Emma stared at the scuffed and worn tap shoes in her hands. The faded black leather was crinkled and creased from years of use. The taps on the heels and toes were dull and scratched, no longer producing the sharp, staccato sounds they once did.
These shoes held so many memories. Emma had first slipped them on at age five when her mother enrolled her in dance classes. How excited she had been to don the shoes and start learning to shuffle, ball-change, and flap. The other little girls had worn pink ballet slippers or black jazz shoes, but Emma loved the unique clicking of her taps.
She spent hours practicing drills across the polished studio floor, working to perfect the timing and clarity of her steps. The other students would stop their routines to watch whenever Emma launched into a complex tap sequence. Her lightning fast feet would fly as she whirled and jumped, the taps hammering out thrilling rhythms.
The shoes went everywhere with Emma. She tapped down the sidewalk on the way to school, drove her family crazy with endless rehearsals in the living room, and even wore them in bed as she drifted off, still reviewing dance steps in her head.
Competitions were Emma's favorite. She lived for the adrenaline rush of the stage lights, auditorium hushed in anticipation. The squeak of her shoes' rubber soles followed by a burst of crackling taps as she began. Stomps, shuffles, wings, time steps. The blur of her feet brought cheers and applause from the crowd. First place trophy after trophy.
The years passed in a whirlwind of recitals, concerts, and intensive workshops. Emma's devotion never wavered. While other interests came and went, dance was her constant. By high school she was assisting with classes and performing solo numbers at community events.
Then came the audition for the city's magnet performing arts high school. Acceptance would be a dream, putting Emma on the path to a professional career. The packed studio was overflowing with hopeful candidates. Emma wore her lucky tap shoes, now fitting snugly after years of use.
The adjudicators watched politely as Emma began her routine, tapping with precision and grace across the marble floor. She built speed, throwing in her most daring moves. But suddenly, disaster struck. Halfway through a long ramp of rapid-fire steps, her left shoe split open right along the sole. The cracking taps went silent mid-crescendo.
Emma froze. Should she stop? Keep going with only one shoe tapping? She glanced desperately at her mother who gestured encouragingly. Emma limped on with the flapping sole, tears blurring her vision, the judges' expressions unreadable.
Later that night, surrounded by her heartbroken family, Emma sobbed as she peeled off the broken shoes. All her years of devotion ending with the shoes themselves betraying her. Perhaps it was a sign that she didn't have what it takes to make it professionally.
Emma drifted from dance after that. The joy she had felt was now tainted with disappointment. She avoided the studio, gave her trophies away, and stuffed the ruined shoes to the back of her closet. For the next few years Emma moved through school in a haze, pursuing academics half-heartedly, unsure of her direction.
But today, on a break from college, Emma had unearthed the shoes from her closet while looking for keepsakes. The memories came flooding back as she traced the worn seams and scuffed toes. She could still picture her younger self, tap-dancing with abandon across the stage, lost in the rhythm.
Emma made a decision then and there. She was going to start dancing again. It was more than just childhood nostalgia--it was remembering a part of herself she'd locked away. Maybe she'd never perform professionally. But she knew in her heart she wasn't done dancing yet.
Emma changed into leggings and a leotard, and gingerly slid her feet into the aged shoes. They were snug but still wearable. She laughed out loud, feeling like herself for the first time in years. Grabbing her car keys, Emma drove straight for the old neighborhood studio. Maybe Miss Carla still taught classes...
The familiar creaks greeted Emma as she entered the studio. And there at the front of the room was Miss Carla, hair now silver but posture still perfect. Emma waved the shoes at her with a huge grin. Miss Carla's eyes lit up with recognition.
“Can I work on my time steps a bit?” Emma inquired. Miss Carla embraced her kindly.
Soon Emma was shuffling and ball-changing across the polished wood, the taps crisp and lively. Each step transported her back to the sheer joy of dance she'd lost for a while. But now she was returning on her own terms, simply because she loved it.
The scuffed shoes still had a few dances left in them after all. Emma was ready to live out the song with a few final verses. This time she was dancing just for herself.
