Dear Little Deaf Boy

Chapter 4-Happy Dance

Chapter 4-Happy Dance

I sat on my bed, struggling to paint my toenails. My room was nearly pitch black; only beams of sunlight slipped through the blinds, striping the walls in orange. Music played soft in the background.

I never minded the dark. After a while, it became easier than the light—easier not to see the piles of laundry, the notebooks scattered across the floor, the shopping bags I hadn't even gone through yet. In the dark, no one could see me slipping.

In the dark, I didn't have to be the perfect girl with the awards, the perfect pirouette, the Pines name to uphold.

Truthfully, my life wasn't a complete mess, but there were things I had stuffed in the closet, literally and otherwise.

I peeked at my toes. A streaky disaster. Just like the piles around me. It was fine. I'd have the salon fix it tomorrow.

My eyes adjusted slowly. Luckily, I'd already taken out a few bulbs. Full brightness felt unbearable these days.

How long was grief supposed to last? Some people said it never ended. Maybe it just became part of the routine.

I flopped back on the bed, pillow over my face.

"Kinny, your dad's on the phone."

Just great.

I extended my hand without moving the pillow. Hazel dropped the house phone into my palm. The cold plastic shocked my skin. My fingers found the hang-up button. Click. Done.

Hazel rolled her eyes. The phone rang again. She shoved it toward me.

"You've reached the Pines residence," I began sweetly. "Sorry we can't answer your call right now—"

"Kinny!" Hazel snapped.

I groaned. "Fine." I pressed the phone to my ear. "Kinsley speaking."

If you haven't noticed, my father and I don't have the best relationship. I don't see him much and he doesn't see me. He's always traveling. Hazel is my parent by proxy, though she's a poor substitute—twenty-two, dropped out of college, anthropology or something, more interested in Netflix than my grades. I don't know why I'm the problem child when he's hoarding a leech.

"Kinsley." My father's voice was clipped, the way it always got when he meant business. "Your school called again. Do you understand how that reflects on me as a parent?"

I clenched my jaw. Good thing he couldn't see me roll my eyes.

A parent. Him. Who would have known.

"You go to school for one reason, and one reason only: to learn. Instead I hear about outbursts, missed work, grades slipping. This is unacceptable."

What's the point of private school if things aren't kept private?

"You are a senior. By spring, you are supposed to graduate. That means focus. Discipline. Your grades and your behavior will improve—or you can forget about Nationals this year. I want to see measurable progress by early spring."

My heart stopped. Nationals? He can't seriously be threatening Nationals.

"Yes," he said, steady as stone. "Until your academic progress and conduct are corrected, you will not compete. Dance is not your future. It is a hobby. It is a privilege. Your future is your education, your reputation, this family's name. And if you risk that, privileges are revoked."

I sat up, polish brush rolling to the floor. Nationals is everything. That's how dancers get scouted. He can't be serious.

"That's enough, Kinsley." His tone never wavered. "You will not argue. You will not shout. You will do what is required, or you will not dance. Understood?"

The silence pressed harder than yelling ever could.

"Daddy, please," I whispered. "Dance is all that I have."

"You mistake me, Kinsley. Dance is not all that you have. And happiness is not the point. Your future is. And if you can't secure it, I will. Even if that means pulling you from that school and sending you abroad. London if necessary. Australia if I must. You will graduate with structure, whether you like it or not."

My throat tightened. He was serious. He always was. That voice—the boardroom voice. No wonder he was a CEO. No one ever questioned him. Not even his daughter.

"You have until spring," he continued, calm as ever. "Show me improvement, or Nationals is gone. Ballet is gone. Do you understand?"

I wanted to scream. To tell him Nationals wasn't just a competition. It was the competition. The showcase. The one chance to be seen by Juilliard. He refused to even listen.

Instead I muttered, "Yes. I understand."

"Kinsley," he said, softer now. But with him, softer was still iron. "You know I love you."

Jonathan Pines, the man. Jonathan Pines, the father. There was no difference. Except he didn't tell his clients he loved them.

Hazel leaned in, curious, but I lowered the phone, pressed end, and tossed it onto the bed.

"What did he say?" she asked.

I didn't answer. His words burned too deep. My father never bluffed. If he said Nationals was gone, it was gone.

"What did he say?" Hazel pressed again.

I rolled my eyes. "When I'm upset, I don't need a thousand questions. Just... get out of my room, Hazel."

Her expression softened. She seemed to understand maybe for once that I was at a fragile place. She nodded and quietly left, shutting the door behind her.

Alone.

Finally.

The perfect time to cry.