Star Promise (12 page)

A dance class full of ramped-up little girls wasn’t exactly my scene, but it would make a nice change from Saturday mornings at the office. It was Bridget’s day, and I was prepared to endure anything to make sure she enjoyed it.

I could ignore junior’s skittish mood. Containing Charli was harder. I found her in the bathroom. At first it looked like she was fixing her hair, then I realised she was just trying to keep busy.

“What if she doesn’t like it?” She fluffed her hands through her hair, giving her a reason to pick up the brush again. “The other girls will be way ahead of her.”

I stooped down to rest my chin on her shoulder. “She’ll be fine,” I assured her. “No worries, okay?”

Charli nodded at me through the mirror. She looked calm but her body was tense. “I just want it to go well.”

If it didn’t, I got the impression that Charlotte was going to take it much harder than Bridget. I spun her around by the shoulders and forced her to look at me. “What’s really the matter?”

She tried to shake her head but I held her firm. “You were never that kid, Adam,” she said, poking me in the chest with the hairbrush.

“What kid?”

“The weird, awkward kid who never gave a damn about fitting in because she was too busy being weird.”

I smiled. “Sounds like my kind of kid.”

Charli pulled my hand away from her face. “What would you know about it?” she asked. “You were Mr Popular, probably from the very first day of kindergarten.”

There wasn’t a reply I could give that would make her feel better so I stayed quiet. If I’d been the most socially inept kid ever to set foot in the playground I still would’ve been popular. I was Ryan Décarie’s younger brother.

The brush bounced into the sink as she dropped it down on the counter. “I was that kid,” she said quietly. “And I don’t want Bridget to go through the same torment. We’re supposed to look after her heart. Not throw her to the wolves.”

We’d done a great job of protecting her to that point, mainly because we’d kept her all to ourselves. I didn’t need to explain that isolating her was just as harmful as any bite the wolves could deliver. Charli already knew it.

“I’m imagining a room full of miniature Beautifuls,” she confessed.

“They were the weird ones, Coccinelle,” I told her. “Not you.”

“Adam, I carried a wooden box of wishes around with me until I was five.”

I slipped my arm around her and hauled her in close. “That’s endearing, not weird.”

“I also went through a phase of planting feathers in the hope of growing ducks,” she added. “Tell me that’s endearing.”

I still smiled. “Okay, a little weird.”

She pulled away and groaned, slapping her palm against her forehead. “See what I mean?”

“Look, as far as I know, Bridget hasn’t planted any feathers,” I reasoned. “She loves dolls and sparkles and pretty dresses.” I was rambling now, and couldn’t seem to stop. “And princesses – all things pink and fluffy. She’s a perfectly well-adjusted little girl who’s going to fit right in.”

I nearly had her. The crease on Charli’s forehead disappeared and she almost nodded. Then our daughter appeared in the doorway of the bathroom and blew my pep talk to smithereens.

“Can we go to the dancing school now?” she asked.

Her sweet little voice didn’t quite match her appearance. Bridget had decided to accessorise the simple but cute ballet outfit her mother had dressed her in. She was now sporting a flashing bunny ear headband, one of my ties and the gaudy blinged-up galoshes that Bente had made her the day before. Topping off the look was Treasure, looking every bit the murder victim as Bridget clutched her by the neck.

The moan that escaped Charlotte sounded like one of fear. “What do you know about ducks, Bridge?” she asked.

Bridget grabbed Treasure’s hand, bending the doll’s arm at an odd angle. “They go ‘quack quack quack’,” she sang.

I leaned close to Charli and whispered, “See? Endearing and sweet.”

“And if you feed them lemonade, they blow up,” said Bridget, adding a theatrical “kaboom” at the end that made us both jump.

“Great,” drawled Charli. “Not weird at all,” she grumbled.

Ella Daniels’s dance studio was an unassuming little shopfront in the Garment District. Arriving on time, we followed the trail of little girls filing through the door and introduced ourselves to a young woman behind the reception desk.

“Oh, yes.” She beamed at Bridget. “Miss Ella is expecting you.”

Her tone was kind, but that didn’t stop Bridget from wedging herself between Charli and me as if she needed protecting. Realistically, she was on her own at that point. With the exception of the boots, we had stripped her of all props before we left home. Toning down her outfit was the most protection we could offer.

“Are you shy?” asked the girl.

Bridget didn’t reply.

“She’ll be okay.” Charli didn’t sound the least bit believable.

“Of course she will,” beamed the girl, trying to reassure Bridget with a stun gun smile and a hand on her shoulder. “Come. I’ll show you around.”

The first thing I noticed about the room she led us into was how big it seemed. I then noticed that the far wall was entirely covered with mirrors, and that the room really wasn’t big at all. The second thing to catch my eye was Bente’s sister, Ivy. In fairness she would’ve been impossible to miss, especially when she boomed out Charlotte’s name and rushed toward us.

I mumbled from the corner of my mouth, “What’s she doing here?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Malibu must dance here.”

I’d never met Malibu Denison before, but I knew she was a whole bag of trouble. She was Ryan’s new archenemy, and after just a minute in her company, I understood why.

“I hate those dumb baby shoes,” she barked, pointing at Bridget’s boots. “You can’t wear them to ballet.”

My little girl shrank before my eyes, cowering behind me like a puppy.

“Shush,” ordered Ivy, covering her wretched daughter’s mouth with her hand. “She can wear whatever she wants to.”

Malibu shrugged her away. “You’re not dancing with my friends.”

At least Ivy had the good manners to appear embarrassed. With a flick on the butt, she sent her kid off to join the girls that she’d forbidden Bridget from dancing with.

“I didn’t know Bridget did ballet,” she said.

“It’s her first day today,” replied Charli. “She’s nervous.”

“She’ll settle in.” Ivy smiled awkwardly at me. “The first day is always the hardest.”

I tried to smile back but it wasn’t easy. I had Bridget clinging onto my side for dear life, and her mother crushing the bones in my hand.

Then things got worse.

The studio’s policy of no parents in the classroom wasn’t something Charli was comfortable with. As much as I tried to convince her that Bridget would survive an hour without us, she wouldn’t budge.

I wasn’t going to win, but thankfully I didn’t need to try. When Ella arrived, she introduced herself to Bridget and invited us to watch from the sidelines. “She’ll be more confident with you here.”

Charli shot me a triumphant smirk before thanking her.

Ella was nothing like her husband, Grayson. He was loud, rude and mouthy. She was a softly spoken ballerina with a pretty smile and impeccable manners. Maybe he’d won her in a raffle.

Charli crouched to Bridget’s level. “Just have fun, okay?” She fussed with her hair. “And dance with whoever you want to.”

Bridget nodded and took off to join Malibu and her posse.

I turned to Ella. “Are the boots going to be a problem?” I asked. “She’s rather attached to them.”

Ella let out a quiet giggle. “We’re not the Bolshoi, Adam.”

They were most definitely not the Bolshoi.

Ella’s voice was small and totally lacking in authority. The problem was, her charges were also small and lacking in authority. None of them seemed to pay her a skerrick of attention when she gave instruction. It was pure anarchy.

“This isn’t going to work, Charlotte,” I murmured from the corner of my mouth.

For the first time all day, she agreed with me. “Malibu is running the show,” she noted.

It was sad but true. Only a few girls were watching Ella’s demonstrations at the front of the room. The rest were too busy down the back hanging off the little red-headed wretch’s every word. “The dumb girl has baby boots,” she teased, making her posse giggle. If Bridget heard, she didn’t let on. For once in her life, she was behaving, twirling around at the front of the room with a couple of other girls.

I’d always considered my fuse to be longer than most, but it was coming dangerously close to being lit with every word out of Malibu’s mouth. Charli sat beside me with her hand on my knee, as if holding me back. When the horrid child realised that Bridget wasn’t reacting to her taunts, she moved her little gang closer.

“Eyes to the front, ladies,” Ella pointlessly demanded. “I want to see dancing.”

“You can’t dance,” spat Malibu.

Bridget didn’t reply but she did turn around. Her blue eyes found mine and I instantly knew she was comforted by it. “Are you okay, baby?” I asked in French. “We can go if you want to.”

“
Non
,” she replied. “I want to stay.”

“Ignore them.”

“I will,” she said remarkably strongly.

Monster Malibu took immediate offense to Bridget’s foreign reply. “You can’t talk fairy words,” she barked. “I know fairy words. Ryan called some fairies on the phone and I talked to them.”

I thought back to the ridiculous phone call we’d received from Ryan a few weeks earlier. Charli remembered too. “The sunflower conversation,” she mumbled.

“You’re not a fairy girl,” she added. “Only Ryan knows them.”

“Yeah,” agreed the annoying little brunette standing next to her.

I’d had enough. My plan was to snatch my daughter and run. Charlotte had other ideas. As I tried to stand, she yanked me back down. “Wait,” she told me. “Bridget’s got this.”

I don’t know where her sudden change of heart had come from, but I had no choice but to trust it. Bridget was essentially a miniature version of Charli, and if she had a game plan, chances were Bridget did as well.

“Ry is my uncle,” announced Bridget far too proudly.

“He’s going to be my uncle too,” Malibu retorted.

I made a mental note to call my brother and congratulate him. He’d surely be thrilled to know Malibu was laying claim.

The brunette minion put a hand on a hip. “Yeah,” she concurred. “
Her
uncle.”

Whether she realised it or not, Malibu Denison had just made a serious mistake. Bridget objected to Bente making the moves on Ryan. There was no way in hell she’d let Malibu muscle in.

The good ballerinas continued their uncoordinated twirling at the front while Ella sweetly complimented their technique. The bad ballerinas stood off to the side in a huddle, and my kid was right in the middle of them.

Gone was the shy little girl who’d walked in clinging to my side. In a surge of bravery, Bridget opened her mouth and let Malibu Denison know exactly what she thought of her, and every word of it was in French.

“Is that fairy words?” asked the brunette, puzzled.

Malibu played it cool. “Yeah,” she conceded unwillingly. “She knows fairy words.”

Perhaps impressed, a new little bully chimed in. “How do you say the teacher’s name like a fairy?”

Bridget looked across at me before replying. I knew she was up to no good. She knew it too, which explained why I couldn’t hold her gaze.

“
Tête de guimauve
,” announced Bridget knowingly.

“
Tête de guimauve
, Miss Ella!” yelled Malibu. “That’s fairy words.”

“Lovely, Malibu,” sang the oblivious teacher. “Keep dancing, please.”

Despite the fact that they all botched the pronunciation, the rogue ballerinas took turns shouting it out. I wasn’t the only one who noticed Bridget’s triumphant expression every time they did it. Charli caught on in an instant. “What did she tell them to say?” she asked.

I leaned in close. “Your kid just trained her new pets to call the teacher a marshmallow head.”

I realised a long time ago that Adam and I had completely different burdens when it came to fretting about Bridget’s wellbeing.

I worried about her heart being broken and whether or not she’d find friends and be happy. Adam’s concerns were much more long-sighted. He wished that she’d grow up to be good and make wise choices – which is why having her slide off the rails the tiniest bit tended to send him into a blind panic.

Bridget was smart, and stunts like outsmarting Malibu Denison proved it. At an age when most kids would’ve run crying to their parents, or settled it with a good thumping, Bridget chose to bide her time. It wasn’t a one off, and that’s what bothered her father. We’d been home for hours before it rated a mention, which could only mean that he’d been stewing about it all afternoon.

Some of the best conversations we had took place while changing the sheets on our bed. It was our version of pillow talk.

“I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Bridget versus Malibu,” he told me. “I don’t know what to do about that.”

I tossed a pillow across the bed. “You don’t have to do anything. She did a good job by herself.”

“You know she’s travelling way beyond the norm, right?” he asked, stretching his arm. “Completely off the charts.”

I studied him for a moment, trying to work out if he was scared or annoyed by the notion. “Does it bother you?”

“She’s four years old, Charli,” he said, doing the Adam dodge. “What will she be like at fifteen?”

“Dangerous, I’d say.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want that for her.”

I pointed toward the door. “You’d better go and pull her wings off now then, before it’s too late.”

He scooped the quilt off the floor and dumped it on the bed. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he grumbled. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Making assumptions was easy. The simple truth was that the future that he was determined to prevent was my past. When I’d been the unruly teenager he’d found it endearing, but the mere notion of Bridget acting out made him break into a cold sweat.