There is a pile of glossy flyers on the table, each one stamped with a college crest. She wants me to take a course in marketing or bookkeeping. My grades in high school were decent, and I could probably get in, but taking a course in something I dislike, and then—worse—getting a job with deadlines, performance reviews and presentations? I grip my glass and force myself to breathe slowly. “I didn’t have time yesterday.”
She purses her lips. “Will you have time today?”
My parents want me to study so that I’ll have something “to fall back on,” as they put it. They don’t think dancing is a real job. It doesn’t seem to matter to them that dancing is something I’m good at, or that it makes me happy.
Do the other dancers feel pressured by their parents? I should ask them, but I’ve always felt too shy to get to know the other girls.
“Abby! I asked you a question.”
I jump. Why can’t she let up? If I get upset I’ll make more mistakes tonight, and Mr. Kingsolver will surely be watching me like a hawk. His warning rings in my ears. “Make one more mistake and you’re fired.”
What about all those other times I didn’t make any mistakes? What about all those times I was perfect? I’m a good dancer. I’ll be fine as soon as I can find a way to stand up to my parents. I can do it. I’ll find a way. Somehow.
I glance at my mother, who is frowning at me across the counter, and feel myself wilt. Today is not that day.
“Soon. I promise.”
As I leave the kitchen I hear my mother muttering to my father about my “excuses.”
It’s a warm, sunny morning, so after my shower I change into a baby-pink leotard and gray leggings and take my yoga mat and e-reader into the back garden. My routine takes forty-five minutes and I force myself to concentrate on the stretches and poses.
After I’ve finished I pick up my e-reader and lie on my tummy. I flick to my favorite story, a middle-grade book set in a magical realm with talking horses, and start to read. I know it by heart, and the lines of fluffy prose are soothing, almost hypnotic. I need this now. Nothing else is going to make me feel relaxed before I have to head for the theater and Mr. Kingsolver.
My dad comes out into the garden after lunch. “What are you reading?” he asks, weeding dandelions out of the flowerbed.
I look at the pony story on my e-reader. “It’s Pride and Prejudice,” I tell him.
He nods approvingly, which means I’ve avoided yet another lecture. The back of my neck prickles and I’m worried he’s going to look over my shoulder at the screen, so I roll up my mat and go to my bedroom.
Chapter Two
I’m up in the wings fifteen minutes before my cue, which isn’t allowed, but I’m worried that I’ll be late again. Also, I really love this scene. This is a production of Amarantha, a modern fairy tale with witches and heroes and fairies. I’m a woodcutter, along with five other girls, and we wear brown shorts and shirts and carry little axes. I’ve got my hair tucked up under my peaked cap and I’m watching the pretty fairies onstage in their floating tulle and silver wings, my lower lip caught between my teeth with envy.
There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. A man has appeared by my side in the dim light and folded his arms. I glance up and instantly quail. It’s Mr. Kingsolver. I straighten, my hands by my sides, trying to look professional and not like a dancer who’s disobeying rules. What was I thinking? Being up here more than five minutes early is enough to get me fired. My heart starts hammering against my ribs.
He steps closer. His face is handsome in a steely way, like he’s been stamped out of metal. Because it’s late, there’s a dark pattern of stubble over the hard lines of his jaw.
“Look at me.” He’s speaking softly but I can hear the command in his deep voice. I turn toward him and he puts his hand under my chin, forcing it up so I meet his eyes. They’re gunmetal gray in the dim light. “You’re not going to make any mistakes tonight. Is that clear?”
My throat is too tight to speak. I’m burning up.
“Well?” There’s an edge to his voice. His knuckles push against my throat. Does he know he’s pressing on my windpipe?
I swallow and just manage, “Yes.”
“Yes what?” His voice is quiet and insistent and demands to be obeyed.
“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”
He forces my chin a little higher. He’s standing so close I catch the scent of him, a rich, piney scent that makes my knees tremble.
“When you’re out there,” he murmurs, “don’t think about the audience. Think about me. You’re only dancing for me.”
For him? I only ever danced for the audience and for myself. I’m proud when I know I’ve done a good job, and happy when I see the rapt faces in the stalls and hear the applause from the house. Resentment blazes in my chest that this terrifying figure has swept down into the wings to tell me I’m dancing for him. Is all he can think about the reputation of his theater?
But when I look again, his eyes hold nothing of the raw fury that they did the previous day. He’s looking at me like he’s actually seeing me and not just a dancer he can order about. His hand holding my chin is firm but gentle. It’s a heady feeling, being singled out by Mr. Kingsolver, and something golden spreads through me. He’s demanding something of me that he knows I can do, and he wants me to do it for him.
“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”