopeful, less drudgery. I think I have a friend. Someone who has peculiar and dark issues like me. We both dance to try and break free and forget our problems inside the rhythm of our bodies.

He turns slowly, reluctantly, and I lift my hand to wave. “Thanks for the lunch.”

“Don’t mention it, Sam.”

He relieved my hunger, so I will do whatever it takes to get Dash and his mother out of there.

Dash kills it in Vauganova, and I can see her eyebrow raise as he travels across the floor. She’s impressed, but she won’t let anybody know. She’ll go hard on him and try to break him, see what his character is like. Vauganova builds dancers from grit, not from coddling them. Just like Mother. I’m used to that kind of attention, but I doubt a street dancer is.

At the end of class, I walk to the mirror and pick up my dance bag without stopping to chat like most of the girls do. Mother always taught me the dance studio was not the place to make friends.

Those girls are not your friends. They are your competition. Treat them as such.

I can still hear her voice in the back of the car cut through me bluntly as she scolded an eight-year-old me from making friends in the ballet studio dressing room after class. Ever since, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid other dancers and be polite but keep my distance. Mother always tells me not to trust anyone.

But I want to say something to Dash, to let him know that I see him, his talent, his drive, his passion, and how the music moves through him. Most of the kids here have had world-class training from the day they could walk, and Dash is waking up in a shelter without worldly possessions or a place to call home. He comes here with nothing and still makes magic happen when he moves across the floor. That is real talent. It’s what all of them want.

I watch Dash and Becker out of the corner of my eye. Despite the odds, they fit in better than I do. They give handshakes to the boys and smile at the girls, even charming the teachers. Where I remain friendless and keep to myself, Dash is liked by everyone who watches him. His smile is warm, he’s funny and lighthearted. I couldn’t be like that if I tried. I’m too empty inside.