“Well, good night then,” he murmurs, looking only at me. And then he’s heading down the steps to his car without a backward look.
* * *
When I arrive at the theater the next day Gregory hails me in the corridor. “Mr. Kingsolver tells me you auditioned for the part of the dancing fairy yesterday, and he recommended that I see you, too.” He glances at his watch. “Can you warm up quickly and meet me onstage in fifteen minutes?”
“Yes, thank you, Gregory!” I hurry into the dressing room to change into my warm-up gear. Mr. Kingsolver recommended that Gregory see my audition. That must mean he thought I was good enough for the part. I clamp down on my excitement, though, remembering how many other girls auditioned.
The stagehands are busy with the props when I go upstairs, and Gregory is talking to the stage manager, their heads bent over his clipboard. He looks up and smiles when I approach, and then jumps down into the stalls.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I dance the part, and I don’t need the wings this time. I feel as if they’re there, and I become the fairy once more. It’s such a joyous, openhearted dance, so different to that of the woodcutters’. When I’m finished Gregory calls me down to the front row.
“Well, Mr. Kingsolver was right,” he murmurs, leafing through his notes. “You did dance it very well, and you have been with us longer than most of the other dancers who auditioned.” He smiles and looks up from his clipboard. “Would you like the part?”
“Yes, please,” I say, still breathless from the dancing.
“Well done, it’s yours.” He gives me a puzzled frown. “What I don’t understand, though, is why you didn’t audition in the first place. You need more ambition, Abby.”
I tell him that I will try, but mostly I squeal into my cupped hands and hop about.
I don’t see Mr. Kingsolver that day but he leaves a handwritten note tucked inside my sneakers that I find when I came offstage. Unsigned, but I know it is from him.
Congratulations, kitten. Well deserved.
The writing is strong and fluid. I smile and slip the piece of paper into my pocket.
The other dancers are happy for me, though one or two do think it’s odd that they didn’t see me at the auditions. I just mutter something about doing it after the second show.
My parents are in bed when I get home that night, but I hurry down to breakfast the next morning to tell them the good news.
“We’ve got some news of our own,” my dad says, after he hugs me and tells me how happy he is for me. “Your mother and I have been talking about this for some time, and we’ve decided we want to move to the countryside.”
“But that’s silly,” I say. “What will you do with the house?”
“We’re going to sell it of course,” my mother says. “It’s come at such a
good time, your promotion, because the extra money will come in handy for your living expenses. Rents are expensive right now but I’m sure you’ll be able to find somewhere comfortable with flatmates your own age. Perhaps other dancers. Won’t that be nice?”
I hear a buzzing in my ears. Living expenses. Flatmates. I didn’t think about my new role as a promotion, or that I might get more money because of it. I should have asked Gregory. Why didn’t it occur to me to ask? How will I know what I will be able to afford if I don’t know how much I earn? What if I don’t have enough money for food and travel after I’ve paid my rent? Where will I even live?
The questions pile on top of each other until I don’t know where I should start. It’s not that I don’t think I’m capable of living away from home and taking care of myself. But the amount of energy and time I need to put into practical things sometimes makes me unable to focus on anything else. I wish I could just do the things that I am good at, like dancing.
I realize my parents are looking at me with strained expressions, and I swallow and force a smile for them. “That’s great, guys. I’m so happy for you.”
* * *
The next day I head to the theater early to start rehearsing for Cara’s part that I’ll take over in a week and a half. I can feel the memory of the fairy wings and the steps are easy, like breathing.
Smiling, though, or pretending that I’m happy and excited, isn’t. By the end of the day I’m worn-out by everyone’s expectations of me. They need to keep their noses out of my business. If they want smiles they should smile themselves, not stare at me waiting for me to give them what they want.
By Sunday I’m exhausted, and all I can think about are the things I am going to do on my day off tomorrow. I’ve told my parents I’m going to browse the rental listings on our high street to “get a feel for the market.” It’s such a throwaway phrase, but it impresses them. Really I’m going to head to Westfield and watch the newest animated film, eat soft-serve with lots of sprinkles and browse every coloring book I can get my hands on. I won’t have to worry. I won’t have to think. Bliss.
Mr. Kingsolver passes me in the corridor when I leave the dressing room in my woodcutter costume. He wordlessly takes my hand and looks at my nails.
“Abby.” He sighs, but I pull my hand from his and hide it behind my back. Why does he need to sound like that, like he’s disappointed in me? The audience won’t be able to see my nails.
He folds his arms and looks at me. “I haven’t seen you smile all week. Are you all right?”