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Evelyn's fingers can't stop tugging at her leotard as she follows her Mom, Taylor, through the front door of their home. The fabric of the leotard clings to Evelyn's skin, damp with the effort of barre and center work. At ten years old, this is the first year that Evelyn has been eligible to enroll in the weekly Pre-Teen/Teen Ballet class at the dance studio. She has attended the same dance center since age four, back when she announced that she wanted to learn how to "dance pretty" like her Mom does on stage. Initially, Taylor was hesitant to allow Evelyn to enroll in any form of dance instruction, though she never exposed her daughter directly to her fears. After Evelyn's announcement, there were many nights during which Taylor stayed up with her wife, Karlie, verbally processing her concerns and her fears behind their closed bedroom door. Taylor argued that enrolling Evelyn in formal dance instruction with other students could subject her to similar ridicule and teasing as what Taylor herself has experienced in her own journey to enjoying dance as a creative medium. Karlie, however, took a more optimistic approach, reminding Taylor that their kids deserve the freedom to explore whatever sparks their interest. As usual, Karlie's argument won, and four-year-old Evelyn started dance classes the following week, first tumbling, then pre-hip hop, then a hybrid class of pre-ballet and tap. The ballet interest persevered, and, ever since, the young girl's Friday evenings have consisted of pastel ribbon fastenings, more bobby pins than she has toes, and hairspray that smells like the lemon bars her Mom bakes every June.
Taylor closes and locks the front door as soon as the pair crosses the threshold, then removes Evelyn's ballet bag from her shoulder, gently placing it by the front door. Evelyn breathes in the slightly sweet smell of homemade dough, the freshness of basil, and the acidic tang of tomatoes. Homemade pizza night is another Friday evening ritual within the Swift-Kloss household, one that Evelyn is usually eager for after an hour of dance. Tonight, though, the thought of eating pizza with her family makes her tummy feel as if it's trembling.
Evelyn hears her Mama, Karlie, before she sees her. "You're coming up with some diabolical pizza topping combinations, kid."
"Are they actually diabolical," Evelyn hears her twelve-year-old brother, Ethan, retort, "or are they proof that I am the creative mastermind of this household?"
Evelyn and Taylor find Ethan and Karlie in the kitchen. Ethan sits on one of the barstools, facing Karlie, with his back to Evelyn and Taylor. Karlie stands on the other side of the counter, eyeing her son with equal parts amusement and exasperation. Then, her hazel eyes look upwards, past Ethan, locking onto Taylor's face with a familiar reverence.
"Creative mastermind of this household, huh?" Taylor chuckles, taking the barstool beside Ethan. "In that case, can I pass the torch to you? Because I'm tired."
Ethan rolls his eyes in that perfect preteen way, but the upturn to his lips gives away his true emotions. "Nobody asked you to be an overachiever, Mom." He spins slightly in the barstool to face his sister, who remains hovering in the doorway of the kitchen. "How was dance?"
Evelyn shrugs, her mind scrambling to latch onto something that isn't the grating sound of her white ballet tights rubbing together between her thighs or the dinner menu musings of her fellow dance mates. She doubts any of them come home to weekly homemade pizza nights. Evelyn doesn't know if she should feel grateful or disgusted.
"It was fun," her lips decide on the words before her brain can contemplate them fully. Her tummy does that weird trembling feeling again. "We did barre and center."
"I don't know what that means." Ethan turns back around to face Karlie. "Mama, how about extra pineapple and extra BBQ sauce?"
"That sounds extra diabolical, Eth." Even as she says the words, though, Karlie is arranging those ingredients near two bare, personal-sized pieces of rolled out dough, already resting atop cornmeal-dusted pizza peels. "Are you sure you're going to want two of the exact same pizza?"
Ethan nods with a proud grin. "Maximum chaotic energy."
Karlie shakes her head with an amused smile. "Okay, Mr. Chaotic Energy," she walks away from the counter, towards her kids and wife, "get over here and make your diabolical pizzas."
Karlie isn't even able to step outside of the kitchen before a small blur of pink and sparkles darts into the room.
"Mama!" Evelyn's three-year-old sister, Esther, always speaks at maximum volume.
Today, the youngest child in the Swift-Kloss household wears a pastel pink strawberry print tee-shirt and sparkly, rainbow colored pants. Her feet are clad with striped yellow crew socks.
Esther has recently insisted on not only dressing herself every day, but also subjecting the Swift-Kloss household to a morning fashion show & tell, which the tiny tyrant is convinced is her Mama's entire career. Karlie hasn't had the heart to correct her. Evelyn recalls this morning's explanation vividly: strawberries because Esther likes them, rainbow pants because rainbows and sparkles are the little girl's favorite colors, and the yellow striped socks because they reminded her of bees and bees like strawberries, too. Evelyn also recalls how, after the explanation, Esther then demanded that everyone clap while she giggled and spun around in circles. Ethan is convinced that Esther will grow up to be either a very good lawyer or a very good dictator. Only time will tell.
The three-year-old clings to Karlie's leg with one hand while the other hand drags a green, plastic dinosaur by its long neck. "Mama! Dino is hungry!"
Karlie's eyebrows rise as she bends down to Esther's level. "Well, we can't have a hungry dino in the house." Karlie scoops Esther up and balances the toddler on her hip. "What kind of pizza would dino like?"
"Just cheese," Esther says with a gummy grin. "Dino says veggies gross."
Karlie hums, gently removing the toy dinosaur from Esther's grasp with her free hand. Karlie flips the toy around in her grasp, rotating it, visually inspecting it from all angles. "I'm pretty sure this is a Brachiosaurus," Karlie informs, earning a snort of amusement from her wife. "Brachiosauruses love veggies, Estie. They can't get enough of them."
Esther looks directly into Karlie's eyes as she shakes her head. "No, Mama, you're wrong." Esther cranes her neck to look at Taylor. "Mommy, tell Mama she wrong."
Taylor leans back in the barstool, her eyes bright in that way that the kids only see when she's with her family. "I will not tell your Mama that she's wrong, superstar."
"Why not?" Esther wails. "It's true," she insists. Karlie returns Esther to her feet, the three-year-old's fingers curled around the dinosaur's neck again.
It's Ethan's turn to snort as he says, "Because Mom is totally whipped for Mama."
Taylor scoffs as she plucks a grape tomato out of one of the small serving bowls on the counter. She punts the tomato at her son, who laughs and sidesteps the projectile. Esther makes a delighted sound and is moving before the tomato even touches the ground.
"Esther Vivienne," Karlie's voice is sharp as she follows after Esther, but Evelyn can see the corners of her mouth twitch upwards, "don't you dare put that tomato in your mouth. We don't eat food that has been on the floor."
Esther scoops the tomato off of the hardwood floor with a pout, her tiny fingers red and dripping juice. "But it's still food," she argues.
With a sigh, Karlie bends down to Esther's level and removes the squished tomato from her grasp. Karlie tosses the tomato into the garbage, then turns back to her youngest. "How about you go wash your hands, and then we can get that cheese pizza started for you and dino, hm?"
"Okay, Mama!" Esther chirps, the tomato forgotten as she runs out of the room, her hand waving the plastic dinosaur through the air.
Evelyn watches her sister go, all chaotic noise and energy that is certain in its delivery, as if she has not yet been burdened with the concept that she could possibly be too much or not enough compared to the people around her. As if she has not yet been burdened with the idea that her body or her desires could ever be wrong for just existing.
In the newfound quiet, Ethan takes Karlie's place at the counter, spooning pizza sauce onto the pieces of dough laid out for him. Karlie approaches Taylor, kissing her wife briefly before turning to Evelyn.
"There's dough ready for you, Evie, if you already know what kind of pizza you want to make."
Evelyn looks past her Moms, at the spread of various toppings on the large, curved counter. She doesn't know what she wants. She doesn't know what she should want. She thinks about the other girls in her dance class, especially the teenagers. Their tummies are flat in their leotards, but hers isn't. Would they eat homemade pizza loaded with toppings? She doesn't know. She wants to ask.
"Evie," her Mom's voice is soft and inquisitive, like when she used to ask Evelyn about the contents of her nightmares that would cause the little girl to knock on her Moms' bedroom door late at night with tears reddening her cheeks. Evelyn is no longer scared of dark shadows in her bedroom, and she no longer fears that monsters will snatch her if she sleeps with a limb hanging off her mattress. Evelyn cannot remember the last time that a nightmare jolted her awake, her heart thumping in her chest as fast as, if not faster than, her little footsteps racing to the safety and comfort of her Moms. Now, Evelyn isn't so sure what scares her or what she should fear. She is at an age where she feels as if the world around her is fracturing, ready to crack wide open and swallow her down whole. She doesn't feel ready to be consumed by a world that she doesn't fully understand yet. "Are you okay? You've been pretty quiet since dance ended."
Evelyn's fingers fidget with her leotard again. Her Moms watch her with tilted heads and furrowed brows, their eyes meeting Evelyn's directly. Evelyn wants to look down, but she'd rather feel ensnared by the gazes of her Moms than ensnared by the sight of her own body's softness compared to the sharp lines and angles of her dance mates.
"I don't..." Evelyn's fingers shift from her leotard towards her elbows, her palms cupping the bone there and bringing her arms tight towards her midsection, as if she's giving herself a hug. "I don't feel good."
Her Mom rises from the barstool, the seat still turning as Taylor steps towards Evelyn. "Do you think you're sick, baby?" Taylor's hands fret with Evelyn's ballerina bun, gently removing the bobby pins. "What's bothering you?"
Evelyn swallows hard at the question. Her stomach does that weird trembling thing again, and she just wants it to stop. She suddenly wishes that she still feared the dark, still worried about monsters hiding under her bed, still was terrified of things that could be banished away by her Moms wrapping their arms around her and declaring their love for her.
Karlie brackets Evelyn's other side, the backs of her hands gently pressing against Evelyn's forehead and cheeks. "You don't feel like you have a fever, bug." Then, Karlie's fingertips gently press against the sides of Evelyn's neck and under the young girl's jaw. "Does any of this hurt?"
Evelyn shakes her head. "I don't think I'm sick like that."
"Clearly, you're sick," Ethan states, his voice dry, as he finalizes the arrangement of sliced grilled chicken, diced onions, pineapple chunks, and shredded mozzarella onto his two pizzas. "You usually fight me for first dibs on the oven." He grabs the BBQ sauce, drizzling it on top of both chaotic masterpieces. "Which makes no sense, considering we have two of them."
"I don't think I want pizza tonight," Evelyn states, her arms tightening around herself, her chin tilting towards her chest so she doesn't have to see her Moms.
"Okay," her Mama murmurs, hands rubbing soothing circles into Evelyn's upper arms. "We can get you some toast, or maybe a smoothie? Something easy?"
"I don't..." Evelyn's throat feels tight, the words painful as she forces them out. "I don't know what I should eat."
Evelyn can feel her Mom's fingers still against her scalp, the bobby pins forgotten as Evelyn's words permeate the open air. Her Mama's fingers press a little harder against her upper arms, as if she is trying to push the words back inside Evelyn's body. Or to keep Evelyn tethered. The young girl isn't sure which.
"Evie, baby," her Mom's voice is steady, but the affectionate nicknames sound tighter than usual, as if they are composed of glass and are being carefully cradled in Taylor's hands. Taylor turns slightly so that she's standing more directly in front of Evelyn now, but Evelyn can't bring herself to look at her Mom. "You know we don't really do shoulds with food in this house, yeah?"
Evelyn tries to swallow past the thick feeling in her throat. Her eyes start to sting, the world around her turning watery even as she tries to blink the emotion away. The young girl nods.
Karlie crouches to Evelyn's height, her hands steady but soft on her daughter's shoulders. Evelyn can't bring herself to look at her Mama either. "What's going on, Evie?" Her Mama's voice cracks open the weight in Evelyn's throat, and the young girl's eyes are no longer able to serve as tiny dams for her big emotions. "Talk to us, please."
"I just..." Evelyn swipes away a couple of tears that touch her cheeks. She isn't even sure why she's crying. She just knows that her body isn't meant to contain these new, big feelings and thoughts. "Do you think I'm too big to dance?"
Evelyn can feel her Mom still beside her, can hear how her Mom's breath catches. Her Mama's fingers tighten for just a second on the young girl's shoulders before loosening again. Neither of them speak right away. In fact, it's Ethan who breaks the silence.
"Do you mean like too tall?" He asks, followed by the crunch of him biting into something, probably a raw vegetable. "Isn't being tall a good thing for a dancer?"
"Is that what you mean, baby?" Evelyn hates how pitched her Mom's voice sounds, as if Taylor is reaching for safer ground. "Are you worried about being too tall for dance?"
Evelyn shakes her head, letting tears fall down her cheeks now without interfering their race to escape her body. "The teens," the young girl whispers, "they're all....thin. And I'm....not."
"Oh, baby," she hears her Mom murmur as her Mama pulls her in close and tight, the scent of vanilla and flowers wrapping around Evelyn.
"Ethan," Karlie says without looking away from Evelyn, "can you please go upstairs and make sure that Esther washed up for dinner? We can help her make her pizza soon, if she's ready."
"Got it," the boy answers, his footsteps bounding up the stairs moments later.
After Ethan has left, Karlie pulls back from Evelyn and stands up. One of her hands is interlocked with Evelyn's while the other reaches for Taylor's hand. Evelyn sees that her Mom's knuckles are white as she holds her wife's hand.
Karlie's thumb brushes the back of Evelyn's hand as she asks, "Did someone at dance say something to you?".
Evelyn shakes her head. "Everyone there is really nice," she says. "I-I noticed that I look different than the older girls." Her face feels hot, and the fingers on her free hand fidget with her leotard again. She tugs at the fabric, as if willing it to not cling so tight to her tummy. Her Mom's free hand envelopes hers, lacing their fingers together away from the fabric.
"Does different have to mean bad?" her Mom quietly wonders. Evelyn looks up at her Mom. Taylor's face is pursed and tight, but, Evelyn notes, she doesn't seem upset with or at her daughter. "Can't you look different and still be just as strong and just as beautiful as the other girls?" Evelyn doesn't answer. Her mouth pulls into a frown, her lips pressed together tight, like she's trying to fit together puzzle pieces that don't quite match. Taylor continues, "When I was a little older than you, I had similar thoughts, baby."
Evelyn's eyes lock onto Taylor's, her lips parted slightly. "You did?"
Taylor nods, her hand squeezing Evelyn's just slightly before relaxing. "I spent a very long time convincing myself that if I could just be smaller, physically, or if could just take up less space with my personality, then maybe I'd be easier to love. And better at dancing, better at singing, better at everything. Someone easier for everyone around me to digest." Taylor pauses, her eyes glistening. "I don't want that kind of pressure for you, baby. Your body is not something that you need to fight. Your body is really cool, because it gives you the ability to dance when you want to and eat pizza with your siblings and go on those hikes with us that you swear you hate but you take a bajillion photos during anyways." The three laugh at that, knowing that Evelyn has polaroids scattered all over her walls as proof of those hikes. Evelyn can feel some of the tightness in her body begin to loosen.
The warmth of the laughter lingers before Karlie speaks. "Does dancing still bring you joy, Evie? Is it still fun?"
Evelyn nods immediately. She loves to dance, loves to feel the way her body moves through the steps and through the air. Loves the freedom of it. The way her brain gets all happy afterwards.
"Okay," Karlie murmurs, her thumb rubbing soothing circles into Evelyn's skin. "Then, you keep dancing, and you keep talking to us, okay? If you're becoming uncomfortable with dance or with your body or if anybody is saying anything to you that makes you feel bad, you let us know, yeah?"
Evelyn nods, her hands tightening their grip on her moms. "I will, I promise."
Her moms move closer to her, squishing her in between them, and the young girl giggles.
"We love you, Evie," her Mom says.
"So much, baby girl," her Mama confirms, pressing a kiss to the crown of Evie's head. When the three separate, they're all brushing away a few tears. "Now," Karlie says, "what kind of pizza do you want?"