late to take back that age thing? ‘Cause forgetting about forg etting about something is real bad, Dad.”
“This conversation is starting to confuse me. It’s far too early on a Sunday morning.”
“It’s eleven a.m.”
“Is it?”
“Yup. Not exactly the crack of dawn.” I give his pajama pants a meaningful look.
He glances down at them and back up at me. “Don’t you have a dance class to be getting ready for?”
“Going. Going!” I turn around, then stop and look over my shoulder. “Maddie will be here soon. She’s coming to class with me.”
Dad groans. “Oh God. I’ve seen Maddie dance once – it wasn’t pretty.”
I laugh. “She’s watching. Something about wanting to see the Hot British Guy.”
“And how would she know there’s a British guy that’s hot in your class?”
I really wasn’t meant to say that out loud.
“Perhaps she bugged the dance studio? Who knows?” I try, smiling sweetly.
“You know, Abbi, I’m pretty sure I should be rolling up my sleeves–”
“After changing out of your pajama pants, preferably.”
“Well, okay. As I was saying, darling, I think I should be rolling up my sleeves and marching to this class with you to check out this hot British guy for myself.”
“That could be kinda embarrassing.” I flinch. “And totally unnecessary, I might add.”
“But I don’t feel the need to. I find myself quite liking the fact you’ve described a guy as ‘hot’.”
I turn back to him. “I never said I did that.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
“Well, no. But.” I fidget. “I. Yeah.”
“Like I said, I quite like it.”
“That’s not normal, Dad.”
“Perhaps not, but the fact you’ve described someone that way after what you went through makes me feel like a part of my baby girl is still in there. And the fact you’ve said it to Maddie, she’s going to class with you, and you’ll no doubt spend your next ten phone calls running up my phone bill by talking about him, makes me insanely happy.”
“Dad, I’m depressed, not blind. And is that permission to run up the phone bill?”
“What? No. I didn’t say you could. I said you would.”
I laugh, cross the room and bend down to hug him. He rubs my back gently, and I press my lips to his cheek. “Love you, Daddy.”
“And I love you, Princess. Now go and get ready to torment the hot British guy , and I’ll send the firecracker up when she gets here.”
He pats my arm and smiles. I leave the living room to the shuffle of his paper, grab my leotard from the dryer in the utility room, and head upstairs to find my tights. Just as Dad said, on the back of my chair in my room.
I change into my ballet clothes and sweep my hair into a slick bun. My eyes are clearer and brighter than I’ve seen in a long time. There’s more color in my cheeks and my hair is shinier. I glance at the scales, wondering whether or not I want to step on them. After all the weight I lost when I was first in St. Morris’s, it’s been a battle to put it back on, and even though my curves are slowly reappearing, it’s still daunting.
I pull off my pants and step on the glass surface before I can think any more into it. The red numbers on the digital screen fluctuate slightly, and I draw my bottom lip between my teeth as I wait for them to stop. Then they do. And I smile. I’ve avoided the scales for two weeks and it was worth it, because I’ve gained three pounds.
Those three pounds are everything to me.
Maddie’s laughter drifts up the stairs, and I step back into my sweatpants and go down to meet her.
“Oh good. You’re rea dy. Let’s go. I want to see Hot British Guy,” she says as soon as my feet hit the bottom stair.
“He has a name, y’know,” I mutter, grabbing my bag.
“Really? You never mentioned it,” she teases me.
“Oh, ha.” I open the door. “You do realize my Sunday class is three hours long, right?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Then you, Abigail Jenkins,
“This conversation is starting to confuse me. It’s far too early on a Sunday morning.”
“It’s eleven a.m.”
“Is it?”
“Yup. Not exactly the crack of dawn.” I give his pajama pants a meaningful look.
He glances down at them and back up at me. “Don’t you have a dance class to be getting ready for?”
“Going. Going!” I turn around, then stop and look over my shoulder. “Maddie will be here soon. She’s coming to class with me.”
Dad groans. “Oh God. I’ve seen Maddie dance once – it wasn’t pretty.”
I laugh. “She’s watching. Something about wanting to see the Hot British Guy.”
“And how would she know there’s a British guy that’s hot in your class?”
I really wasn’t meant to say that out loud.
“Perhaps she bugged the dance studio? Who knows?” I try, smiling sweetly.
“You know, Abbi, I’m pretty sure I should be rolling up my sleeves–”
“After changing out of your pajama pants, preferably.”
“Well, okay. As I was saying, darling, I think I should be rolling up my sleeves and marching to this class with you to check out this hot British guy for myself.”
“That could be kinda embarrassing.” I flinch. “And totally unnecessary, I might add.”
“But I don’t feel the need to. I find myself quite liking the fact you’ve described a guy as ‘hot’.”
I turn back to him. “I never said I did that.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
“Well, no. But.” I fidget. “I. Yeah.”
“Like I said, I quite like it.”
“That’s not normal, Dad.”
“Perhaps not, but the fact you’ve described someone that way after what you went through makes me feel like a part of my baby girl is still in there. And the fact you’ve said it to Maddie, she’s going to class with you, and you’ll no doubt spend your next ten phone calls running up my phone bill by talking about him, makes me insanely happy.”
“Dad, I’m depressed, not blind. And is that permission to run up the phone bill?”
“What? No. I didn’t say you could. I said you would.”
I laugh, cross the room and bend down to hug him. He rubs my back gently, and I press my lips to his cheek. “Love you, Daddy.”
“And I love you, Princess. Now go and get ready to torment the hot British guy , and I’ll send the firecracker up when she gets here.”
He pats my arm and smiles. I leave the living room to the shuffle of his paper, grab my leotard from the dryer in the utility room, and head upstairs to find my tights. Just as Dad said, on the back of my chair in my room.
I change into my ballet clothes and sweep my hair into a slick bun. My eyes are clearer and brighter than I’ve seen in a long time. There’s more color in my cheeks and my hair is shinier. I glance at the scales, wondering whether or not I want to step on them. After all the weight I lost when I was first in St. Morris’s, it’s been a battle to put it back on, and even though my curves are slowly reappearing, it’s still daunting.
I pull off my pants and step on the glass surface before I can think any more into it. The red numbers on the digital screen fluctuate slightly, and I draw my bottom lip between my teeth as I wait for them to stop. Then they do. And I smile. I’ve avoided the scales for two weeks and it was worth it, because I’ve gained three pounds.
Those three pounds are everything to me.
Maddie’s laughter drifts up the stairs, and I step back into my sweatpants and go down to meet her.
“Oh good. You’re rea dy. Let’s go. I want to see Hot British Guy,” she says as soon as my feet hit the bottom stair.
“He has a name, y’know,” I mutter, grabbing my bag.
“Really? You never mentioned it,” she teases me.
“Oh, ha.” I open the door. “You do realize my Sunday class is three hours long, right?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Then you, Abigail Jenkins,
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