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The number of people filling the dance studio surprises me. Samuel comes up and wraps an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze.

“Don’t look so shocked. You’ve done a lot for this community. They appreciate it.”

I look up into his face. “I just hope it gets their attention,” I say, annoyed I still haven’t received an email from the company.

“Well, I’ve called the local radio and television stations, got the head office address. Hopefully, our little protest can get some traction. Make Frazer Development sit up and listen.”

I don’t know what I would have done if it wasn’t for Samuel taking on all the organisation of today. I’ve been trying hard to keep itbusiness as usual, which doesn’t leave much time for anything else.

I give myself a shake. I need to think positively. Only, I’ve seen this so many times before. We are the small fish, and the sharks just gobble us up.

“We’ve got this, Ms April,” Tyler, one of my teenagedancers says, coming up and standing next to me. Placard in hand.

SAVE OUR DANCESCHOOL

I smile. “Thank you, Tyler.”

I look around and find most of the dancers and their parents, even my older ladies, all standing around the room with placards in their hands. The pressure in my chest lifts a little as they all raise them in the air and begin chanting.

Samuel turns to the rest of the troop. “Let’s do this. We want to make the developers realise what this place means to us.”

I swing to face him, and he looks over but continues addressing the crowd.

“We want to save your dance school and Ms April’s business. We may be dancers and not singers, but we have the best voices out there. Let’s make sure Frazer Development hears us.”

He turns and winks at me. If it does the job, who am I to complain?

We ridethe tube to Frazer Development’s head office. It’s mid-morning, so the pavements are clear. We form a circle outside the front of their offices and begin to chant, the mood positive. A few passersby stop and stare. Some even get their phones out. A light-hearted feeling spreads through my chest. Maybe, just maybe, this will work.

Samuel moves to one side, speaking on his phone, hishand covering his other ear. I watch as his face freezes, and a frown appears.

I move to his side, allowing the kids and their parents to continue to march up and down.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“The press, television. They’re not coming.” His shoulders sag. “Apparently, we’re not big enough to warrant airtime. It seems Frazer Development are city heroes. No one wants to say anything negative.”

I give him an empty smile. It’s as I suspected. There’s no getting around the bigwigs in this city. The fat cats stick together.

Who am I?

A small-time dance teacher whose tenancy agreement has expired. My life savings and livelihood may be tied up in the building they are about to purchase, but that will mean little or nothing to them. Why should it? Pain resonates through my chest, and I rub it with the heel of my palm.

A burly man comes up to stand next to us. “Excuse me, Miss?”

“Yes,” I say, turning towards him.

“The lad over there pointed you out.” He turns and points to Tyler, who is frowning in our direction. “Are you the organiser?”

“Yes,” I repeat, taking in the Frazer Development logo on his jacket.

“You need to move on,” he says. “You can’t protest outside these offices, blocking the pavement.”

“We can. That’s the whole point of a protest,” Samuel jumps in. “Freedom of speech.”

“Well, I’m warning you. Management will call the police if you don’t leave,” he says, shrugging.

I square my shoulders. Damn Frazer management.