Page 23 of June First

June is the sweetest little lollipop I’ve ever seen.

She barrels toward me from the restroom, twirling the rainbow tulle of her spring recital dress. Bright-pink lipstick, the color of Mrs. Bailey’s potted orchids, is smudged along her lips, and her skin shimmers with glitter as she dances through the lobby. The scent of hairspray follows her, necessary for her perfectly coiffed bun to remain stiff like a statue when she bounces up and down. “Look at me! Mama made me look pwetty, just like her.”

Mrs. Bailey chuckles as she trails behind June, wearing matching lipstick, her own bun carefully secured into place. Not a single pen sticks out of it today.

June’s recital is being held at the performing arts center of a local community college. We’re all waiting in the lobby while the dancers are ushered to their respective classes, where they will stand by to perform on the big stage in the auditorium.

Theo is huddled up in a nearby chair, trying to hide himself in a baggy hoodie because, apparently, he spotted Monica Porter in a sequined peacock dress. I guess he has a crush on Monica Porter, but that doesn’t really explain why he’s hiding. He pokes his head out of the gray fabric to glance at June. “Look at you, Peach. You look like a real-life dancer.”

“I am, silly! Watch this.” June plants her hands upon her hips, then bends her knees. “Plié…” She pops back up. “And straight!”

We all clap.

Mr. Bailey looks like he might cry as he kneels down in front of June, fluffing the hem of her skirt. “My baby girl at her first recital…”

“I not a baby, Daddy. I almost four.” She holds up five fingers.

“That’s right. How could I forget?”

June grins from ear to ear, sashaying in her dress as the multicolored sequins gleam like prisms. Her cheeks are painted with rose blush to match her lips, and there’s a colorful accessory clipped to her bun that resembles a pinwheel. Light-brown hair glints like gold beneath the ceiling lights. She turns to me, her smile still as bright as her dress. “Will you dance with me, Bwant?”

“Dance with you? I can’t dance, Junebug. I’m no good at it.”

“You can do it. Mama says to believe in yourself.”

A smile quirks on my lips. Mrs. Bailey does say that a lot. She told me once, after I had a string of nightmares about The Bad Night, that our minds are the most powerful tool we own. Whatever we believe about ourselves is sure to come true. It reminded me of my favorite rainbow song. Reaching for June, I nod, accepting the offer. “Okay, I’ll dance with you.”

She squeals, bobbing up and down on her ballet slippers, and springs forward until she’s in my arms. I parade her around in clumsy circles, spinning her until she almost topples over, giggling so hard my belly aches.

“Let me get a picture,” Mrs. Bailey chimes in, scrambling through her giant purse. “Hold still, you two.”

June wraps two tiny arms around my middle, smashing her cheek to my hip. “Cheese!”

The flash goes off.

“Theodore, come here. And remove that awful sweatshirt. You’re covering the nice sweater vest that Grams made for you.”

Theo drags himself over to us, his eyes darting around, scouting the crowd for a familiar blond peacock. “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”

We take an assortment of photographs before two dance instructors file over to us to collect June. One of the teachers bends down and holds out her hand. “June Bailey, look how beautiful you are. It’s time to go,” she says softly. “Are you excited to dance for all the moms and dads tonight?”

I’m surprised when June’s smile slips, and her eyes go wide. She shakes her head.

“No? Are you nervous?”

She nods.

A sad little feeling sweeps through me. I don’t want June to be nervous; she’s been so excited to dance on the big stage. I kneel down beside her, clasping her hand until she turns to face me. Pale-blue eyes glint with tears. “Junebug, what’s wrong? Why are you nervous?”

Mrs. Bailey appears flustered, setting her purse down and tugging at June’s wrist. “Let’s go, June. Your teachers are waiting.”

“No!”

“Sweetheart, you’re fine. This is what you’ve practiced for all year.” Embarrassment dots Mrs. Bailey’s face, the flush creeping down her neck. She gives June another tug. “You’re going to do great. I promise.”

June manages to pull free, dashing back to where I’m still kneeling and flinging her arms around my neck. Her bottom lip quivers. “Will you dance with me, Bwant?”

“I can’t do that. I’m not a ballerina like you. I haven’t even practiced.”

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