Lead & Follow

Ballotté

Part 1: Lead

Eleventh Movement, Ballotté

Ballotté

adjective

bal·lot·té ¦balə¦tā

of a leap : made in ballet with a rocking motion and with the free leg cut out to the side

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The doorbell rings, and you're practically leaping down the stairs . The frantic clack of your kitten heels against the wood sounds like castanets, and your inner monologue a mantra of protection– don't trip, don't trip, don't trip.

The effort is only half-worthwhile. You successfully make it to the foyer of your home without a single stumble, but , despite your rush, it's instead Noelani [Last] who welcomes your date into your home.

" My, oh my," your Ma greets, smooth as butter. "Don't you look handsome, young man?"

Her poker face is excellent, you think. It's almost as if she doesn't hear a lick of the frenzied commotion that is your grand descent down the stairwell. 

"Good evening, Mrs. [Last]," Baxter drawls as your mother ushers him inside. The both of them are equipped with dubious grins; two peas in a pod when it comes to charm. "Thank you for the kind words; I'll admit I never miss an opportunity for black-tie."

"I take it you're here for our darling [Name]?" Ma asks with a knowing twinkle in her eyes as she closes the front door softly. "You're welcome to have a seat in the living room and wait with Pam and I–"

" Ma !" you exclaim as you reach the door, and you begin to shove gently nudge her pointedly away from the entryway. "I know you heard me coming."

"I'm afraid all I noticed was the arrival of your boyfriend ," she begins teasingly, "But now that you're here, I'll leave you two to it."

You're out of breath from sprinting and the physical exertion it takes to even attempt to relocate your muscular parental unit, and your skin is flushed from the decision to do all of the above in heels and light makeup.

" Thanks ," you huff as you brush a few wayward strands of [h/c] hair from your face. "But don't think Elizabeth didn't warn me about the good-cop, bad-cop and baby pictures routine you and Mom pull on dates."

Ma sighs dramatically and throws a shout towards the living room, " They're on to us, Pammie!"

A fainter exclamation comes back, " Damn!"

"Ma!" you groan. Your gaze bounces between her and Baxter as if to wordlessly emphasize your embarrassment. 

Wait a second. 

Your gaze finds Baxter again, and your eyes widen. Any residual annoyance at your mother's antics feels inconsequential now–water off a duck's back–in the face of what stands before you.