Clara, golden under the lights, her head lifted, throat glowing like a torch, like the Fire Eater.
* * *
*
Marie,” Dara found herself whispering, her hand on her chest. She turned to look for her, as if expecting to see her sister’s foxen face.
But, of course, Marie wasn’t there. She’d left two months after Charlie died, after they’d walked through the ash-shook carcass of their house, the sky white and pure. She’d stayed, Dara knew, as long as she could, longer—until finally she couldn’t wait anymore. The day she left, she’d thrown herself into Dara’s arms with such force it took her breath away. Standing on the front lawn, Dara watched her drive away in that vivid flame of a car. The one, it turned out, she hadn’t bought for him at all. She’d bought it for her new life, for her beyond.
The most recent sunbaked postcard came from Greece, which she’d found her way back to, to the beginning of civilization, before history, but not before family.
The photo was of some kind of statue, a soldier, or an angel, arms raised above the head, hands grappling a magnificent flaming sword.
“Marie,” Dara whispered again, her eyes filling. Loving her. Loving her sister who had carried everything for all of them. What a terrible burden. What an albatross to free herself of. How glad Dara was that she had.
“Marie,” Dara whispered once more, her hand on her chest, “can I too?”
* * *
*
Madame Durant.”
Dara turned and it was Bailey Bloom. In the smoky half-light, her hair slicked and gleaming into its bun, her face painted, her doll lashes affixed, her brows a slash. The pearlescent white of her face.
“Mademoiselle Bloom,” Dara said, nodding approvingly. “Clara at last.”
Bailey in Clara’s party dress, forest green and darted, sequins sewn into the trim.
Bailey, finally getting to dance Clara a year late, the burgundy sash on her dress lowered to accommodate her new breasts.
What a difference a year had made. The Bailey of last fall, suffering through the pins in her pointe shoes, the tainted cookies, the dead rat. And then the canceled Nutcracker performances after the fire, after Charlie.
How strong Bailey had been, how stoic. And now this year, unshaken by anything, she stood before Dara so poised, so eager, so hungry to get out onstage.
Behind her in the audience, Dara spotted Bailey’s mother in the front row. Mrs. Bloom, dear Mrs. Bloom with all her loneliness and her ravenous longing—a longing that felt like an X-ray into herself that she never wanted to see.
But she looked so proud now, seated in the front row, with her hound’s-tooth scarf and her square-toe pumps, and the bouquet of pale roses tucked beside her, waiting for her daughter’s final bow.
“Madame Durant,” Bailey repeated. “I just—”
“Shouldn’t you be on your cue?” Dara said.
“I have ninety seconds,” Bailey said, biting her lip, white teeth sinking into the dark red of her painted mouth. “Madame Durant, I wanted to thank you.”
Dara paused, her throat tightening.
“Don’t thank me,” she said. “You did it. You did it all yourself.”
A smile flitted across Bailey’s powdered face.
“Lights, warning on cue one. Curtain up—now.” The stage manager was calling, her headset sliding down her face. “Is she ready?”
Bailey turned to her and nodded, her back straightening, her sash shushing, the soft thump of her feet in her pointe shoes.
But then Dara saw it: the slight furrow of her brow as Bailey stared out into the darkness.
“You’re ready,” Dara said, her own voice throaty, shaking. “You are.”
Bailey looked at her. Held her gaze, the floorboards beneath them vibrating, the buoyant overture, like the winding of a music box.
“I am,” Bailey said, and then, inexplicably, putting her slender hand on Dara’s. Dara felt it, the heat of her touch, the beating of her heart, both of theirs. “I’m ready.”
“Lights, cue one—now. Spot one, be ready to pick up . . .”
Dara watched, holding her breath, as Bailey flew from the wings onto the stage. The gasps of excitement from the audience, the music sweeping over them, all eyes on the girl, the hero, at last.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Boundless thanks are due to my brilliant editor, Sally Kim, for her masterful eye and ear and especially her true-blue readerly heart.
To the peerless Sylvie Rabineau at WME and Maja Nikolic at Writers House. To Bard Dorros and Robyn Meisinger at Anonymous Content.