I open a new email.
* * *
Subject: About the photo
Evan,
I know you didn't orchestrate what happened. I know Jocelyn didn't mean any harm—she saw something beautiful and wanted to share it. I've been in this industry long enough to understand that impulse, even if I wish she'd asked first.
What I'm trying to say is: I'm not angry about the photo anymore. I was never angry at you. I was angry at myself for caring so much about what it looked like from the outside—when what mattered was how it felt from the inside.
Which was real. It felt real.
I think I ruined that though. I think I took something that was real and turned it into a problem that needed solving, and now I don't know how to?—
I stop typing. My fingers keep slipping on the keys.
This isn't right. Still too much explaining. Still trying to logic my way through something that was never about logic.
I highlight everything below the subject line.
Delete.
I close the laptop.
I know what I have to do.
Holly
Saturday afternoon class is ending when I walk into the studio. Young dancers streaming past me in pink tights and leotards, little ones showing their parents the bows they practiced today. I did the same thing at that age—big dramatic bows were the best part.
Mrs. Kowalski is at her desk near the barre, putting away rosters and attendance sheets.
She looks up and smiles. “Holly, dear. I’m glad you’re here. Come on in.”
“Hi, Mrs. Kowalski. Big night tonight.”
“The biggest. The kids have been bouncing off the walls all week.” She laughs, shaking her head. “They made me play Waltz of the Flowers during warm-ups today. If I have to hear that music one more time than absolutely necessary.”
“The hazards of Nutcracker season.”
“Every year.” She's organizing papers, not looking at me. “Every single year.”
I readjust the bag on my shoulder. “I was thinking I could inventory the costumes tomorrow if you need. See what needs mending after tonight's final show.”
“Oh, we're good on costumes. All set.”
Her tone is casual. Breezy.
“You sure? I know the party scene jackets were getting worn at the seams.”
“It's handled.” She's up and filing papers now, not quite meeting my eyes. “Yeah, everything's handled. We're in good shape.”
I watch her for a moment. “Okay. Well, how are sign-ups for next term, given all the excitement around the shows? I know enrollment was down last quarter.”
“Actually—” She closes the file cabinet. “We're expanding. Adding new classes.”
“Expanding? Mrs. Kowalski, you were worried about keeping the doors open three months ago.”
