Hanley is done with dance classes for the summer. I thought she was finished after her recital, but there were still two more classes afterward, for some unknown reason. Most of the parents ditched the final two classes, but I still fought traffic and time to get Hanley to class. Why? I’m not sure. My parents were raised with frugal Depression Era values and did their best to imprint those values on me, so maybe I wanted to make sure the tuition H’s parents paid wouldn’t be wasted. Or, maybe I wanted to impress upon H that it’s important to finish what you’ve started. Or, more likely, I couldn’t think of anything else for us to do and why not stick to the usual schedule? At any rate, there was only one other girl in Hanley’s class who also showed up for the last two classes. I was hoping the two girls would get forty-five minutes of special attention from their teacher. Unfortunately, other classes also had fewer kids, so three of the teachers decided to combine their classes. But Hanley loved being in a new class with older kids, as well as having new teacher to impress, so it all worked out for the best.
After the final class, she pointed to two girls–neither of whom were in her class–and said, “Those girls have tap shoes.”
I had no idea she knew what tap shoes were. “Do they?” I asked while passing her a shirt to wear over her leotard.
“Yes,” she replied while squirming into her shirt. “When can I get tap shoes?”
“I don’t think you’re going to get tap shoes, Miss.” I said. I’ve taken to calling her Miss, like a British nanny.
“Can we go buy tap shoes?” Hanley asked.
“No, Miss. Buying tap shoes isn’t on the agenda for today. Put your shoes on, please, and we’ll go to the park.”
While she put on her shoes, I heard Hanley whisper to herself. “I don’t know how I’m going to get tap shoes.”