The recital casting list appeared near the end of winter.
Audrey had been talking about it for days.
She knew she had missed too much training to expect the same opportunities as dancers who had attended the entire term.
Knowing that did not make waiting easier.
I was working when she sent me a photograph of the list.
Her name appeared in the ensemble.
Not as the soloist she'd hoped to audition for.
Not in the featured variation she had practiced before the absences.
The ensemble.
She followed the picture with a message.
I guess this is fair.
I called during my break.
“Are you upset?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to come get you?”
“No. I want to stay for rehearsal.”
“Okay.”
She was quiet.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you be upset for me without making a complaint?”
I nearly laughed.
“I can manage that.”
“Thanks.”
We hung up.
That evening, Audrey came home with tired legs and a wrinkled cast sheet.
Scott had made vegetable soup.
She sat down and began explaining the choreography.
Her part mattered to the group.
She would dance in three sections and help with a transition.
There was no solo.
I listened while she told us how badly she had wanted one.
“I did everything right before this,” she said.
“You worked hard,” Scott replied.
“Then I missed all those classes.”
He took a breath.
“You didn't choose the circumstances. But the other dancers also worked hard.”
“I know.”
She pushed her spoon around the bowl.
“That's why I didn't ask Ms. Alvarez to change it.”
I reached for her hand.
“I'm proud of you for speaking honestly about the disappointment.”
She smiled faintly.
“I'm still disappointed.”
“You're allowed.”
Later that week, she asked Lily to help her with a particularly difficult transition.
They practiced in the studio hallway with permission.
Audrey realized the ensemble work required coordination she hadn't mastered yet.
She liked that challenge more than she expected.
One rehearsal ran late.
Scott waited in the parking lot with a thermos of hot chocolate.
Audrey climbed into the passenger seat and groaned.
“My feet are officially done.”
Scott passed her the cup.
“Do feet resign?”
“Mine filed paperwork.”
He laughed.
They drove home talking about movies.
I was glad Audrey could have an evening with her father that wasn't about Derek or Mia or what had happened.
In early spring, the studio held a costume fitting.
Audrey brought home a bag of pale blue fabric.
She showed me the costume and then immediately asked for help adjusting one strap.
I fetched my sewing box.
My mother had taught me to sew when I was a teenager.
I was never very good at it.
Audrey knew that.
“You're not going to ruin this, right?”
“Such confidence.”
She grinned.
We pinned the fabric and checked the fit.
The weeks before the recital were busy in ways that had nothing to do with the family conflict.
Audrey had a science test, a history essay, and two costume rehearsals.
One afternoon, she came home frustrated because she couldn't find a workbook.
She searched her bag three times.
Then she accused Scott of moving it when he'd cleaned the kitchen.
He looked bewildered.
“I haven't touched your workbook.”
She snapped back.
I waited until she stopped talking.
“Do you want help searching, or do you need five minutes first?”
“Five minutes.”
She went upstairs.
When she came back, she apologized to Scott.
They found the workbook underneath a pile of clean towels.
She had put it there herself.
We laughed about it later.
I was relieved that our family could have an ordinary argument without treating it as proof that something terrible was happening again.
Audrey was a teenager.
She would have difficult days.
So would we.
The goal wasn't a house without conflict.
It was a house where people could be honest about conflict without losing their place.
The Sunday before the costume fitting, we cleaned out the hall closet.
I found a bag of old ribbons and programs from Audrey's early dance classes.
She sat on the floor sorting them.
“This one was my favorite,” she said, holding up a wrinkled pink ribbon.
“Because you won?”
“Because I got to dance with Mia.”
I sat beside her.
She showed me a photograph of both girls making funny faces backstage.
It reminded me that their friendship was older than the crisis.
She wanted to keep that history.
I asked whether she'd like a small memory box.
She said yes.
We lined an old shoebox with wrapping paper.
She added the ribbon, the photograph, and a worn program.
Then she placed her recent scholarship review letter beside them.
I raised my eyebrows.
“You want that in there too?”
“It's part of my dance story.”
She closed the lid.
I carried the extra papers to the recycling bin.
When I returned, she was practicing the ensemble transition with her arms outstretched.
She stopped to ask whether the movement looked smooth.
I gave the only answer I could honestly offer.
“It looks better than yesterday.”
She grinned.
“That counts.”
We practiced counting the beats together until I lost track.
Audrey laughed and took over the music.
She no longer needed me to know every step.
She needed me to show up when asked.
She stood in front of the mirror.
I saw the girl who had once stretched between our refrigerator and dining table.
I also saw someone older.
She had learned that adults could fail her.
She had also learned that she could tell the truth and be believed.
The day before the recital, she laid everything out on her bed.
Shoes.
Tights.
Hairpins.
Makeup.
A labeled water bottle.
She checked the bag twice.
Then she came into the kitchen.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Terrified.”
“Want to talk?”
“Not really.”
She looked at the oven clock.
“Can you make pasta?”
“Absolutely.”
We made pasta.
She ate two bowls and told me a funny story about Lily dropping a prop during rehearsal.
We laughed.
For once, nobody tried to turn an ordinary evening into a lesson.
She had a performance tomorrow.
Tonight, she needed dinner and sleep.
During costume week, the studio asked parents to help label garment bags.
I volunteered for one afternoon.
I sat beside several other parents at a folding table with rolls of tape and permanent markers.
Nobody knew the full story of Audrey's absence.
They talked about missing hairpins, forgotten water bottles, and the price of theater parking.
I found the ordinary conversation soothing.
Ms. Alvarez stopped to thank us.
Before she returned to rehearsal, she told me Audrey had been helping younger dancers learn the order of an ensemble transition.
“She explains patiently,” the instructor said.
I smiled.
“She's always liked teaching.”
“It's a useful skill, as long as she remembers her own part too.”
We both laughed.
I thought about the difference between Audrey offering help and being told she alone could solve another person's struggle.
The first could be a joy.
The second had exhausted her.
After the fitting, Audrey thanked me for labeling the bags.
Then she reminded me I'd misspelled one girl's surname.
I promised to check more carefully next time.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: The Night of the Performance Brought Back a Tradition We Thought We Had Lost
The Instructor Closed the Door and Told Me How Many Classes Audrey Had Missed
Part 14 of 16
