chapter 3

“Abby. What are you doing up here?”

I wake with a start and see daylight. My head is pillowed on Mr. Snuffles

and I’ve got my arms wrapped tightly around Chubbles the rabbit. I’ve slept

all night on the box room floor. As I look up at my mother my sense of

safety and warmth evaporates. Her mouth is twisted with the words she’s

holding back.

“I was just, uh, looking for something. When I got home.”

“I see.” Her voice is breathy, like she’s annoyed, and she begins scooping

up all my toys and putting them back in the box. She even pulls Chubbles

out of my arms.

“Are you still in yesterday’s clothes?” she calls after me as I push past

her and head downstairs. “Abby, I wish you’d take better care of yourself.”

In the kitchen I pour a glass of strawberry milk. It’s what I have for

breakfast every morning but I can still feel my father frowning at me over

his newspaper. I glance at the front page and grimace. War. The economy.

Politicians lying. I don’t know how people can bury themselves under a tide

of bad news first thing in the morning.

My mother comes in and looks hard at me. “You haven’t read the

brochures yet.”

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 babypink 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.

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