A Lily in the Light(62)
Ashley startled. The eye pencil smeared across her face.
“Great.” Esme fumbled with the hanger, threw the shoes into the trash, and huffed out of the room for another pair. She’d bring her costume to wardrobe. They’d do what they could.
Ashley followed Esme into the hallway. “What’s wrong?” The concern in her voice sounded real enough, but who knew.
Esme kept walking. It didn’t matter. It could have been anyone, on purpose or not. She picked through her box of pointe shoes for a pair and sat alone in the hallway, hoping Ashley would take the hint and leave, but Ashley hovered, half-dressed in her costume.
“Can I help you with something? Let me . . . maybe I could—”
“I’m fine,” Esme shot back, harsher than she intended. Her chest burned. Her face felt like she was staring into a hair dryer. She thought of Madeline sitting on her kitchen floor, surrounded by open cabinets, watching a mess unfold from fatigue and uncertainty, trying to sort it out alone, pretending her life was still the same. Esme’s spine rubbed against the wall painfully. The hot overconcentration of ignoring Ashley flamed in her cheeks. She just wanted to leave.
And then there was Liz, alone somewhere in protective custody, wearing borrowed clothes, being questioned by strangers. Esme imagined the pink sequins on Lily’s shoes, her blue-and-teal-striped skirt, her tangle of messy hair. What would her little sister look like grown up? If. And the baby in Madeline’s stomach, its own little universe of cells multiplying over and over again into a person. Everything was changing nauseatingly fast.
She thought of her mother turning down the sheets on Lily’s bed beside her own and tucking in a twelve-year-old girl, pressing Turtley under her arm and whispering good night to a wide-eyed Liz in the darkness. Or worse, Cerise telling Madeline’s baby that he couldn’t sit on that little bed, not ever, because it was Lily’s and always would be.
“Listen,” Ashley said. “They’re just jealous. You were great last night, really great.”
Esme stabbed the needle through the satin and felt the first jab of a hot tear but wiped it away quickly. Her costume sat beside her in a heap. She wouldn’t let whoever had done this have the satisfaction. They were watching from somewhere. Ashley shifted from foot to foot, then turned toward the dressing room, glancing back only once. Esme’s back curled against the wall, her legs splayed, fingers working furiously at satin and ribbons, alone in the hallway, feeling much younger than nineteen. Maybe, Esme thought bitterly, this was how she should measure success. Had the seashell been a joke too?
And where was Adam? He was running around with stupid Jennifer and acting important because this was his show. She shouldn’t have come. She should have stayed in San Francisco in her tiny apartment, where she could pretend that Adam was still her closest friend. Pretend, pretend, pretend. She was sick of it, but the truth was worse.
Ashley was back. She slid a newspaper to Esme and left it there. Esme stopped sewing and saw herself in the picture, head back, hands reaching toward the light. They were carrying her away. She wished someone could carry her away in real life. Then she could shed it all behind her—Lily, Liz, Madeline, the pressure of perfect—and just be white light. She only knew ballet French, but she recognized one word in the headline. étoile. Star.
“I’m so sorry, Esme.” Ashley sighed. Her tulle skirt swayed lightly around her ankles. The dressing room door creaked on its hinge as the breeze swelled through the hallway. “This is supposed to be fun, you know? And for me, well, I’m just here to remember why I loved dancing in the first place, but I guess that’s not the case for everyone. I couldn’t translate the whole thing,” she said of the article. “But it says you were amazing, an unexpected surprise. You know how people get . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Esme watched Ashley from under her eyelashes. She looked lost and bright white in the fluorescent hallway. Ashley lifted Esme’s crumpled costume gently, like a sleeping child, like someone had probably lifted Lily and carried her away that night, legs dangling, heavy with fatigue. There was nothing where the costume had been just a moment before.
“I’ll take it to wardrobe,” she whispered.
Esme jabbed the needle through the ribbon again and missed. A small red bead welled on her finger. It wasn’t just about the coffee. She pushed the newspaper away. What if she couldn’t do it again?
When Ashley was gone, she pulled the newspaper toward her and folded the article into a square. She’d send it to Amelia, another little glimmer of success for her wall, for her hopeful students. It would make Amelia happy too. Think about that little girl, Esme reminded herself, the one dreaming about life when she made it. Hadn’t she read that jealous dancers let chickens loose onstage to ruin someone’s performance? It was the funniest thing when she was twelve, chickens clucking onstage, pecking at tape lines. She and Adam had made a list of everyone they’d love to let chickens loose on but never would’ve done it. At least it wasn’t chickens this time. She’s still in there, Esme reminded herself. You can still be that hopeful little person.
Esme spun through the revolving door as Christophe was leaving with a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm. He stopped when he saw her, smiled. From under the counter, he pulled another box with a silver ribbon.
“For you.”
Her heart skipped an involuntary beat. She pulled off the ribbon. Inside, bits of broken beach glass in blues, greens, and frosted whites blended into something dreamlike. She reached inside and pulled out a sea-green piece with smooth edges. Esme traced her finger over a faded logo and the numbers 1947. “You really don’t know who sent it?”