The Hookup Handbook(18)
If I don’t find a way to deal with these urges for her soon, there’s no knowing when my bipolar soldier will decide it’s time for a midday salute.
I don’t know about a doctor, but maybe I need to see a psychologist.
Chapter Eight
Sienna
“Can you all say hi to your new ballet teacher, Miss Sienna?”
Helen, the studio owner, insisted on giving me a proper introduction to my very first class. A dozen miniature ballerinas are sitting on the studio floor, looking up at me with big, curious eyes. I feel like the new kid on her first day of school. Except I’m the teacher.
“Hiii, Miss Siennna,” they singsong in unison, a high-pitched chorus of three-and four-year-old girls, but it’s music to my ears.
Miss Sienna. That sounds so official.
One little girl yells out “You’re pretty!” which starts a giggle fit among the group.
I smile and wave back at the class. My class. It’s hard to believe that these twelve little ballerinas are going to be my responsibility.
“They’re all yours,” Helen whispers, laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be in the office if you need anything.”
As she disappears through the office door, reality finally sets in. I’ve never so much as taught a dog how to sit, and suddenly I’m being trusted to teach a dozen preschoolers how to dance. But I’ve taken ballet my entire life, so surely I can figure this out, right?
I join them on the floor so we’re all closer to eye level. Here goes nothing.
“Hi, guys! I’m so excited to get to work with you all this summer. Without talking, can you raise your hand if you’ve taken a ballet class before?”
Twelve little arms shoot enthusiastically into the air. I’ve got a class of veterans. That should make this easier.
“Great. This is going to be super fun. Let’s all find a spot at the barre, okay?”
As if each of them were spring loaded, all twelve girls pop up to their feet at once, scurrying around the room to find a bit of barre to hold on to, bickering over who gets to stand next to whom.
“Shhh, get ready, everyone.” When I connect my phone to the stereo and press PLAY, the soft piano music silences my class of chatty little girls. They turn their heads toward me expectantly, awaiting instruction.
Showtime. I demonstrate our first plié combination to an audience of eyes glued to my feet. Maybe Case was right. Maybe I am cut out for this.
“All right, let’s try it. And five, six, seven, eight!”
I circle the mirrored room, watching the reflections of the tiny pink ballet slippers, gently correcting their form as I call out the instructions for the combination.
“Good. Demi plié, and grande plié!”
Class goes on this way for a full half hour. I show a basic combination at the barre and the girls follow my lead, mimicking my every movement, right down to the way I purse my lips when I change positions. They’re so cute, and I’m surprised by what good students they are. Despite the occasional chattiness, they listen to instructions and are quick to adjust their form when I come by to correct them. These girls want to be here just as much as I do.
With only fifteen minutes of class time left, I’m struck with an idea I’m sure will make me the coolest teacher these girls have ever had.
“You guys have done such a great job today,” I say as the music dies down and my mini ballerinas complete their last barre exercise of the day. “Do you think we should end class by doing something extra fun?”
A symphony of high-pitched squeals of “Yeah!” vibrates through the studio as I head over to the stereo. I open my music app and select the “clean pop music” playlist I made last night. The second I press PLAY, the class erupts into shrieking laughter.
“Did you guys know you can do ballet to any song you want?” I call out over the music as I sashay to the front of the room. The bubbly pop lyrics are accompanied by delighted giggles from my girls as I perform a super-easy eight-count combo.
“If you line up real quick and stay super quiet, I might just have time to teach it to you,” I say, giving them a devious smile.
The girls gasp and scramble into two lines without any further instruction. I walk them through the combo at quarter speed, then half speed, and by the end of the hour, all their turns and dips line up in perfect time with the peppy electronic beats.
I feel like a proud mother. In fact, I’m a little sad when class is over.
“Be sure to practice at home so we can add more to the routine next week!” I remind them as they line up at the door, high-fiving me on their way out.
As they file out of the studio and into the arms of their waiting parents, each one vies for my attention with a different question.
“Miss Sienna, are you gonna be our teacher forever?”
“Miss Sienna, are you a real ballerina?”
“Miss Sienna, will you be my best friend?”
I can’t wipe the smile from my face, even if I wanted to.
Once every ballerina has found her parent, I escape back into the studio, eyeing my phone on the stereo. I’m dying to call Case and tell him all about my first class, to thank him for the tenth time for literally making my dream come true, but I know I have a different boss to report to first.