I moved to the front of the room, getting ready to help lead everyone in warm-ups since I was a TA for the class. It didn’t take a whole lot of effort, but it paid for my books. Plus, the teacher loved me, which was a huge bonus whenever dance companies were on campus because she always made sure I had the chance to network.

I led the class through all the warm-ups before she arrived and then joined them as we moved through her choreography for the day. Jazz was one of my weakest forms of dance, so this class was really helping to beef up my skills in that area. I wanted to be as well-rounded as I could so that I would have more opportunities come graduation time.

By the time class was over, I was drenched in sweat and panting. She’d really worked us hard today. I gulped down my water and tried to catch my breath. Aubrey waved when she walked out of class and made a phone sign by her ear as she mouthed, “Talk to you later.”

I toweled off and leaned over to stretch again, needing to stay warmed up so that I could run through my routine a few dozen times as long as the studio was open. I needed as much practice time as I could get, and the room was usually open after our class. I hooked my phone into the sound system and set my music to play on a loop. The music was hauntingly sad and made me think of my parents. It was a lyrical piece that called for a lot of emotion, and my coach thoroughly approved of the feelings this one pulled out of me. I hoped it was worth it because I always felt completely drained after practicing it and it brought back the pain of missing my parents. But it seemed fitting that the piece I would dance that might decide my fate as a dancer would make me feel as though they were with me.

I needed to remember that I dance because I’m a dancer. This showcase might mean that I never dance professionally or that I’d be offered a job where I get to dance every day. But I couldn’t lose sight that it was also another chance to dance. That was what each opportunity was. I couldn’t think about what was happening next. It didn’t matter what the dance was for. It didn’t matter how much I doubted myself either.

When I first started to dance, I hadn’t known that my Achilles tendons were tight or my legs weren’t long enough. After a while, I’d been told that so many things were wrong with me that all I saw were all the imperfections. This was the perfect piece for me to go back to the beginning and remember what had made me dance in the first place. So I squared my shoulders, waited for the music to start again, and then I lost myself in the dance.

About thirty minutes had passed and I was halfway into another run through when I felt someone’s presence and turned to find Jackson staring at me. He was seated on the floor just inside the door, dressed in workout shorts and a t-shirt. A huge grin was spread across his face, but his eyes were burning with desire.

“Jackson,” I gasped.

“Those are some impressive dancing skills you have there,” he complimented me.

“I certainly hope so. I’ve been dancing since I was four years old.”

“When Aubrey mentioned that you had a dance class together, I pictured you doing the type of stuff I’ve seen her do before,” he admitted. “But what you just did blows me away.”

“Your sister is a good dancer,” I argued.

“She’s not a bad dancer, but I can’t picture her doing anything like that.” He got to his feet and walked towards me.

“She just hasn’t spent as much time working on it as I have. That’s all.”

“No, after watching you, I’d say that you have a natural talent,” he disagreed. “You looked like you were born to dance.”

“Maybe I was,” I admitted, thinking of my mom. “My mom used to dance. In fact, she might have danced right in this very spot many years ago.”

“Really? I didn’t know you were a legacy too.”

“Yeah, both my parents went here. My dad got accepted and my mom followed him since they were high school sweethearts,” I explained.

“Mine both attended Blythe also, but they met while they were students here. What year were your parents? Maybe they know each other.”

“Class of 1991,” I whispered, not used to talking very much about them and hoping that it wasn’t the same time that Jackson’s parents had attended. That there was no way they could possibly have met while they had been in school. My hopes were dashed at Jackson’s next words.

“That was only a couple years behind my parents. We’ll have to get them all together when yours come into town next.”

I shook my head in response. “That won’t be possible.”