He was watching us intently. "And a one, and a two, lift those legs ladies, developé, bring it to a passé! Control, ladies, control!” His harsh voice bit into my thoughts, cut through the soothing melody of the violin. “Claire Dubois, are you with us?” I nodded, my face reddening, and continued with more fervor then before, punishing my body with each new step.

While I dance, I am always praying to Jesus. I ask him to take away Papa’s thirst for alcohol, but he doesn’t listen. I don’t ask him to make Papa stop beating Maman, because that is not his fault, it’s the whiskey’s. You can only ask Jesus for so much.

I am not a good dancer. I am never picked for anything but the corps during shows, while Lucie was Marie in the Nutcracker twice in a row.

Maman says I must dance because we need the money it brings. She pretends not to notice that Papa spends it all on his drink.

I do not dance because I love to, or because I want to. I dance because I am ten years old, and I am holding my family together.