A Lily in the Light(32)
The sun was blinding. It turned all the tar lines and silver vents into a blur. The 7 train peeled to a stop behind her. She pushed the door shut and didn’t care if she was locked up here. It didn’t matter. There was nowhere to go. She wiped at her eyes and flipped into first position, second, third, rounding her way through this week’s barre and every piece of choreography she could remember for as long as she’d been dancing until she was warm despite the cold or the clouds over the sun or the fact that there was no music, only notes that echoed in her head, drowning out all the ugly things she could never unhear.
Chapter Eight
“Esme? May I see you for a minute?” Amelia was standing in the doorway, blocking the door. Esme was the last student in the studio again, still practicing the choreography Amelia had taught earlier, a series of cha?nés and piqué turns set to Tchaikovsky for summer program auditions in five weeks. The tendon between her neck and shoulder ached. Her left ankle was already swelling, pushing against the ribbon and elastic in her technique shoes.
All she wanted was to run the combination one more time before she packed up and raced through the parking lot to make the train, but now she couldn’t. She could run it anyway and make Amelia wait, but she’d miss the 8:35 p.m. train she’d promised her father she wouldn’t miss, and she couldn’t risk her parents not letting her come back, so she walked duckfooted toward the door, heels thumping in disappointment.
“Why don’t I make us tea?” Amelia asked.
“No, that’s OK,” Esme said, annoyed that Amelia didn’t just come out with whatever it was.
“It’s a conversation we shouldn’t rush, and there’s something I’d like you to see.” Amelia moved slowly, deliberately, pulling mugs and tea things from her desk with care. The back of Esme’s neck tensed as if she’d been cuffed like a bad puppy and carried off to the corner. She’d been back for a week and had done everything Amelia asked. She’d gotten up every morning to do the homework her teachers dropped off, do at least half an hour of Pilates, and practice as much choreography as she could in the living room. She drank disgusting, chalky protein shakes midmorning and afternoon to keep her weight normal even though she weighed eighty pounds every morning, consistently. She was at the studio by 3:30 p.m. every afternoon and danced until 8:15 p.m., only stopping when Amelia closed the studio. Her applications for summer programs were almost done. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She could dance through anything.
Amelia filled two mugs with hot water and dropped tea bags in each one. She bobbed them up and down, but rushing the brewing process didn’t make Esme feel better about the time. Amelia’s face was thin and drawn. She tossed the tea bags into the trash, steadying herself as she passed Esme a mug and sat beside her on the waiting room chairs. Please don’t ask about home, Esme prayed. Just tell me I’ve done well.
“So.” Amelia cradled the mug between her hands. “I have an interesting proposition for you.”
Esme glanced at the clock out of habit, unsure what a proposition was.
“I’ve already spoken to your parents, and they think it’s a good opportunity if you’re interested. How would you feel about living with me now that you’re beginning auditions?”
Esme was stunned. The mug wavered in her hands. She was sure she’d misheard. “Live with you? Here?” It sounded ridiculous.
“Yes,” Amelia said simply. “Well, not here at the studio. In my house. You’d have your own room, and we can arrange correspondence classes for school. You wouldn’t have to travel every day, and you could use the studio when it’s empty.”
“My parents are OK with this?” Why didn’t they want her at home? It was for dance, but wouldn’t they miss her? Losing someone else should have been unbearable. Even her father must have agreed. Esme felt dizzy with choices. Her own room, no school, the studio to herself, a house that wasn’t painted with sadness, covered with sympathy cards and hints of what life used to be. She thought of her mother in the trailer, hanging maps and finding new places to contact, new packages of Lily’s picture and flyers to send to some new part of the world, something no one had thought of yet. Or Detective Ferrera’s list. How could she help if she didn’t live there?
“They think it would help you. You’ll have to live away from home for most of the summer programs you’re applying for. This would be a good test.”
Amelia watched her carefully. Esme’s gaze flickered to the framed articles and pictures of Amelia dancing. If Amelia were young, considering options most teenagers didn’t have, what would she say? When Amelia was eleven, she hadn’t known her career would start in five years. Every choice mattered when things happened quickly. Lily wasn’t even five. Lily was four, cut free and untethered, floating in space like an astronaut while everyone else tried to figure out what to do next. Did leaving home mean she was giving up? A lump formed in her throat. Esme didn’t know what to say.
“Why don’t I drive you home? I can show you my house on the way, and you can talk it over with your parents when you’re ready.”
Her family only used words now when they couldn’t be avoided. The thought of talking things over was ridiculous, but Esme didn’t say so.
“OK.” Esme leaned forward to pick up her bag, forgetting about the tea. It spilled all over her tights. The peppermint smell turned her stomach. Amelia handed her a paper towel. Esme was mortified. She should have been calmer, honored Amelia would offer this and weighing the offer carefully like a real professional. Instead, she felt even younger than eleven years old, afraid she’d miss her room or Madeline sleeping in the next bed, and yet she wanted to see Amelia’s house. Esme had read everything about Amelia, watched videotapes of her as the Firebird, Juliet, and Esme’s favorite, the Swan Queen, graceful as the feather-white swan and terrifying as the Black Swan. Amelia liked apples and handfuls of almonds, but Esme didn’t know anything about Amelia’s real life, the one people didn’t see.