Sixteen: Direct Opposites.
“Dance is the hidden language of the soul.”
-Martha Graham
I don't know a lot about dancing, especially not ballet. Everyone in my family has two left feet, even though my sister went through a phase where she thought she'd become a famous hip-hop dancer. We went to see her show, and every step looked like she'd been electrocuted with every movement. But we still gave her flowers and told her she was great. She quit after one season. She's always been fickle that way.
But that's beside the point. You're a much better dancer than my sister. It's just that I felt strange, being in the auditorium among all the well-dressed parents and family members, even though I'd dug up nice clothes and Aunt Sheridan was wearing quiet colors and Uncle Dillon even shaved, and pretending that this was my sister's recital in her dinky middle school auditorium helped me feel less overwhelmed.
I have this really bad habit of thinking that everywhere I go, people are watching me and judging me and scheming up ways to make me miserable. Don't take it the wrong way, because it's not like I thought that about your family, but when I saw your mom and dad and little sister and older sister and two older brothers, I couldn't help the immediate fear that they were going to absolutely hate me.
You always bother me about that; you say that I should expect people to treat me well because that's what I deserve and if I believe that, it's what I will receive. But you hadn't told me that back then, so my stomach was twisting when your dad shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Sam,” he said, smiling at me. He had salt-and-pepper hair and kind gray eyes. “You're Ellery's...”
An open-ended question, empty for me to fill in. "Um, friend," I supplied, resisting the urge to scratch at my neck. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Eshelman."
He didn't tell me to please call him by his first name. I guess he wasn't the type, and neither was your mom. But she was very nice, and she patted my arm as she said hello in a perfectly motherly way that made my gut twist. Her red hair was loud, but it was pulled back into a solemn bun, and she had green eyes like you.
Your brothers, Ed and Evan, weren't as enthusiastic, but I guess that was their job because if I had a little sister I'd be the same way. Emma was nineteen, two years older than you, but she was shorter and had to crane her neck to look me in the eye. She's the kind of sharp girl who catches eyes and breaks hearts, just like my sister. I think they'd get along well.
“Hm, guess Elle was right,” she said, before even introducing herself. “You are cute.”
I guess you're not the only girl in your family who likes making me blush.
Then the only person left was your little sister, who was seven and clinging to your mom's pants, her blonde head peeking around at me.
"This is Erica," said Evan, shooing her into the open. She stared at me for a brown-eyed moment, then dashed over and wrapped her little arms around my legs.
"Hello, Erica," I greeted her. She gave me a gap-toothed grin. It was always so much easier to talk to little kids than adults.
My aunt and uncle decided to step forward and introduce themselves then. At least my aunt did, because she can't handle being silent for more than ten seconds at a time.
“I'm Sheridan,” she boomed, too loud as always. I winced, but your parents only smiled placidly and shook her hand. “And this is my husband, Dillon. It's so nice to meet you.”
