Don't Be So Dramatic

Disclaimer: This story contains sensitive themes, including mental health, physical violence, gore, abuse, and suicide.

Admittedly, I struggled to remember Lyla’s name for the first couple of weeks that Barbie and I taught her. After that, I would consistently mix her up with the other dancers. It wasn’t until her second year that her name would remain engrained in my mind. 

It was flu season, so three of the kids were out sick, one was on vacation, and another was performing in his preschool play. That only left Lyla. She was typically late, which was why today, Barbie wanted to stick around in case Lyla would show up. Five minutes into stretches, the studio door cracked open. A mother poked her head inside and revealed a five or six-year-old Lyla clutching her hand and hiding behind her. Barbie and I eased out of our half splits on the pasty floors and painted on our professional grins. Barbie chirped a warm greeting to them, and Lyla’s mother returned the greeting.

“Everyone else is out today, so it’s just going to be us,” Barbie said.

Lyla’s mother gave Lyla a loving farewell and tried to nudge her into the studio. Her round doe eyes widened like she was caught in headlights. Her little hands and feet plastered onto the walls of the threshold to keep her mother from pushing her inside as Lyla repeatedly screamed in a panicked protest. After a moment, her mother gave up and gave us an embarrassed apology before exiting the studio with her tearful daughter. 

Barbie sighed, “Oh, well. Time to go home, I guess.”

“Can’t say I’m disappointed,” I chuckled. “I didn’t want to listen to that damn recital song again.”

She bubbled with laughter. “C’mon, Lea, the kids love it!”

Before I packed my things, I left the studio to use the bathroom before my drive home. Maneuvering through the furniture in the lobby, I heard muffled yelling and leather repeatedly snapping against skin from behind the bathroom door. 

If this had happened now, I could’ve gotten my phone out and recorded. I could’ve called someone. I could’ve… I don’t know. I could’ve done anything else. 

The bathroom went quiet. A moment later, the door opened. Lyla’s mother practically dragged her by her arm out the door as tears spewed from Lyla’s now puffy eyes. Her mother pulled her through the back door that was directly next to the bathroom before either of them could have seen me. 

“You alright, Lea?” 

I looked over my shoulder to see Barbie entering the lobby. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

I stumbled over to her and whispered as if anyone was around, “I think Lyla’s mom just beat her. Should we call the police or CPS?”

She paused. For a second, it almost looked like she was fighting off a smirk. “They won’t do anything.” Her voice echoed as she entered the stairwell, “My daddy used to dole out whoopings all the time when we were bad. It’s a shame, though—the baby was just a little frightened.”

I tried to ice the stinging, throbbing sounds of what I had just heard and seen with Barbie’s words. I remembered that my friends’ parents would hit them growing up, and they turned out fine. I still couldn’t help but think of that evening every week when I would see Lyla, though. After the fact, I’d even searched for her mother’s name in our records. 

Mira, the name breathed into my mind, soft and airy as I looked at it in the Word document. She seems nothing like a Mira. 

As years went on, the anxiety attached to the memory began to numb. I was promoted from assistant teacher and began teaching classes on my own. I took Lyla’s budding skill and potential as a sign that everything was okay and an excuse to forget about what had happened.

One day, I was walking down the sidewalk to the dance building. I noticed a red Camry subtly shaking in the lane of parked cars in my peripheral vision. Lyla and a little boy, who looked older than her, sat in the backseat. She was about nine at the time, so he had to be ten or eleven. I can’t say he was her brother, although I’d seen him with her and her mother before. He looked different from them. They were brown-skinned, and he was olive with a pointier nose. 

There wasn’t an adult in the car with the kids. They were in a tug of war over a bottle of soda. Before the toil could go on for longer, he slammed his fist into her jaw hard enough to send her head into the window and make her release the drink. 

“Go to class, retard!” he barked. 

I felt myself shrinking while watching her face scrunch up. She began to cry and left the car, still receiving insults from the boy. I called for her, rushing over to pull her and her little blue dance bag into an embrace. Upon seeing me, the boy quieted down and avoided my eyes when I stared into the car. 

Inside, I gave Lyla some time to get water and fix herself up in the bathroom. Then, I told the other kids to start stretching without me. I called her mother at the front desk and told her what happened. I could still see the Camry from the window. While Mira was explaining to me that “Maxwell (the boy) is used to being rough when he’s with his brothers”, she appeared within the window’s view as well. We ended the call. Then, she opened the driver’s door, took an umbrella from it, opened Maxwell’s door, and proceeded to beat him with the umbrella as passersby awkwardly peered at them. When I told Barbie, she informed me that it would make both of the kids stronger when they got older. 

I finally managed to get Lyla to audition for our dance company when she was fourteen. Her performances had started to become shaky, and she struggled to memorize combinations, but this was typical amongst our teens, especially as they moved up through the class levels.

Audition Day rolled around a couple weeks later. I immediately regretted asking her to try out. Throughout the three minutes that she participated in the audition, she stationed herself in the back of the studio, stumbled out of pirouettes, forgot most of the combinations, and constantly eyeballed the other dancers to check if she was correctly doing everything. When the first song ended, she snatched her water bottle and bag and stormed out of the door. 

I didn’t see her again for two years. When she returned, it was only for a month or two, but I enjoyed seeing her come back to try dancing again. I had hoped she had finally grown out of her anxious phase, but she was still shaky and quiet. All I saw of her were her erratic movements and shy grins. She didn’t speak to anyone before or after. 

At the end of the month, she didn’t show up for a class. When Ms. Barnsley and I were shutting the studio down for the night, I heard a knock at the Peach Street entrance, which I had just locked. I opened it and was taken aback by Mira standing on the other side. Her dark eyes were glossed over with preoccupation. I told her that class had already ended. 

“I know,” she said. “Lyla never came back to the car.”

I furrowed my eyebrows. “She never came to class. I thought she was out sick.”

She tilted her head. “No. I dropped her off here ten minutes before class at 6:47.”

A brief silence sat between us. 

“Have you called her?”

She grew agitated and nodded, her movements frigid. “Yes! She won’t pick up the phone.”

We asked the security guards if they had seen Lyla, but they hadn’t. I suggested that Lyla might have met up with some friends or a boyfriend and ran off with them, but Mira revealed that Lyla didn’t have any friends or a boyfriend. Mira didn’t receive any news about Lyla’s whereabouts from their relatives either when she tried calling them. Twenty minutes passed when we decided to call the police. Ms. Barnsley and I helped them and Mira search for Lyla. After a couple of hours, I started heading for the interstate to go home and called Mira to persuade her into getting some rest for the night as well. 

“If she ran away, she’ll probably return home tomorrow or the day after,” I reassured her. “Did you two have a falling out or something?”

A sniffle buzzed through the phone, “No. She seemed a little sad about something, but I didn’t think she’d run off. She’s not the type. She’s not bad like that.”

“You don’t know what she was sad about?”

“No. You know, she gets sad sometimes, and I usually just let her have her time to herself in her room. Then, she feels better after a day, but she’s never done this. I really don’t want to think someone took her.” 

“I’m sure that didn’t happen. She might be dealing with a personal issue and be afraid to tell you. I’m sure there’s a reason. We’ll find her. If you need anything, I’m here. I’ll check up on you tomorrow morning, OK?”

“Thank you so much.”

The next morning, there was still no word from Lyla. Mira seemed even more irritated when I called her again, but she erupted into tears after a moment of speaking: 

“...I don’t know why God would do this to me-” she paused while choking on her own tears. “I’m not perfect, but I do everything for my kids. …I love them. I love her.”

Instinctively, I wanted to tell her that I understood and that Lyla knew Mira loved her, but memories began to flood my mind with uncertainty, drowning out any comforting words I could have offered Mira.

When I was first starting at the dance school, a mother was coming to pick up her daughter from class. Her husband was drunk in the passenger seat of their truck and spilling out of it while trying to get out. They caused a scene as the mom and their daughter tried to pack him back into the truck. Her father always seemed to be drunk when I saw him.

Then, there was Marco, whose aunt would often forget to pick him up. And Jade, who was always disruptive and picking on the girl who couldn't afford new dance shoes. And Valentina, who would always have meltdowns because her leotard was itchy. And Maria. Phoenix. Marli. Hailey. And so on.

Barbie had always told me not to worry too much about any of the kids. 

“When you help one, another's gonna have an issue,” she’d say.

The whole time we were searching for Lyla the night before, I could only reflect on the things I didn’t do for her when I had the chance.

This was my fault.

Instead of replying to Mira, I sat there, unable to think of a response. Mira continued to vent,

“It’s her father’s blood,” she growled. “She’s got that same blood in her veins.”

“I never saw him with you guys.”

“He was never really in the picture, but she’s still got that same vile blood in her.” She took a shaky breath to keep from breaking down again. “…I just don’t know what happened. I’ve always hugged and kissed my kids, “goodnight”. I told them “I love them” every day. I would ask how their day went at school. I provided for them. I was just talking and laughing with her the other day. After everything I’ve done for them, I just don’t know why they act like this.”

I fidgeted beneath my sheets as she huffed out an angered chuckle.

“It’s these phones and social media!” she declared. “They’ve got these kids acting crazy, and they’re putting all kinds of mess into their heads. I thought everything was okay when she came home from the psych unit. I prayed, but she’s rebelling again.” 

“Uh, Lyla’s a sweet girl. I’m sure there’s a reason. A lot of teens do this.”

“She’s ungrateful and rotten.”

The day passed. We searched for her again and still didn’t find her or turn up any clues. The following day, I called again. As we spoke, she and the police were on the way to Lyla’s location. They had finally decided to track Lyla’s phone, since she hadn’t come home the day before. As soon as Mira told me, I nearly rushed out of the house without any shoes on. 

As I grew closer to the destination, the streets grew more desolate and ragged. Countless tents appeared on the sides of the roads. Most of the buildings were abandoned. This part of the city was practically a ghost town. I wondered how Lyla could survive here, even for two days. 

The GPS led me to an empty 12-story office building. I pulled into the empty parking lot behind a police car and Mira’s Camry. Mira was on her knees. Her head sagged into her hands. My insides shivered with dread. Her sobs grew clearer as I turned my car off. I opened the door, and a repulsive draft thwarted me. I coughed and covered my nose as I ran to them. 

Two bloodied legs were peeking out from behind the cop. I shook my head in rejection of my damning thoughts. A growing lump burned in my throat. As soon as I could see the full body, I ceased my running. My weakening legs threatened to let me collapse. I turned and grappled onto a light pole for support. My free hand held my sickened stomach as I fell to my knees, unraveling into a mess of tears.