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I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “I . . . I thought . . . Do you have time to talk? I could come home . . .” I stop because I’m about to burst into tears. I need you.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Your father and I are on our way to a concert.”
I close my eyes and wish everything were different. Like it used to be, when Sam was still alive and Mom was always there. No matter what was going on, no matter what problems we had, no matter where she was or what she had to do, she always found a way to be there for us and help us solve our problems.
“Okay . . . Mom, I didn’t get the role,” I blurt out. I curl up into a little ball on my bed and hug myself, still holding the phone to my ear.
“Oh, Lia, what a shame. Was it an important role?”
Hot tears run down my face as I cling to my phone like a lifeline. This can’t be happening. She must know which role I’m talking about. Even though she wouldn’t know which ballet, it would always have been the lead.
“No,” I whisper. “Not really.”
Not really important. Never. Ever.
“It will work out next time.”
“Yes, definitely,” I reply, even though I don’t believe it.
“Can we talk tomorrow? We’re almost to the concert.”
“Of course,” I say, even though I want to scream no. I don’t want to talk to her tomorrow. I want to talk to her now. Besides, I know she won’t call tomorrow. As usual.
“All right. Have a nice evening.” Mom doesn’t understand that the evening can’t possibly be nice in any way.
“You too,” I murmur, but she’s already hung up.
My phone slips out of my hand, and I cry silent tears. Part of me wants to get the journal from my nightstand and write down how I feel. Let out the anger and disappointment. The fear. The feeling of having failed miserably. But my head is empty. Everything is empty. I have nothing to say, nothing to write. I am completely exhausted.
My quilt rustles softly as I pull it over me. The weight is familiar, the fabric soft. I close my eyes. I want to stop thinking, stop feeling, stop being.
Chapter 19
Lia
I’m infinitely tired when my alarm rings, the shrill sound cutting through confused dreams and exhaustion. It can’t possibly be that late yet. I must still have time. It’s too early. I want to sleep. Just sleep. Close my eyes. Ignore the world. Ignore everything. Sleep all day, see no one, do nothing, talk to no one. I fumble for my phone, find the right button, and the ringing stops. But the silence that now fills my room is suddenly very loud.
You’re one of our best dancers.
You’re not dancing with your whole heart.
You’re not there yet.
You always manage.
I’m Susannah’s understudy.
Pearson’s voice, Susannah’s, and my own. Loud silence, too many thoughts in my damn head. I want to crawl under my quilt and hide from them, but you can’t hide from yourself. You can’t shut out the voices. At least not that way.
You’re not dancing with your whole heart.
I dance with everything I have, with everything I can give. How can that not be enough? My throat tightens and my eyes burn. I’m about to start crying again, as if I didn’t do enough of that yesterday. I want it to stop. I just want it all to stop.
The alarm starts ringing again, and it’s awful. I don’t want to get up. I don’t know how to get up and pretend that nothing happened. Pretend that I’m fine, as if everything that happened yesterday is okay with me. As if I can live with being the understudy. How am I supposed to do that?
I turn off the alarm again, press my palms into my eye sockets, and try my best to keep the tears from overflowing. I force myself to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. Again and again. How am I supposed to get through this day? Breakfast, training, rehearsals? I can’t. It’s impossible.
Just stay in bed. The voice in my head is soft and seductive, and the thought is so, so tempting. But I’ve never taken a sick day. Not once in the last three years. Even on days when I should have stayed in bed with inflamed joints and pounding headaches. None of us take a break unless it’s absolutely necessary. We push our bodies until we can’t go on.
