110

Camila

My toes are perfectly pointed as I strut across the stage. A simple ankle-turn and I'm pivoting, another and another and I'm a flurry of motion, my white tutu fluffing like a dandelion on the breeze. I was born to dance. I know this in my soul.

Curtains flutter around me, brushing me as if they want to hold me close. The only person I want a hug from is the man sitting in the audience.

Dad beams proudly, never taking his eyes off of me.

I'm so glad I decided to do this performance! I'd been terrified when Mom suggested it, the moves were advanced for a ten-year-old like me, but she would always click her tongue and insist that she did ballet like this when she was my age.

But Dad?

He caught me fretting in the studio, staring at myself awkwardly in the tall mirrors. He'd come to me, knelt, and told me not to be afraid of the stage. Even if you make a mistake, it won't matter to me. If you get nervous, just look for me in the audience, malyshka.

Lunging forward, I hold my breath,