I looked at her. Twelve years old. That particular stillness in her face—the kind that means the answer matters more than she wants it to.
“Wanting to stop isn’t the problem,” I said. “Everybody wants to stop. The question is what you do the next morning.”
She nodded slow. “And what did you do?”
“I showed up.”
“Here?”
“Eventually.”
She took that in. Then she walked to the second row on her own and stood there, waiting. Her chin wasn’t tucked. Not all the way up either. Just level.
The others arrived in a wet, noisy rush. Shoes squeaking. Voices overlapping. Someone’s little brother tried to slip in behind them and got hauled back by the sleeve.
At 7:58 I stepped onto the mat. I left the clipboard on the chair. I didn’t need it.
Browse Area Rugs
“Find a spot,” I said.
“We’re starting with balance.”
They spread out. Marisol took the second row, left side, where Jade could see her. I watched them settle. Twelve girls, one empty mat, the lights still off overhead.
I flipped the switch.
The room came alive in that flat fluorescent way. Ordinary. Bright. Mine.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s begin.”
