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Nate.
I frown at myself.
Don’t even think about him.
You’ll only be tempted to see him again.
But I can’t. Memories of our time together hit me harder than a tidal wave. When I clench my jaw, I think about the strong line of his. When I squeeze my hands closed, I think about the warmth of his palms. When I hold my breath in frustration, all I can think about is the way his deep kisses left me breathless and yearning for more.
Stop it.
Stop it right now, or I swear to god I’ll start crying.
“A-Ma?”
“Hmm?”
“Can you please call the doctor for me?”
She springs out of her chair in an instant. “Why? You feel sick? Pain anywhere?”
“No, I’m fine. I just want to talk to the doctor to see if I’m cleared to leave. We can’t afford to be here.”
A-Ma hits me—not hard—across the arm. “Money no problem. Take care you first.”
“We can’t…” I grumble through clenched teeth. The sting of tears makes the throbbing in my head even worse. “We can’t pay for a room like this, A-Ma. Tell the doctor to check me over. I need to get back to the academy as soon as possible.”
Her lip quivers as she shrinks back. I’ve never seen A-Ma look so defeated and small before.
“Stop it,” she says.
“Stop what?”
“Being selfish.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Mainly because it hurts just to think about doing.
“How on earth am I being selfish? I’m thinking about you. You’re already working so hard. I don’t want add a hospital bill to your worries.”
A-Ma curses in her mother tongue, her words sharp and exasperated. “I won’t care about the fucking bills if my only daughter is bedridden for the rest of her life. Don’t you understand? You’re all I have here. I know you’ve been pushing yourself for my sake, but none of it’s going to matter if you run yourself into the ground. What if something even worse happened to you? What if you smacked your head so hard that it left you brain dead?”
“A-Ma, I—”
“No. I’m the one talking. You shut up and listen to your mother.” She scoops my hand up in hers and squeezes my fingers. A-Ma’s shaking, holding back her anger and fear. “You are my little girl. You hear me? My little girl. If something bad happens to you—I don’t even want to think about it, A-Ying.”
I swallow. I know A-Ma’s being serious when she calls me by my Chinese name. She rarely uses it unless she’s seconds away from losing her mind.
It takes some effort, but I manage to squeeze her hand back.
“I don’t want to think about it either.”
“Promise me you’ll stay until you’re fully recovered, okay? There’s no point in dancing if you’re not healthy enough to do it. Promise me.”
I don’t want to say yes. The bare-bones insurance I’m required to carry isn’t great. Even with it, I’m dreading receiving the hospital bill and the fee for the ambulance in the mail. This is going to set us back by several months, and I don’t know if I’ll even make a dent with the measly hours I work.
The thought of quitting dancing altogether has crossed my mind before. All the expenses of buying and replacing pointe shoes, commuting to and from the academy—it’d all go away if I stop. I’m underqualified for most jobs, but as long as I find something with full-time hours and the possibility of overtime, I could make things work.
Maybe following my dreams is stupid.
An immediate weight of guilt crushes my chest.
All these years, A-Ma has been nothing but supportive. She worked three jobs at one point to pay for my ballet lessons. If I quit now, all her effort will have been in vain. I think A-Ma will be understanding but disappointed.
And I can’t bear the thought of her being let down by me.
I’d be letting myself down too.
Being able to dance—it’s all I’ve ever known. Ballet’s hard work. There isn’t a day I go home and my muscles aren’t tired and my feet aren’t sore. But I’m tired and sore in a good way. Runners get their runner’s high the same way I get my dancer’s high.
There’s something exhilarating about being in the moment, performing beneath hot spotlights in front of a crowd who’s come to see you shine. There’s no room for mistakes, only perfection. Hours upon hours of practice spent in the studio culminate to that single performance. The audience doesn’t know the hard work that goes into every turn, every movement of the arms. When someone whispers “I could do that,” I smile, knowing that I’ve made ballet look so effortless and simple when it’s truly hell on tiptoes.
If I don’t have dance, I don’t have much of anything.
“I promise,” I finally whisper.
A-Ma kisses my fingers, a relieved smile stretching across her lips. “Thank you, A-Ying.”
