Part 2 – The Day I Learned Why My Daughter Feared Ballet Class
Mara Levin kept one hand on the classroom door as if she were afraid someone might open it behind her.
“What exactly did Derek tell you?” she asked.
The hallway smelled faintly of rosin, floor cleaner, and the sugary vanilla body spray teenage girls seemed to carry in clouds around them. Piano music thudded softly through the closed door, punctuated by the rhythmic scrape of slippers against the studio floor. Rachel Mercer could see her own reflection in the narrow window beside Mara’s shoulder: hospital badge still clipped to her blouse, hair flattened on one side from the drive, eyes wider than she wanted them to be.
“He told me nothing,” Rachel said. “He drives Audrey here. Three times a week. He waits until class is over, then he takes her home.”
Mara’s expression changed in a way Rachel recognized from years of managing people who had bad news and were deciding how much of it to reveal at once. Her mouth tightened first. Then her eyes moved toward the classroom, though Audrey wasn’t among the dancers inside.
