Then, an absurd, reckless idea bloomed in my mind.
Before logic or fear could extinguish it, I walked into the kitchen, slapped the flyer onto the counter, and blurted out, “Would you perform this with me?”
Dad choked on a mouthful of black coffee, sputtering as he grabbed a napkin. He stared at the flyer, then back at me, his eyes wide with incredulity. “Ballet? You want me to do ballet?”
I couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Yeah. Exactly that.”
He stared at me in profound silence. I braced myself for the gentle letdown, the familiar litany of excuses. He was too busy. He had a club meeting. He didn’t dance.
Instead, he wiped his mouth and asked, “Do I get comprehensive lessons first, or am I winging it?”
I blinked, stunned. “Wait… is that a yes?”
A slow, terrifying grin spread across his bearded face. “It’s a yes, kiddo.”
I shrieked so loudly my mother dropped a serving spoon onto the linoleum floor, rushing in to see if I was hurt.
The ensuing weeks were a masterclass in hilarious disaster. Dad was remarkably, catastrophically terrible at ballet. He possessed the grace of a startled rhinoceros. He routinely crushed my toes beneath his heavy boots. He was completely incapable of distinguishing his stage left from his stage right. During our attempts at a simple pirouette, he nearly toppled backward into the drywall.
