Back in my room, I call Libby. When she answers, I say, “I finished the book.”
“And?”
“One, it was pretty damn terrifying. Two, Mary Katherine Blackwood was mad as a fucking hatter. Three, I see why you love it. Four, it might have reminded me of us just a little, although I’d like to argue that we’re slightly more sane. And five, I think it would be pretty fucking awesome to live in a castle with you.”
In my nightstand, underneath my headphones, my lip balm, and an assortment of bookmarks, I pull out a letter written on Christmas stationery.
These are for dancing alone onstage
Or in your room
Or anywhere your heart desires.
They are for dancing in your dreams—
dancing toward your future—
dancing in love and creativity and joy—
dancing because that is what you do.
Because that’s who you are, no matter what,
inside and outside.
You just
keep
on
dancing.
The shoes that came with this letter are in my closet. They’re from the Christmas before my mom died. They will always be the last present I ever get from her, and I need to keep them safe forever, which is why I’ve never worn them.
But right now I’m sitting down and pulling apart the tissue paper and taking the shoes out of their box and tying them on my feet. They are pink ballet toe shoes, and they are the loveliest thing I own. Even though she bought them too big, they’re too small for me now and hard to walk in, but I shuffle over to my laptop and turn on some music. I’m going old-school with the Spice Girls, a band my mom secretly loved. The song is “Who Do You Think You Are,” and it makes me think of my mom, of me, of where I might go one day, of what I might be.
My Damsels audition is Saturday. I know my routine by heart. I could do it in my sleep. But right now I do my own made-up dance that’s kind of a ballet-hip-hop-electric-slide-shimmy-pop and I am amazing. I am the best dancer ever. I am a superstar. The shoes are magic. My feet are magic. I am magic.
SATURDAY
* * *
Marcus (tall, shaggy hair, pointy chin) stands over the kitchen sink, shoveling food into his face. I start to help myself to the coffee, and that’s when I hear, “I said no.”
A woman walks in followed by a man wearing an official Masselin’s store shirt. His mouth is open in midsentence, but he closes it when he sees Marcus and me. By process of elimination, these are my parents.
Mom says to me, “Put the coffee down now.” Then says to my dad, “We’ll talk about it later,” and it’s clear they’re in the middle of an argument. I reach for the largest mug we have and pour myself a cup of coffee.
Mom asks Dad just what does he want her to do, and she sounds like she’s swallowing razor blades, like the guy at Sad Carnival, as we call it, the one out by Big Lots. I try not to eavesdrop, but I can feel my whole body go on alert, the way it always does when they argue.
Dad says to my mom, “Tonight.”
“Not tonight.”
Marcus and I look at each other. He mouths, “What now?”
Dad goes, “There’s slow surgery and there’s ripping off the Band-Aid, Sarah.”
“I said not tonight.” She fixes her eyes on me, and she is not happy. “I need you to pick up Dusty after you’re done today.”
“From where?”
“From Tams’s house.” Picking up Dusty or Marcus or anyone is normally the last thing I ever agree to. Try not being able to recognize anyone and then having to go find them. But this morning I’m not about to argue with my mom.
Even with half of the bleachers folded up, the new gym is an enormous place. You can barely see the ceiling from the floor, and the lights are blinding. From up above, I would look no larger than an ant.
And all at once, that’s what I feel like—an ant.
My palms are sweating. My heart is clenching, but not unclenching. I can’t catch my breath. I watch as it runs out of the gym as fast as it can, just like I want to do.
WHY IN THE HELL DID I VOLUNTEER TO DO THIS?
Heather Alpern and her three squad captains sit in chairs, legs crossed. The squad captains are all seniors, and they look identical, their hair slicked back into ponytails, faces shining. I find their sameness almost as terrifying as Ms. Alpern’s catlike beauty. Most terrifying of all is Caroline Lushamp, captain of the squad captains, who locks her eyes on me like a squid. A few other Damsel wannabes are sprinkled along the bottom row of the bleachers, waiting their turns to try out.
Caroline says, “Are you ready?” in this super-friendly tone that is completely unnatural.
I can barely hear her because I am trapped in my mind and body, shivering and afraid. I suddenly feel like I have face blindness because no one looks familiar or nice, and my eyes are flying all over the gym, searching for help. They land on Bailey, Jayvee, and Iris, at the very top of the bleachers. When they see me looking at them, they go blank, and maybe they can see my terror. Which means everyone else can probably see it too. I tell myself to move, to hide that terror and stuff it down and out of sight, and then Jayvee waves her arms and yells, “Shine on, you crazy diamond!”
You volunteered to do this because the dance is in you. And then I think of something my mom used to say, about how as scary as it is to go after dreams, it’s even scarier not to.
“Are you ready?” Caroline doesn’t sound as super-friendly this time.
“Yes,” I say. And then I shout, “Yes!”
For my audition song, I chose “Flashdance … What a Feeling” by Irene Cara, in honor of my mom, in honor of me. As I wait for the music to begin, I tell myself, Too many people in this world think small is the best they can do. Not you, Libby Strout. You weren’t born for small! You don’t know how to do small! Small is not in you!