Chapter 2

Before I get to the door I glance at Gregory. His mouth is a thin, rueful

line, and he turns away when he sees me looking. I’ll get no reassurance

from him. If Mr. Kingsolver fires me, there’s nothing he’ll be able to do.

I’m one of the last of the company to leave the theater after I’ve taken my

makeup off and changed into my street clothes. At a quarter past ten I step

out into the chilly air. It’s technically spring but winter hasn’t yet released

its icy grip, so I huddle into my fluffy pink jumper and white jacket as I

walk south toward Charing Cross station. The theatergoers are still on the

streets, queuing outside restaurants for a late supper or heading to a bar for

a nightcap.

The tears start to burn my eyelids as I board the train. It’s always hard,

leaving the lights and tumult of the theater behind, but tonight it’s especially

distressing. I lean my head against the glass and watch the street lamps

flicker past. I don’t care that I’m crying now, fat tears sliding down my

cheeks and plopping on my collar. Feeling like I’ve disappointed someone

is the worst feeling in the world.

By the time the train pulls into my station twenty minutes later I’ve

wiped my cheeks and taken a few deep breaths. If my parents think I’m

upset about something they’ll start on about the theater not having “longterm job prospects,” and all the other things they like to say.

Why can’t you act your age?

Be sensible, Abby. Dancing isn’t a real job.

You need to be more responsible. You’re not a little girl anymore.

Sometimes I don’t think you live in the real world.

When I open the front door I stand in the silent hall for a moment. The

house is dark, so my parents must have gone to bed already. Upstairs I stop

in the doorway to my room. It’s painted plain white and there are two

rectangular pillows on the bed where there were once frills and lace and a

dozen scatter cushions, and two dozen stuffed animals. The shelves have

lots of empty spaces between the paperback novels.

This is not how I want it to look. I came home to this a year ago. “There

you go!” my mother said brightly, folding up the plastic drip sheets. “It was

becoming too silly to have you sleeping in a pink room at your age. I’ve put

away all your toys and things, too. They’re in the box room upstairs for

now, but we can have a garage sale and get rid of them when the weather is finer.” Then she smiled at me like she’d done something I should be

grateful for.

I couldn’t sleep that night. It felt like I was in a cell, not my own,

comforting bedroom. My room had looked the same since I was four years

old. It looked like how I felt on the inside, and she’d gutted it. Even now, a

year later, it still feels like sleeping in a stranger’s room.

I leave my bag on the floor and walk quietly upstairs. The box room is

uncarpeted and chilly, and I open several cartons before I find the one I

want: all my stuffed animals. I begged my mother not to have a garage sale,

and she has relented so far. I scoop them out in armloads and lay down on

the floor with them. They are my pillows, my warmth and my comfort. I

breathe in their furry softness and close my eyes.

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