Page 216 of One Wild Wish

I couldn’t be sure it was Aunt Sarah in the photo, but the resemblance between the two girls was too distinct to ignore.

“I’m pretty sure it’s them.” I nearly plastered my face against the glass.

“Your mother looks so happy,” he said quietly, as though to himself. Then louder, “How did a woman who danced and listened to Depeche Mode become cold and rigid?”

He took the words right out of my mouth. His arm brushing mine stole the breath from my lungs. I wanted to slide my arm under his, link our elbows, but he still seemed distant. Dissecting his strange vibes was as appealing as analyzing Mary Hamilton’s descent into Frost Queen.

I scanned the case for other photos of her, unsuccessfully. “This confirms she danced here, at least. Probably often. They wouldn’t have immortalized her picture if it had been just a few times.” I straightened and glanced down the narrow hall. The piano had stopped. Young girls filed from a room, ballet slippers on their feet. Parents waited on a couple benches. “It’s time to do some recon.”

I marched toward the classroom, August following. Chatter from excited girls echoed off the ceiling. A boy left the room in tights, twirling toward his father, who clapped and beamed. The warmth filling the hall was a contrast to the Tenderloin’s filth and stench outside. Flowers blooming in a barren field. We waited for the kids to leave.

August stayed quiet, hands shoved in his pockets. He leaned on the wall, away from me.

I chewed my cheek.

An older woman sporting a prim bun exited last, her slender frame accentuated in her leotard, pink tights, and black skirt. She was pushing seventy with a body a thirty-year-old would covet. I glanced at August, unsure how to approach her.

As teens, he and I would perform different roles when investigating. He’d use his smarts to lead us to potential suspects, and I’d play the part of school reporter or Navy SEAL or international spy. Tonight he hung back, broody stance in place, letting me lead the way. Considering our strange reunion, it shouldn’t be surprising, but I wasn’t sure what role to play.

Unwilling to let the moment slip by, I stepped into the ballet instructor’s path. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find information on a girl who took dance classes in the late eighties. Have you worked here long?”

She studied August, a slow perusal that had me wanting to send out a cougar alert. To me, she said, “I’ve been here since the center opened, but I’m in a rush. Come back next week, same time, and I can answer your questions.”

Nope. No way. A week wouldn’t cut it. That suitcase didn’t land in my lap the day before my birthday only for my search to lose steam now. I motioned to August. “My friend here isn’t feeling well. I told him not to order the refried beans, but he’s stubborn as a mule and can’t resist them. If he doesn’t find a bathroom soon, well…it might get ugly. If you don’t mind showing us the way, I can ask you a few questions as we walk?”

Her next glance at August was less cougar and more repelled. I bit my tongue to keep from cackling. He cradled his stomach and winced, playing along, but there was no missing how his lips compressed and the veins in his neck strained against his skin. He didn’t like his given role. It made me enjoy it even more.

She huffed out a breath. “Follow me, then. Whoever built this space didn’t have a clue how often kids need bathroom breaks.”

She strutted ahead, feet slightly turned out, her perfect posture envy inducing. August shot me dirty looks, hand still pressed to his stomach. I winked and mouthed, Suck it up , then hurried to keep up with the ballerina.

“Do you have ledgers here?” I asked, trying to match her elegant stride. “Lists of who took classes back then?”

A prim huff escaped her. “That would imply a level of organization.”

Disappointment deflated my posture, but I didn’t let up. “There’s a photo in the glass case, near the entrance—one of three girls doing a jazz slide or something. Do you know which one I mean?”

She took a sharp right down another hall, arms swinging, shoulders back. “Those would be the Sunshine Girls.”

“Sunshine Girls?”

She stopped abruptly and pointed to two doors in an alcove. “Bathroom is there.”

August, never breaking character, offered a pained smile. I muffled my laugh with a cough.

The ballerina cocked her head at him, another long perusal taking him in from head to toe. “You’re August Cruz.”

He froze mid-step toward the bathroom. I tried to keep my eyeballs from popping out of my head.

Still hamming up his upset-stomach performance, he winced but nodded. “I am.”

She planted her hands on her slim hips and shook her head. “Well, I never… I’m a fan, of your early work in particular. ‘Girl with the Black Heart’ played on repeat in my home during an unpleasant divorce.”

Of course August met a music fan while pretending to have the shits. Of course she mentioned the song that immortalized my WTF.

But the fan part was the bigger deal, his successful life coming into focus. He’d always be the boy who’d pluck on his guitar strings, his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration, but this interaction was a reminder how far he’d come.

He was an immense talent, revered around the globe. Not a limelight-bathed superstar chased by paparazzi. More like an undercover celebrity only recognized by true fans. A musician who lived out of a suitcase while touring. I wasn’t sure where’d I’d fit into that life with him. If I’d fit in.