Page 57 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Much.” I don’t let go of her hand. “I was actually watching you dance through the window. You’re… incredible.”
Em’s cheeks flush deeper, and she looks down at her hands, now mostly hidden by the long sleeves of my sweatshirt. “Thanks. I usually practice alone. It’s easier to try new things when no one’s watching.”
“Sorry for invading your privacy, then.”
“You weren’t.” She smirks. “Well, maybe a little, but it’s fine. Better you than the high school boys who sometimes stare through the glass and make stupid faces…”
“I promise I wasn’t making stupid faces.”
“No, just staring with your mouth open.”
I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Was I really?”
“Maybe a little.” The smile that spreads across her face is teasing, and I’m struck again by how beautiful she is—not just physically, but the way her whole face lights up when she’s amused. “But in your case, it’s OK, because it made me feel nice.”
“The routine you were doing…,” I say, genuinely curious. “There were parts that looked almost like… mistakes? But intentional ones?”
Em seems surprised by the observation, her eyes widening slightly. “You have a good eye.”
“Hockey,” I shrug. “It’s all about reading movement.”
She shifts in her seat, and I notice how she pulls at the sleeves of the sweatshirt, tugging them down over her hands—something she does when she’s nervous or unsure. “That routineis actually inspired by the kids I teach,” she explains, her voice softening.
“Yeah?”
She nods. “They make these amazing mistakes when they dance—they stumble or lose their balance, but then they just incorporate it into the next move like it was planned all along. So I started working on this piece where half the moves look like errors, but together they create something… I don’t know. Something beautiful from imperfection, I guess.” She shakes her head slightly. “That sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?”
I’m struck by the affection in her voice when she talks about her students. “Not at all,” I say. “It sounds perfect.”
Our eyes lock for a moment, and the air between us feels charged. I clear my throat. “How long have you been dancing?”
The question seems to relax her. Em leans back in the seat, getting more comfortable. “Since I was five. My mom wanted me to do ballet, but I was terrible at it—too impatient, couldn’t stand still long enough.” She laughs. “So I tried basically every style: jazz, tap, modern, even belly dancing for a bit.”
“Belly dancing?” My mind conjures an image that makes my mouth go dry, and risks taking my mindwellpast the lessons I’ve planned with her.
“Not my finest moment,” Em says with a grin. “But modern dance was the only one that really stuck. It felt… free. Like I could make my own rules.”
I nod, understanding exactly what she means. “That’s how hockey feels to me sometimes. Everyone thinks it’s just brute strength, but there’s this moment when you’re on the ice and everything just… flows. You stop thinking and just move.”
“Yes! That’s it exactly.” Her enthusiasm makes her whole face light up, and I find myself wanting to know everything about her. “It’s helped me through some tough times.”
The light in her eyes dims slightly, and she turns to look out the window. My stomach sinks, sensing I’ve hit a nerve. Not sure whether it’s better to talk or stay quiet, I decide to wait, because it looks like she’s thinking. The silence stretches between us until she sighs.
“The guy I told you about from high school. Derek,” she says, her voice a whisper. “He was the mayor’s son. Popular, charming—until we were alone.”
Something cold settles in my gut. “You don’t need to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with, Em…”
“I want to,” she says, as her fingers fidget with the edge of the sweatshirt sleeve. “We dated for most of junior year, and he kept pushing me to sleep with him. I wasn’t ready, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
I watch her closely, ready to change the subject if she seems too uncomfortable, but she takes a deep breath and continues.
“It was one of those teenage things where it went from zero to complete obsession in about a month.” Her smile is sad. “We’d make out whenever we could, but when he wanted to do more—go below the belt—I’d always pull back.”
She pauses, and I give her hand a gentle squeeze, which she returns before continuing.
“I wasn’t ready, and the first few times, he seemed to understand. But the fourth time…” She swallows hard. “He pushed more, said it would bring us closer. I gave in, mostly because I didn’t want him to be mad at me.”
My stomach clenches. I’ve heard versions of this story before from female friends, and I already hate where this is going.
