Page 28 of Wounded Dance
We look out over the empty concrete. The sun is bright and Blitz’s face is a frown.
“I know my driving is not what is making you so tense. What’s wrong?” I ask.
Blitz stares out his side window, his face turned away. “I’m going to have to go back and forth between LA a few times in the next week or two. I have a meeting about the show, and a court date Jeff thinks I should attend in person.”
“Should I go?”
“You can, absolutely,” he says. “But you’ll miss a lot of wheelchair classes and Gabriella’s private lessons.”
I frown. I don’t want to do that. Plus, I’m trying to get in shape for morepointework in ballet.
“I can’t let her down,” I say. “We’re just getting started.”
“I also want you to be more independent,” Blitz says. “We should go to the DMV and get your driving permit soon. But I’ll leave a car and driver for you to get to dance. I’ll make sure he seconds as a bodyguard since your ex is stalking the academy.”
“How long will you be gone?” I ask.
“Just one night this time. I’m minimizing everything. But if you go with me, you will miss both a private lesson and your own dance class.”
“It’s just one night, I guess,” I say.
“Our first night apart since you barged on to my show,” he says. “I don’t like it. Particularly with lover boy around.”
“He won’t even know I’m there,” I say. “We snuck in easily enough yesterday.”
“We did. I’d feel better if Danika knew.” He takes my hand off the steering wheel and brings my fingers to his lips.
“It’s hard for me to tell her.”
“I know.”
He holds my hand in both of his. We sit for a while in the sun-warmed car. What would Danika think of me if she knew about Gabriella? She has a lot of power as director of the academy. She could take me out of the class, end the private lesson, insist we tell Gwen that I’m the birth mother. Anything.
I can’t do that. Can’t risk it.
I pull my hand from Blitz and put the car back into drive. I have to be strong. Brave. Independent. Driving is a good first step. I’ll get my license. Be able to get myself around. Maybe I’ll confront Denham on my own, without the threat of Blitz making him act crazy.
My foot eases off the brake. This time, instead of just puttering slowly, I carefully press the gas. We don’t shoot forward, but gradually accelerate. I circle around one of the poles and head across the lot again, this time trying to follow the lines rather than shooting aimlessly across them.
I haven’t told Blitz this, and I don’t plan to, but I did have a driving lesson once before. In Texas, you can get your driving permit at age fifteen to prepare you for a license at sixteen. So as my fifteenth birthday approached, Denham took it upon himself to teach me how to drive.
It was several weeks after his arrival, past the sunbathing, the fence work, and the blade of grass up my thigh. We hadn’t gotten much time alone. On this night, Mom and Dad were watching television, and Andy was already in bed. School would start in a week.
While we were all sitting in the living room, a commercial came on for some driving school and Dad scoffed at the price.
“When it’s time for Livia to learn, I’ll teach her myself,” he said.
Denham’s head popped up. “I already have my license,” he said. “I can show her some basics.”
“You have to be eighteen, I believe,” Mom said from her rocking chair.
“Let the boy show her a few things,” Dad said. “Take her over to the high school parking lot.” He tossed Denham the keys to his Jeep, the car he had before the Pontiac he drives now.
Denham’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Really? You’ll let me drive it?”
“I don’t see why not,” Dad said. “You’ve had your license a while and the school is only a mile away. It can’t hurt, right, Dorothy?”
Mom’s lips were pressed tight, but she nodded.
