Page 9 of Masked Sins
She’s also the only student who signed up for all my intensives through the summer.
Checking the clock, I see that we’re nearly at the end of class, so I clap my hands three times to get their attention.
“That’s the end of class. Please practice your pirouettes and balancés. You’re doing great, so be sure to remember that, too.”
“Thanks, Miss Rivers,” they all say at the same time.
“What’s our mantra?” I ask, holding a hand behind my ear.
“My body is unique and beautiful just the way it is,” they shout.
Grinning, I clap. “Wonderful. Have a good weekend, everyone.”
Everyone turns to me for révérence. Then they file out of the studio, and I follow them, making a beeline for Olivia’s and Jenicka’s moms, who happen to be friends.
“May I have a word with you both?” I ask.
They smile. Jenicka’s mom says, “Sure. They looked great today.”
Oh good, a positive. That helps.
“They did. They’ve worked so hard. I’m so proud of them,” I say genuinely.
“How can we help?” Olivia’s mom asks.
I actively have to keep myself from wringing my hands together because confrontation like this makes me uncomfortable. However, for the sake of my students, I have to do it.
Both moms are young—they can’t be much older than me. I have to hope that it was just an honest mistake.
“First, I love having both girls in this group. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and they’re so talented. I thought I’d ask about something they both said when I served them a piece of chocolate earlier.” They look between each other before turning back to face me, and I school my face into gentle concern. “Olivia said that she’s not allowed to eat chocolate, and Jenicka mentioned that carbs are bad.”
Jenicka’s mom winces. “I didn’t think she’d heard that. I’m on a diet and was talking to a friend about it.”
I smile. “I understand. With little kids especially, we have to be mindful of how we talk about food. They hear everything,” I add, rolling my eyes. Both moms laugh, which is a good sign.
“And we’re just trying to limit sugar,” Olivia’s mom says. “I didn’t mean she couldneverhave it.” She seems mortified.
I nod. “I know you’re doing your best,” I assure them. After all, if they think I’m attacking them, they might not be receptive to learning and doing better. I’ve taken many nutrition classes over the years, so I feel well-versed on the topic. “Would it be okay to send you both resources for how to talk about food in front of children?” They both nod enthusiastically. “Great. I’ll send it over tonight.”
“Thanks, Layla, that would be helpful,” Olivia’s mom says.
“Yeah, thank you. See you next time,” Jenicka’s mom adds.
“See you both next class,” I say, watching as my students filter out of the dance studio, checking the clock. I have an hour to get home, feed Sparrow, and walk to Dad’s house. It’s convenient living two blocks away from him in Los Feliz.
After tidying the studio, I slip into my flats, lock up, and head down to the parking garage in the studio’s basement. Looking around, I hold my pepper spray and walk to my BMW X3. It’s my pride and joy—something I bought used, in cash, with my own money. I don’t make a great salary, but last year, I was lucky to get a mortage on a fixer-upper listed well under the market rate. I’m financially comfortable, so I count it as a win.
It’s a cold day for March, and despite seldom raining in LA, of course it decides to pour the entire drive home. The traffic is horrendous, and by the time I get to my two-bedroom bungalow, I have about fifteen minutes to get ready.
Hopping out of my car, I jog to the door and unlock it. My cozy house greets me, and I relax instantly. My eyes skim over the houseplants and fairy lights, as well as the small fireplace and reading nook nestled along the back window.
Because I live alone, I turned my guest bedroom into a library with built-in shelves. I’ve been slowly organizing the titles by author name, but it’s a daunting task I’ve been puttingoff since I moved in last year. As a self-professed bookworm, I have over a thousand books, and I spend almost all of my free time at home, getting lost in a new world.
The bungalow is small—just under 800 square feet—but I converted a small studio in the backyard into a dance studio for practicing.
Despite being perfect for me, I’ve made minor changes, such as the light pink wall color in the library and the flowers I planted all around the perimeter of the sage-green exterior.
It’s my oasis—my happy place.
