I smile and keep moving. For all her long-limbed gracefulness, Sefina can’t dance without tripping over her own feet or mine. But my gangly six-foot frame moves with a shocking lightness. I’m not smug about it, but I am, well, proud. I love the feeling I get when I dance. My parents must have loved it, too, because my early memories of their marriage include impromptu dancing in the kitchen, the lobby, the parking lot, anywhere a moment overtook them, and I’d look up to see Dad swinging my mom around like she weighed nothing, her head thrown back and her tinkling laughter mixing into the air around us. The memory hits me with such force I nearly stumble in my chassé, but I recover, and when the music crescendos, I hit every move in time with the beat, nearly crashing into Sefina on my return across the room. She’s given up, and she lands in a sweaty heap on the gym floor, one hand raised in surrender. “Cheater. You’ve been practicing without me, haven’t you?”

I shrug. I have no idea. “You know that even if I have, it wouldn’t make a difference.”

“Likely excuse,” she groans.

“Sefina,” comes Ruth’s stern voice. “Get up! This is dance class, not mat Pilates. We still have our cooldown.”

Sefina blows out a forceful breath that lifts a chunk of hair out of her eyes and pushes to her feet, giving me an evil-eye glare before joining the rest of us in our cooldown. I laugh. When it comes to most things, Sefina and I have always been a competitive duo, whether it’s racing to the end of a trail run on snowshoes or catching the first fish of the morning or floating across the gym floor in a chassé. It’s a consistency I can rely on.

After class, I quickly find my cell phone, and it’s buzzing with a reminder. Mom lives in Whittier now, and Ruth knows but didn’t tell you. My fingers curl until I’m gripping the phone so hard it hurts. Ruth is obviously protecting Mom, and it stings to read that. I need to talk to Dad. Find out if he knows, because there’s no way he wouldn’t tell me. Quickly, I add it to my reminders and set an alarm. I can stop by his office now.

Sefina joins me and leans against the wall, glances Ruth’s way. “She’s crazy, like a Jazzercise dictator.” She turns, eyes the bag already on my shoulder, and raises her eyebrows. “Where are you off to so fast? You’re still coming over for lunch today, right?”

I check my phone calendar. “Yes, it’s right here.” Unlike her dancing, Sefina’s cooking is excellent, and my mouth already waters from whatever she’s planning to fix. “See you then.”