The Turnout(49)

“Explain yourself!”

Bam! The dormer window popped open at last and Marie’s bombshell-blond hair shaking itself loose, Marie’s fox face eyeing her. The look on it, gloating.

It’s mine, she seemed to say. All mine.

“It’s mine,” she then said, smiling proudly. “All mine.”



* * *



*

There’s no way she can afford this,” Charlie said. “Is there?”

“No,” Dara said.



* * *



*

    Maybe it was in the air, Dara would think later. The feeling of recklessness, profligacy. Because that afternoon, Dr. Weston took Dara aside to bemoan The Nutcracker fees, larger this year to account for new costumes to replace the most threadbare ones, some of the tulle stiff and cracked with age, for the repairs to the backdrop and the elaborate and tumescent Christmas tree. The increase in the facility agreement, the payroll.

Operating the wet-vac nearby, Benny gave her a sympathetic look as Dr. Weston went on and on about how the fees should be a sliding scale based on the roles their children were granted.

After, she found Charlie at his desk, making a list of delinquent parents who had yet to ante up for some holiday magic.

“Good thing Dr. Weston doesn’t know this,” Charlie said, looking at his paper. “Our Clara’s mama hasn’t paid her share.”

“Mrs. Bloom?” Dara asked.

“Mrs. Bloom of the emerald-green Mercedes,” Charlie said. “I’ll call her.”

“No,” Dara said, “I will.”

Charlie looked at her. “You’re not going to ask her about last night, are you? We need her to pay up.”

“She’ll pay up,” Dara said, swiping the number from his hand.

Besides, she needed to talk to Mrs. Bloom anyway, about Bailey. Nervous, fearful Bailey, who began Nutcracker season with a throng of friendly classmates happy to braid her bun, to invite her for hot chocolate at Dreusser’s after class, and who now faced straight pins in her shoes, ketchup on the crotch of her stowed leotard, cold stares around the rehearsal space.

Poor Bailey, who now stood, like Clara, on the dark stage alone.



* * *



*

But when Dara tried to call Mrs. Bloom, a recording asserted, The number you have dialed is not in service. . . . On some old paperwork, she found a landline number from years ago. But when Dara tried it, a recording announced, This number is no longer in service or has been disconnected. . . .



* * *



*

After rehearsal, Dara asked Bailey if she could help her get in touch with her mother. But the girl kept insisting she didn’t have the number, didn’t know it. She looked embarrassed.

“Bailey,” Dara said, “we need to be able to contact her.”

“But why?” Bailey said, twitching in the costume, Clara’s filmy nightgown, which she would have to wear in the nightmare scene. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Dara said, and from the corner of her eye she saw a shadow in the doorway. Smelled that thick, sweet smell of his aftershave, the menthol snap of his vape.

“I’m still gonna be Clara, right?” Bailey asked, her eyes glossy.

“Of course,” Dara said, her eyes on the shadow. Why is he hovering here?

Bailey nodded cautiously, then shook the staticky nightgown from her tights and began spinning, pirouetting, her hair coming loose from its pins.

Dara looked over at the doorway, but Derek, if he’d been there, was gone.



* * *



*

Within the hour, Dara’s phone illuminated with a private number.

It was Mrs. Bloom, her voice slight and careful.

“I understand you’re trying to reach me,” she said quickly. “If it’s about my . . . obligation . . .”

It was all a little embarrassing. Dara assured her that everything could be settled simply.

“Surely it’s just an oversight because you’re such an ardent supporter of The Nutcracker. But it seems you’ve also missed the last billing cycle for classes too.”

There was a pause on the other end. Dara could hear Mrs. Bloom breathing. Little, short breaths like a nervous animal.

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Bloom said, clearing her throat, “I’m a little cash poor right now. The house—there were repairs.”

“Yes, I know. We have the same contractor, remember? You rec—”

“How long will he be there?” Mrs. Bloom said. “Is he . . . how long do you expect it to go on?”

“The dust, I know,” Dara said. “I’m sorry about that. We’ve had some setbacks. A flood. So we’re a little behind. But I assure you, we want it over as soon as possible.”

“Is he there now?” Mrs. Bloom said, her voice newly low, husky.

“Um, yes,” Dara said, finding herself lowering her voice too.

“I should go,” she said abruptly. “I have to go.” Her voice almost forlorn, like her daughter’s. I’m still gonna be Clara, right?

“Mrs. Bloom,” Dara said quickly, “did I see you last night? In the studio parking lot?”

There was a choked sound from the other end of the phone.