Chapter 1

“Who was it? Who was the girl that missed her cue?”

His thunderous face glares around the room, and I shrink back against the

wall. The girls on either side of me inch away as if my guilt is catching. We

are all terrified of Rufus Kingsolver.

It was me. I’m the girl who missed her cue earlier, and then during the

final number I pirouetted half a second too late. Now I’m going to feel the

excoriating wrath of the theater owner.

Let me just die now, please, I beg silently.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Mr. Kingsolver searching the face of

every dancer in the room. He doesn’t know our names, but why would he?

We’re only the chorus, and if he wants us for anything he just says you, and

points.

I should step forward and raise my hand, admitting my mistake like the

grown-up I am supposed to be, but I can’t. When I’m in trouble it’s like I’m

a little girl again, stammering and blushing and feeling like I’m going to

vomit. I feel guilty even when I haven’t done anything wrong, like when

Jaime’s leg warmers were stolen. As soon as I heard her yelling in the

dressing room I could feel the guilt shining out of my face like a lighthouse

beacon, even though I hadn’t touched them.

I hear the word I dread.

“You.”

Blood roars in my ears. I can feel everyone looking at me. I’ve got my

eyes fixed on my fingers, which are twisted into a snarl.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Mr. Kingsolver demands.

I flinch, then drag my eyes upwards. They start at his shoes. Large black

leather shoes, polished to a dull sheen. Long legs in black trousers. A wide

black belt with a silver buckle. A broad chest in a blue shirt.

He’s young, surprisingly young to own a big theater in the West End. The

other dancers and I have guessed his age at twenty-six or twenty-seven,

which is only six or so years older than I am. His presence and manner

make him seem much older.

When I don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows as if to say, Well? I’m

waiting. His eyes frighten me the most. They’re hard and blue, the same

crisp shade as his skirt. I feel like I’m going to burn up from their intensity.

No one moves. I’m holding my breath. I can’t be fired from this job. I

can’t. It’s the one thing I have that’s mine. I exist only in the orbit of this

theater. When I’m here, my legs clad in nylons, applying my stage makeup,

I’m happy. When I’m onstage, and all there is, is the music and the sweet

burn of exertion and the glare of the hot lights, I’m me. My parents don’t

understand that. No one does, except maybe some of the other dancers.

Though, they have other things. Boyfriends. Nightclubs. University. When I

leave the theater I’m nothing, just another girl on hard cobbled streets and

the underheated train, and I count the minutes until I can come back to

myself here once more. This is it for me. This is all I’m allowed to have.

Mr. Kingsolver speaks in a low growl. “Make one more mistake,” he

says, holding up a forefinger, “and you’re fired.”

If I look away it will only make him angrier. I force myself to look at him

even as he grows blurry in my vision from tears.

He turns to the director at the front of the room. Gregory might hire us,

direct us and be our real boss, but everyone has to defer to Mr. Kingsolver

in his theater. Ten minutes ago, when I got offstage, Gregory took me aside

privately and pointed out my mistakes, telling me I need to do better. Even

one mistake is too many when there are hundreds of people in the audience

who have spent upwards of eighty pounds to see one of the most popular

musicals in London. I understand, but I also want to defend myself and say,

It’s not like me. I’m a good dancer, you know that.

“For god’s sake, Gregory, give your dancers some discipline.” Then Mr.

Kingsolver slams out of the room again.

Gregory closes his leather-bound notebook, looking out over a sea of

cowed heads. My gaze drops to the floor and I can breathe again, but they

are short, painful breaths.

“All right.” Gregory sighs, as if he’s had a long day. “There aren’t any

more notes this evening. I’ll see you all at five tomorrow.”

The twenty chorus dancers and I file slowly out of the room. I feel a few

hands on my shoulders and whispered commiserations, but my head hangs

low.

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