chapter 5

I’m late. This never happens. I’m running up Charing Cross Road like the

four horsemen of the apocalypse are on my heels, though it’s not the end of

the world I fear, but something far worse.

The theater comes into view and I glance at my wristwatch and whimper

—I’m ten whole minutes late. The train sat on the wrong side of the river

for twenty minutes with no explanation, and each second that ticked by

seemed to take a month off my life. Mr. Kingsolver has strict rules, and

never being late, even by a minute, is at the top of his list. I cross my fingers

And hope that he won’t be here tonight, as he isn’t always at every

performance.

I push open the stage door and dash downstairs to the dressing rooms—

and my heart plummets. Just before I disappear into the chorus’s communal

dressing room I see Mr. Kingsolver and the director standing in the hallway,

heads bent over Gregory’s notes. Mr. Kingsolver looks up, his dark brows

drawn together, eyes arrowing into mine.

I press my back against the closed door, breathing hard.

The other dancers turn and look at me, then glance at the clock. One or

two bite their lip.

“Did he see you?” We all know Jacintha doesn’t mean Gregory.

I nod, and she winces.

“Maybe it’ll be okay,” says Kayla as she rolls on her tights. “You’re only

a few minutes late. He can’t be that angry.”

But we both know that’s not true.

Despite my agitation the performance goes off without a hitch. I remind

myself I’m a good dancer and that dancing is what I want to do. The echo

of Mr. Kingsolver’s voice telling me I’m only dancing for him helps keep

me grounded, too. Until the final curtain goes down, that is. And then I start

to go to pieces, teeth worrying at the sides of my nails.

Gregory gives us his notes on the performance. There are just a few, and

afterward we all head for the dressing room. Then he calls out, “Oh, and,

Abby, Mr. Kingsolver wants to see you in his office when you’re changed.”

The others give me shocked looks. Tears prickle in my eyes. I’m going to

lose the only thing in my life that means anything to me. My hands tremble

as I wipe away my mascara and pancake foundation. One by one the girls

touch my arm as they file out, bags slung over their shoulders.

“Sorry, Abby.”

“Yeah, sorry, Abby.”

They know they won’t see me again after tonight.

I collect my satchel, head out of the dressing rooms, and climb the

staircase deep into the theater. It’s silent now. Everyone’s gone home. At the

top of the stairs I see the wooden door with Rufus Kingsolver, Owner

emblazoned in gold letters. I knock, and then turn the handle and push the

door open.

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