Page 113 of What She Saw
He shook his head. “Why?”
“One of the girls, Daphne, was the best dancer. And she was good. I was impressed.”
“But?”
“She bullied another slower, awkward girl. Everyone acted as if it was a regular thing. It made me mad to watch that little kid doing her best not to cry. So I bodychecked Daphne.”
“Good for you.”
I shrugged. “That bully lost her balance and hit the floor. Her face smacked the wood hard. The impact bloodied her nose. All the girls freaked out. The teacher was appalled. I was not invited back.”
“Did that bother you?”
“No. She had no right to be cruel to that other girl.”
“Is there a soft spot in that dark heart of yours?”
I shrugged. “Sara wasn’t surprised, but she also wasn’t happy. She lost her deposit.” The cramp in my chest reappeared. Looking back, I realized how hard it had been for her to scrape together the money for those lessons.
“Would you have hit her if you’d known Sara would lose her money?”
“I’d have been more careful.” I couldn’t picture any of these little dancers getting into a fistfight. Laughing, smiling, and giggling, they were the picture of happy children.
“If you’d been my kid, I’d have taken you out for ice cream.”
Six-year-old me could have used an ice cream that day. I didn’t understand how I’d been painted as the bad guy. I’d stopped a bully. Another van pulled up in front of the studio. Another mom and tiny dancer hurried toward the door.
“Time for me to ask a few questions,” I said.
“In the studio?”
“To that mother. Stay here.”
I rose out of the car, combed my fingers through my hair, and tucked in my shirt. I crossed the street and reached the van as the mother approached. She was short, muscular, and had tied back her blond hair into a dancer’s bun. She looked a lot like the other two mothers.
“Excuse me,” I said, smiling.
The woman faced me, her gaze wary as she studied me. I smiled and downshifted my demeanor to relaxed. “Sorry to bother you. I’m curious about the Dance Studio. I have a six-year-old, and she’s determined to learn ballet. Do you have a moment to tell me about the Dance Studio?”
The woman didn’t look convinced. Her fingers tightened around her keys. “It’s great. We’ve been here for a couple of years.”
“I hear Susan Westbrook is good.”
“She’s strict, and she expects perfection from the girls. But she gets amazing results.”
“Strict is good. My little girl has lots of energy.” If I had a little girl, I couldn’t imagine her lasting more than a few lessons.
“She’ll learn to channel her energy into dance. Miss Susan runs a tight ship.”
Miss Susan sounded a little authoritarian. “That’s great. Do you think I could slip inside and watch the class for a moment?”
“They don’t like outsiders. The receptionist is a pit bull.”
“Good to know.” I found my warmest smile. “Thanks.”
Some of the woman’s wariness eased. “Sure. We’ll see you around.”
I entered the building and crossed to the reception desk. Beyond it was a large studio populated by a collection of little girls all dressed the same and standing in the center of the room. A woman appeared from the back, and she clapped her hands. Her delicate frame was wrapped in a leotard and a gauzy skirt that skimmed above her knees. There wasn’t an ounce of extra fat on her body. The girls stopped talking and giggling. Susan Westbrook.
