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Chapter 7--Confetti Poppers For Those That Die

Harper

I got my first package in the mail today. At first, I didn't know what it could be. But then I remembered what Mrs. Sanders had said to me a few days ago. When the post office called a few minutes ago to let me know I have something to pick up, I quickly got out of bed and made my way to the mail room.

"Harper Ross," I say to the man standing behind the counter. He scans his computer, gives me a reassuring nod, and heads back to get me my delivery.

He hands me the large box and I sign onto his clipboard. When I'm finally outside and sitting on a bench, I rip through the tape and open the package. It's early in the morning. Most students with morning classes are heading towards them right now. The campus is mainly empty but I know in an hour or two it'll be buzzing.

I can't help the gasp that escapes my lips when I pull out the new pair of pointe shoes. My heart instantly grows bigger and I stare at the new pair happily. Reaching for my phone, I dial Mrs. Sanders number hoping I wasn't going to wake her.

Pointe shoes are so unbelievably expensive. The funny thing is, they're painful too. The problem I had when growing up and wanting to dance pointe was that I couldn't afford the shoes. Technically, we're only supposed to wear them a few times before changing them out. That also means I've got quite the collection back home. Professional dancers only use their pointe shoes once on stage before getting new ones.

Pointe shoes are how I ended up meeting Vincent's mom. Mrs. Sanders is the sweetest lady and mother I've ever met. She's the teacher at an elementary school in town. A few years ago, just before school started up, I was shopping at the cheapest place I knew to find pointe shoes. It's a big store in the middle of nowhere where people typically find different named brands. To be honest, it's a pretty great place.

Mrs. Sanders was going to buy Vincent new cleats when she saw me eyeing the ballet shoes. "Do you dance?" She asked me sweetly.

My little middle-schooler self was shocked. Granny had always told me not to talk to strangers but the fascination and sincerity in Mrs. Sanders smile had be nodding. "I used to dance," She admitted while looking at the different shoes. "It was a very very long time ago. And I stopped when I started high school."

I stayed quiet, pulling my backpack closer to me. I had babysat for some neighbors several nights to save enough money for my shoes. "What kind of dancing do you do?" Mrs. Sanders asked gingerly.

I looked at her from the corner of my eye. She pulled a cleat off of the wall and stared at it intently. Then she smiled in my direction. I gulped and pulled out the pair of pointe shoes I had been using as long as I could.

Mrs. Sanders instantly frowned. Saying the shoes were worn out is an understatement. To be honest, to this day I don't know how they were still holding together. "Sweetie," Mrs. Sanders looked at me with a frown. "Even I know wearing those would be painful."

"I'm getting new ones," I finally spoke up.

"Here?" She quickly looked over at all the different sized pointe shoes then back at me. "You should be at a ballet store, not this old place." She put the cleat back down on its rack and sat beside me. "Have you ever been to the ballet store here in town?"

"A few times," I answered softly. "With my Granny."

Mrs. Sanders frowned, "Where's your Granny now?"

"Sick," I shrugged hesitantly. I knew better than to talk to a stranger but this lady seemed nice enough. "She can't remember me. I live with the Willows."