Page 18 of Of Might and Mettle

She raised a brow. “Sure you won’t go back and tell Mamá y Papá?”

He shook his head and passed her a bag of plantain chips. “I’m here for the show.”

She grinned and popped some chips in her mouth, settling back into her seat and leaning her head against Yair’s shoulder. It was encouraging how sometimes he knew her so well, how she would listen to music to calm her nerves and steady herself. Papá had commissioned her a special music box, where a dancer twirled with the tinkling music.

She’d often found herself singing along, like how she hummed with the melody of the music, and wishing that she could be as strong as Maria and the wooden soldier, who defended the kingdom from the invasion. At this point, she would take her pain, her bad days, and her good days, if she could just see how God would use her. If He could only give her a purpose beyond that which Mamá had limited her to.

“¿Estás dormida?” Yair whispered, shrugging his shoulder and moving her head with the motion.

She let out a hum. “No, I’m not sleeping.”

“Tired?”

She sat upright now and shook her head, studying him closely. There was something in his tone, and now the glint in his eye reminded her of when they used to sneak down to the kitchens to steal some quesitos, a flaky pastry with sweet cream cheese folded inside. She narrowed her eyes, though she couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her lips. “What are you thinking in that head of yours, hermano?”

He stood, extending an elbow to her as if he were escorting another noble across the courtyard. She laughed and took his arm. “Where are we going?”

He winked. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

He led her up the darkened aisle, to the back of the theater, before he released her and folded at the hip into an exaggerated bow. “Would you care for a dance?” he asked, glancing up at her.

She laughed. “I think the last time we did this, I stood on your toes.”

“I’m strong enough if you still want to,” he said, laughing. She took his hand, and he swept her into a dance position, her hand on his shoulder and his supporting arm at her waist.

“I remember you being much taller then,” she quipped back as he led her through the first box step of the waltz.

He signaled for a spin, and her dress swirled around her. Her leg caught slightly against the bunching fabric, but she corrected her wobble before coming back from the spin.

The corner of his eyes crinkled in worry. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said sharply. “I just tripped over my dress.”

But though the dance continued, he was much more careful with her, so slow that they even got behind in the music. But that was just as well, as the director had stopped the ballet to remind one of the ballerinas about memorizing the choreography.

He led her through another spin, but he moved too slow, and she tripped over his foot. Her hands hit the carpeted floor, and fire seared across her palms as pain shot up her arms. Something twisted in her shoulder, and a cry escaped her lips.

Yair’s hand touched her back and she flinched away, hissing air between her teeth. “Don’t. Touch. Me,” she said with effort.

Footsteps rumbled as someone came up the aisle, and the gasps of those on stage reached her ears. Her face burned, but more than that, so did her frustration.

“You didn’t spin me right, Yair,” she said. “You were too slow. You don’t need to treat me like I’m fragile. I’m fine—”

Hands gripped her, bringing her to her feet, and stars danced before her eyes at the pain that lanced through her. When she could blink away the stars, she found Mamá’s face in front of her own, and Mamá’s hands wrapped around her shoulders.

“Be gentle, Rosario,” said a deep voice. Papá.

He knelt before her. “Where does it hurt, mija?”

“Shoulder,” she squeezed out. “It’s only sprained—”

“Where? Let me see.” Mamá reached for her again, but when her hand wrapped around Teresa’s elbow, pain seared and Teresa twisted back out of her grip.

“Get the physician,” said Papá to Yair. Though his voice was firm, Teresa heard the fear in his voice. “I’ll take her to her room.”

“And I’ll speak with Cerise,” said Mamá indignantly, though Teresa could see the concern shining in her tearful eyes.

“It’s not her fault,” Teresa ground out. But if Mamá heard her, she was gone out of the theater. “Papá, it’s just a sprain,” she repeated.