“Good morning, Violet!” Mia’s warm voice comes through my phone. “I tried your old number, but it seemed you changed it. I apologize that I had to go through your mother. How are you doing?”
I had to change my number after the crash. I kept getting weird texts and calls from random numbers, making it impossible to block them all. Not to mention I lost my phone in the accident—it was smashed beyond repair. The phone company was able to transfer some of my old pictures and contacts, but I lost at least a week of data. So changing my number a week or so after that didn’t seem like that big of a deal. In the grand scheme of things.
“I’m good, thank you. How are you?” I always feel formal around her, even when she told me last year to call her Mia instead of Ms. Germain—what I’d called her for the past five years previous to that. It’s not stiffness in my voice, exactly. More like… I respect her too much to be casual.
“Good, good. Listen, your mother explained the situation with the doctor.” Her voice drops, and a door in the background closes. “I’m so sorry to hear about your leg. However, I have a relationship with some of our own physicians, and I was wondering if you’d like them to take a look? They know the particular strain a dancer puts on her legs.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “Oh, I’d—”
“I’m in New York for the next week to secure sponsors. We’re finishing with Swan Lake next month and opening auditions for Sleeping Beauty a few months after that.” She pauses. “If you’re able and cleared by our doctors, I’d like to see you audition. To see if we have a role for you.”
“Wow. Honestly, I didn’t expect…” A lump forms in my throat. “Sorry. Thank you.”
It’s my turn to grip Willow’s hand like my life depends on it. She leans into me, silent support, as my eyes burn with tears.
I can’t lose it now. “They told me it was impossible with the pain.”
Mia exhales. “I’ll be honest with you, Violet. It very well could be. However, your mother mentioned that the orthopedic surgeon you saw was one of the best in the country, but the doctors on your team weren’t versed in dancers. Do you want to hang up your pointe shoes on one opinion?”
“I don’t,” I answer. In a fucking heartbeat.
“Good. Dr. Michaels practices in Vermont. Let’s meet with him in two weeks and go from there. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you.” I hang up and drop my phone, then promptly burst into tears.
Holy shit.
I’m not ready—and I need to be. I need to prove that, in a month, I can get back into some semblance of fitness. I have a feeling they’d be a little generous, coming off an injury, but not that much.
And everything rides on this.
Willow throws her arms around my shoulders, squeezing me tight. “You can do this,” she whispers in my ear. Just a secret passing between us. “I’ll help you. Whatever you need to chase your dream.”
I hug her back and close my eyes. There’s a weird giddiness in my chest, separate from the emotions I’ve been holding on to for the last six months. The grief of losing dance isn’t gone, per se. But maybe it doesn’t have to be forever.
“Call your mom,” Willow urges. “She’s going to have something bratty to say, but she’ll be happy for you.”
I hesitate. “Yeah, but then she’ll want to come up here. You know, visit. Or worse, try to attend the appointment and taint it. Or she’ll try to make sure I’m eating well.”
I give her a look. Not too long ago—I think it was our freshman year—my mom noticed I had put on a little weight on a video chat. Nothing crazy. In her words, my face seemed wider. So she rushed up and got rid of all the sugar in our apartment.
Even Willow’s stash of chocolates.
She threw out the salt, too, citing the fact that salt can make your body hold on to water weight. Instead, she filled our fridge with greens, plain chicken, fish. So many salads. Enough that I thought I might turn into a rabbit and take Willow right along with me.
“Good point.” She sighs and crawls out of bed. “Okay, fine. Maybe only tell her after that appointment.”
Unless she ignores my call altogether, which she has been doing since I got back to campus last weekend. Out of sight, out of mind.
Easy come, easy go.
I have the urge to get rid of the globe and delete her number from my phone. But that’s dramatic… and overkill.
Drama is Paris and her weird claim on Greyson. I gesture to Willow’s phone. “Just tell Madison that Paris can have him. I don’t really give a shit what she does.”
Another bald-faced lie, but whatever. It’s not the first one I’ve told, and it won’t be the last. Willow gives me a look that tells me she knows I’m lying, and she’s judging, but she still types it out and hits send.
“How are you going to get to Vermont?”
I grimace.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What’s going on with you and Knox, huh? I thought it was just a little hookup…”
She has the good grace to blush. “I don’t know. At least Greyson didn’t have him waiting for you in the locker room.”
“Ew, no. I would’ve refused on the grounds that you’re my best friend, and we don’t do that to each other.”
She smirks. “Pretty sure Greyson would’ve been more than happy to bury you for that.”
I shrug. “Worth it.”
We go to brunch and talk about normal things. When we return home, the rest of the day is spent on the couch, watching movies and struggling through the homework we’ve been putting off. In my environmental economics class, we have to pick a project and do a presentation on it at the end of the semester. Some of our homework is leading us in baby steps toward it. Pick something that’s impacting the environment—water pollution, for example, or subsidized crops. My mind spins at how little I know about the world and how humans are steadily destroying it.
We make dinner, and I stare at the food. My appetite is nonexistent. It doesn’t help that my focus keeps getting yanked back toward ballet like a yo-yo.
Willow gives me a look. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” I know what she means, though. And yet… I can’t help it. I want to be ready for an audition so fucking bad, I can practically taste my dreams reviving. I have to stop myself from pressing my hand to my stomach.
She shakes her head. “You’re going to do what you want no matter what I say.”
“You said you’d help.”
“Figured you’d go about it in a healthy way, is all,” she mumbles.
I nod once and grab a plate. The television fills the silence, but that’s it. I sense her wanting to say something else, to try and make it better, but there isn’t anything she can do. She’s waiting for me to assure her. So I do.
“I just need to make it,” I tell her in a low voice. “After that, I’ll ease up. Okay?”
She rises abruptly. “I love you, and I want you to chase your dreams. But, Violet? I don’t believe you.”
I spend the rest of the night watching Mia Germain choreography. Old videos of her teaching open classes, of the ballerinas who excelled under her guidance. They went on to dance for famous companies that toured around the world.