Page 8 of Give Me Strength

“Stop,” she says, raising her hand. Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me with a mix of concern and frustration. “Something’s wrong.”

No kidding.

I shake my head, forcing a smile as hollow as I feel. “I’m fine, really. Just a bit off today.”

She lifts a curious brow. “A bit off? You’ve done this routine a thousand times.”

I worry my bottom lip, fighting back the tears of pain and frustration. “Guess I’m having an off day.”

She doesn’t buy it. “You don’t have off days, Ashlynn. I don’t think you know what that means.”

“I did bury my father two days ago,” I mutter dryly.

“And you’re not one to play the sympathy card either,” she counters. “It’s 8:30 AM on a Sunday, and we’re the only ones in the building. What does that tell you?”

“That I have no life?”

Normally she would smile at my self-deprecating humor, but it isn’t working for me today.

She walks over to me, her gaze softening as she studies my face. “This isn’t like you, Ashlynn. You normally dance with such grace and precision. We did this routine the day before the funeral, and you weren’t fumbling the steps. What’s going on?”

I don’t answer her. Instead, I lace my fingers behind my back as I bite my lip, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over.

Her eyes widen slightly, and she gestures for me to sit. “Show me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she says a little forcefully. “Let’s see it. Both feet.”

Reluctantly, I sink to the floor, my defenses crumbling. I remove my pointe shoes and peel back the layers of tape. The skin is raw and swollen, an angry bruise spreading across the arch.

Her expression shifts to one of deep concern. She kneels beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Why didn’t you cancel?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I admit, looking down at my blistered feet. “I thought I could push through it.”

“Pushing through the pain isn’t always the answer. You have to listen to your body and respect its limits. Dancing on an injury can lead to something far worse.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“That’s not what I’m apologizing for. Injury or not, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“Oh, I know.” She squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “You have no friends, no social life, and no hobbies.” She lists them off with several flicks of her fingers.

It sounds terrible when she phrases it like that, throwing my words of self-deprecating humor back at me. Then again, I see what she’s trying to do here.

“You make me sound like a social pariah.”

“That’s because you are. Sort-Off.” She walks over to the supply closet and grabs a first aid kit before re-joining me on the floor. “You are sort-of a social pariah, which makes you pariah-lite.”

I make no attempt to cover up the snicker that slips past my lips. “Your bedside manner sucks.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not a doctor.” She pulls my legs onto her lap and begins applying the ointment. “Take a look around. You go to a cutthroat school, surrounded by many driven, hyper-competitive teenagers. Yet, none of that ever seems to faze you. Not only that, but none of them hold a candle to your raw, unfettered talent. I am telling you this because you’ll take it for what it is and not let it go to your head. And you are here, spaghetti feet and all, when you could be curled up in a ball at home.”

“There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. Ballet is my life. It’s all I have.”

“It’s not the only thing you have.”

---