"Too bad you want them pushed by someone else."
I glare, but otherwise ignore her smug expression and singsong voice.
"I'm just saying."
"Fine," I snap. "You win. I'm not going to date him for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is because he's not interested in me. He's still holding a grudge. All he wants to do is punish me. He said so himself."
"Oh, please. He said he wanted to punish you, and then he got you all hot and bothered? No. Trust me. He wants you. He's pissed at you, I'll buy that. But he wants you."
"Well, he can't have me, because there's still reason number two--he's not good for me."
"I'm not so sure about that, either," Nia says. "You're a mess today, I'll grant you that. But you're also kind of glowing."
"I am not." But I don't protest too much, because part of me knows she's right. Yes, I bolted. But the reason I did has a lot to do with the way he made me feel. Lit from the inside. Alive.
And, yeah, there might be a bit of a lingering afterglow.
But that really isn't the issue.
"Being with him isn't good for me," I repeat more firmly. "And it definitely isn't good for other people."
Her shoulders fall as she exhales, then reaches for my hand. "Sweetie, what happened to Griffin wasn't your fault."
"Yeah," I say, tugging my hand away. "It was."
"Fine. Whatever. I'm not going to argue about it anymore. You think it was your fault, then fine. Avoid Wyatt. But don't avoid life. You're wound up too tight, girlfriend. And you know your father's an ass--
I know you know, because we've talked about it. You need to let go a little. Because if you don't, you're going to suffocate and die inside. You'll be walking and talking, but you'll just be a shell of Kelsey. You know I'm right, even if you won't admit it out loud."
I blink back a sudden rush of tears. Because she is right, but I'm not sure that matters.
"I'm scared," I whisper, and she deflates a little as she looks at me with compassion.
"I know," she says, and this time when she takes my hand I let her hold it. "But I promise I've got your back. Always."
Nia's words linger like some horrible prophecy as I arrive at the dance studio and greet my pint-sized dancers.
I look at them in their little pink leotards with the pretty pink bows in their hair, and I can't help but hope that their parents cherish them. That no one will ever warn them that they're hiding from life, and if they aren't careful they're going to suffocate.
I want these girls to know that they can grow up to dance and date and do whatever they want, and not have the voice of a wounded parent whispering in their ear, making them think they have to be someone other than they are.
The hard part is that I get it. I really and truly understand that my dad's to blame for the shell that Nia sees around me. And, heck, I see it, too. But shells are hard by definition, and I've been trying without success to break out of this one for years.
I shake off my melancholy and clap my hands. "Okay, girls. Everyone to the mirror for warm-up."
They scurry away, some graceful, some clunky. I don't think I have anybody in this class who'll grow up to take the stage, but what I want for them is to not only develop a love for dance, but to also be comfortable with their bodies. To realize that it really is only a shell, though hopefully not as stifling as the one Nia described. And that they need to take care of it even while they use dance to escape from it. Because no dancer ever stays inside herself. That's the point. To rise up with the music. To chase your soul. With your body only coming along for the ride.
"Can we jump, Miss Draper?" Amanda asks after the warm-up, and all the other girls bounce and shout, "Please, please!"
And even though I have another class planned out, I agree. Then line them up across the room, remind them of what to do, and then stand by as each races toward me, gathers her courage, and then leaps up, trusting me to catch her the way Johnny catches Baby in Dirty Dancing, one of my all-time favorite movies.
We do three rounds of jumps, then rehearse for the parent recital coming in four weeks. And then that's it. The time has literally flown by.
I accept all the hugs and promise I'll see them at the next class. Then I lock the door behind them, and for the first time in days I can completely relax. Because I don't have another class until Zumba, and nobody else is using this room until then.
I go to the jam box, turn on the music, and simply dance. Sometimes I rehearse a routine or try to choreograph something new. But not today. Today, I just want to get lost. And as the music takes me, I let go, relishing the freedom of the melody. The power that fills me. And not just the strength in my limbs, but the wellspring of emotion that rises inside me.
It's as if I'm soaring. As if gravity means nothing. It's wonderful and thrilling and exciting.