The Turnout(103)

Behind her in the audience, Dara spotted Bailey’s mother in the front row. Mrs. Bloom, dear Mrs. Bloom with all her loneliness and her ravenous longing—a longing that felt like an X-ray into herself that she never wanted to see.

But she looked so proud now, seated in the front row, with her hound’s-tooth scarf and her square-toe pumps, and the bouquet of pale roses tucked beside her, waiting for her daughter’s final bow.

“Madame Durant,” Bailey repeated. “I just—”

“Shouldn’t you be on your cue?” Dara said.

“I have ninety seconds,” Bailey said, biting her lip, white teeth sinking into the dark red of her painted mouth. “Madame Durant, I wanted to thank you.”

Dara paused, her throat tightening.

“Don’t thank me,” she said. “You did it. You did it all yourself.”

A smile flitted across Bailey’s powdered face.

“Lights, warning on cue one. Curtain up—now.” The stage manager was calling, her headset sliding down her face. “Is she ready?”

Bailey turned to her and nodded, her back straightening, her sash shushing, the soft thump of her feet in her pointe shoes.

But then Dara saw it: the slight furrow of her brow as Bailey stared out into the darkness.

“You’re ready,” Dara said, her own voice throaty, shaking. “You are.”

Bailey looked at her. Held her gaze, the floorboards beneath them vibrating, the buoyant overture, like the winding of a music box.

“I am,” Bailey said, and then, inexplicably, putting her slender hand on Dara’s. Dara felt it, the heat of her touch, the beating of her heart, both of theirs. “I’m ready.”

“Lights, cue one—now. Spot one, be ready to pick up . . .”

Dara watched, holding her breath, as Bailey flew from the wings onto the stage. The gasps of excitement from the audience, the music sweeping over them, all eyes on the girl, the hero, at last.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Boundless thanks are due to my brilliant editor, Sally Kim, for her masterful eye and ear and especially her true-blue readerly heart.

To the peerless Sylvie Rabineau at WME and Maja Nikolic at Writers House. To Bard Dorros and Robyn Meisinger at Anonymous Content.

Thanks also to Mikaela Vidmar-Perrins, for her invaluable fact-checking and question-answering.

As always, such gratitude to my mom, Patricia Abbott, for all her support and, in the last few years, bravery and resilience. And to my stalwart family: Josh Abbott, Julie Nichols, and Kevin Abbott, without whom, and to the Nases: Jeff, Ruth, Steve, Michelle, Marley, and Austin.

And I’m forever in debt to genius and muse Alison Quinn, to Darcy Lockman, and to Lisa Lutz. And heart-in-throat gratitude to Jack Pendarvis and my beloved Oxford, Mississippi, friends: Theresa Starkey, Ace and Angela Atkins, Bill and Katie Boyle, and Jimmy Cajoleas.

And to Dan Conaway, to whom I owe the whole enchilada.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR



Megan Abbott is the award-winning author of ten novels, including Give Me Your Hand, You Will Know Me, The Fever, Dare Me, and The End of Everything. She received her PhD in literature from New York University. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, the Los Angeles Times Magazine, The Guardian, and The Believer. She is the co-creator and executive producer of USA's adaptation of Dare Me and was a staff writer on HBO's David Simon show The Deuce. Abbott lives in New York City.