It still shook me to see Babby sitting and being taken care of, instead of cooking or sitting at her computer or cleaning out the attic, all things she normally was very busy with
hold a lock of Atara’s thick, dark hair in my hand and try to tug the brush gently through, like Fraidy has just shown us. “Ow! Ow!” Atara yelps, jerking her head away.
“Sorry!”
Fraidy comes hurrying over — your student screaming in pain will have that effect — and shows me once more how to start at the bottom and make my way carefully up to the root so I don’t pull out any hairs. I watch her as she works; she’s so sure of herself, so confident. I wonder what that must feel like, to do something well, and to know, to really know, that you’re better at it than anyone else in the room.
I’m a good dancer, yes, but I can’t help comparing myself to the other girls every chance I get.
I’m mortified that Fraidy needed to show me the technique again, but I just thank her and turn back to Atara. “Sorry,” I say.
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