A wave of deep, hearty laughter rolled through the ranks of the bikers.
Dad frowned, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”
Rick shook his head, pulling his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “We all saw the video, brother.”
My stomach performed a sickening somersault. The video. Several enthusiastic parents had recorded our disastrous ballet routine. In the digital age, the footage had obviously spread like wildfire.
Dad groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, sweet Jesus. No.”
The bikers chuckled again. I scrutinized their faces. I expected to see mockery or disdain. Instead, their expressions were remarkably warm. Some looked intensely amused, but others looked profoundly moved.
Rick pointed a thick, tattooed finger directly at Dad. “Relax, Baryshnikov. Your terrible footwork isn’t what had the guys talking.”
Dad dropped his hands, folding his arms defensively across his chest. “Then what was it?”
Rick’s gaze shifted from Dad to me. The humor faded from his eyes, replaced by a deep, resonant respect. “It was the look on Emily’s face.”
The smile instantly vanished from Dad’s face. Mine mirrored his. The street fell into a hushed, reverent silence.
“We watched that video,” Rick continued, his voice carrying over the quiet neighborhood, “and we didn’t see a joke. We saw a father finally showing up for his daughter when she needed him the most.”
