Filed to story: Penny and Navy Brother Asher
The rest of us look at him,
He shrugs, swallowing quickly, “Nah, I don’t think so.”
Mom frowns, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. “How come?”
He shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time all morning. “She probably already left anyway.”
Dad leans forward, his mug thunking down on the table. “What do you mean already left? Didn’t she need a ride?”
Mom sets her fork down entirely now, her attention Fully on Tyler, her expression edging toward concerned. “Her parents called us yesterday, remember? Said they were going out of town and Penny would be alone this week.”
“Yeah,” Tyler says, scratching the back of his neck like he’s trying to buy time. “I meat me hanging around distracting her.”
Ded frowns. “So she’s taking the bus across town? For one of the biggest auditions of her life!” likes to focus, you know? She probably didn’t want
Tyler shrugs again, and there’s something so casual about it, so careless, that I have to grip my coffee mug tighter to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
“She’ll be fine,” he says. “I’ll call her. Wish her luck.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
Not loud.
Not angry
Just disappointed in a way that makes me want to stand up and walk out into the cold morning air until the tightness in my chest snaps loose.
Mom shakes her head slightly, murmuring. “Poor thing.”
I don’t say anything.
But I can feel it.
The imitation, the disbelief, the ugly, unfamiliar urge to reach across the table and knock some sense into my brother for being so careless with something-someone-that clearly matters more than he knows.
And maybe it shows, because Mom catches my eye and smiles sheepishly, like she’s realizing too late that they’ve been talking about someone ! technically don’t even know.
“Sorry, Ash,” she says, brushing a hand through her hair. “You don’t even know what we’re talking about. Penny’s a ballerina. Sweetest thing, She’s been dancing since she could walk, basically, and today’s her big audition for the spring gala”
Dad picks up the thread, his voice steady. “It’s a major opportunity. One of the biggest performances the city puts on Landing a mile would be huge for her career.”
Mom nods. “She’s been practicing day and night for weeks now. The poor thing’s been running herself ragged trying to get every detall perfect.
They turn to Tyler, almost expectantly.
“So what’s the show again? Dad asks,
Tyler shrugs again, stabbing at his eggs without moch interest. “I don’t know, Swan something? Black Swan?
“It’s Swan Lake,” Mom connects, exasperated.
He laughs. “Yeah, that. I know the music. I’ve brand her practice it times. I’m just bad with name.”
I set my mug down slowly, the ceramic making a soft, deliberate sound against the sund,
“You don’t know what the most important opportunity your girlfriend’s life is called?” I ask, voice low,
Tyler flushes slightly but laughs it off. “I know what it is. I just forgot the name. She knows I’m proud of her.”
Proud
Proud enough to let her take a freezing bus across town alone at dawn for the biggest audition of her life while he slept in and planned to call her after the fact.
My fists clench under the table, the muscles in my jaw tightening until my teeth ache, and I look away, out the window where the early morning sun is just starting to claw its way over the rooftops.
It shouldn’t bother me.
It doesn’t bother me.
I don’t even know her,
I don’t know her dreams or her struggles or the way her hands probably shake when she’s standing backstage waiting for her cue.
I don’t know the hours she’s sunk into making herself good enough, strong enough, perfect enough to earn a place under those bright, blinding lights. ne else understands.
But I know what it’s like to fight for something no one
I know what it’s like to be alone in it.
And the thought of her-tiny and stubborn and fierce-making that trip alone because the people who should have shown up for her didn’t, sits like a stone in my gut.
I shove my chair back from the table, standing up so fast the legs scrape against the floor.
“I’m gonna shower,” I mutter, grabbing my coffee cup and walking out before anyone can say anything else.
Because if I stay.
I’ll say something I can’t take back.
The waiting room buzzes with a kind of nervous energy that clings to the like humidity, thick and heary and impossible
I sit cross-legged on the smooth wood floot, my body folded low into a deep stretch, my head bowed over my knees, the quiet crackle of my muscles and joints almost loud against the whispered conversations and the shuffle of restless feet.
All around me, the other dancers move like ghosts, their fates pale and drawn, their bodies bending and folding into warm ups with a kind frantic, desperate urgency that makes my own heart thud louder in my chest.
Some girls are crying quietly, beads bowed, hands trembling as they tog at the satin ribbons t of their pointe shoes.
Sense sit against the walls, hugging their knees, faces buried deep in the sleeves of their waters.
One girl-a tiny brunette with shaking hands-throws up into a trash can at the far end of the room, her friend rubbing circles into her bar with a look of helplessness that makes my stomach knot.
The door to the audition hall stays closed.
Silent.
Waiting.
And none of us know when it will open next, when a name will be called, when everything we’ve worked for will come down to five breathless minutes under the unforgiving lights.
I close my eyes, breathing in deep through my now, stretching my arms overhead until the muscles along my sides pull tight, trying to shake the tension building in my spine.
I have to stay sharp. tay focused.
I have to stay 1
This is what I worked for.
Every early morning.
Every late night..
Every blister and bruise and rehearsal that left me too sore to move.
It all led here.
I remind myself of that with every breath, every stretch, every quiet, determined flex of my fingers and toes inside my well-worn slippers.
I’m ready.
Or at least, I want to believe I am.
Across the room, the brunette who got sick tries to sip from a water bottle, her hands still trembling too badly to hold it steady
Before I can second-guess myself, I stand up, crossing ossing the room and pulling my own bottle from my bag.
“Here,” I say, offering it to her with a small, encouraging smile.
She looks up at me with wide, glassy eyes, her face pale under the fluorescent lights, and for a second I think she might take it-but then the shakes her head, mullers something I can’t catch, and bolts nut
The heavy door thats shut behind her. the room, her dance bag banging against her legs as she runs.
A few of the gids exchange looks, but no one says anythin
We all understand.
Sometimes, no matter how hard you want it, the fear wins.
I slide back down onto the floor, tacking my legs into another stretch, and exhale slowly, trying to push the knot of nerves from my chest.
It’s hard, though.
Hard not to feel the way the tension in the room coils tighter with every second.
Hard not to wonder if the door will swing open and my name will be next.
Hard not to think about how alone I really am right now.
I’m tying my pointe ribbons tighter, adjusting them until the pressure feels almost reassuring, when I hear someone drop onto the floor beside