I jump back in. The train pulls away. I walk toward the next car.
“Hey! Alex!”
I ignore Bryan, even though he hates that.
I jerk the handle to open one door, do it again to open a second.
The next car is just as crowded. The three dancers hang close to the door. The one with blond hair is facing away. I hold my breath and wait for her to turn. She catches me staring and frowns. I look down. It’s not her.
I head back to Danny and Bryan. Words on a poster confront me. I’ve seen this poem before. “Lost” is the title.
“What was all that about?” Bryan accuses.
“Nada. Thought I saw someone is all.”
“Who?” Bryan presses.
There is only one name that’ll make him back off.
“Kiara.” I lazy-smile at them as they catcall and punch my arm. I stare out the window as patches of spray-can art zip by. The words from the poem fall apart. In my head, I reassemble them.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
ISA
I’m holding five leotards (three navy for Technique, Pointe, and Adagio, and two white for Variations and Character class), twelve pairs of pink tights (they always run), one navy skirt, two white skirts, two sets of hairpins (I tend to lose them), two hairnets, and sparkle hair gel (whoever decided to add the sparkle to gel is a genius).
“Oh good, you saw the hair gel too!” Chrissy sashays toward me, her arms heaped with fabric. Her squeal makes a few customers turn. Chrissy drops the clothes in a chair, slides out her phone, turns the hair gel bottle upside down, and opens her mouth. She makes exaggerated gulping sounds and takes a selfie. She taps at her screen, no doubt posting the pic, then starts jumping up and down. “I am so pumped we get to take Variations this year! Aren’t you?”
I nod. I should be excited. I mean, I am excited. It’s just that Mom decided to come this afternoon instead of telling me to use her credit card like she did last year. Part of me grew a few inches and beamed when Mom grabbed her bag and followed me out. The other part is freaking.
I head toward the shoe section, glancing past Chrissy. My mom’s still leaning against the wall next to the changing area. She’s fingering the fabric of a leopard-print miniskirt as she talks on her cell. It must be Dad, because Mom doesn’t look angry. If she were speaking with anyone from the boards of the Big Brothers Big Sisters program or the Art and Architecture Museum, I’d be able to hear what she was saying from across the room.
I stretch my neck, relaxing my back and shoulders. Mom can’t get into too much trouble if she’s on the phone. I drape an arm over my pile while I wait. I don’t want anyone to think it’s unclaimed. In sixth grade, I’d gathered almost my entire wardrobe and left it with Mom while I went to try on a different style of leotard Chrissy was raving about. When I came out of the dressing room, Mom and my stuff were gone. Mom had taken a call and wandered away. All the clothing and accessories had been reshelved. Dance is your hobby and you have to take responsibility for it, Isabelle, she’d shrieked. She was right. I shouldn’t have let my things out of my sight.
“Size?” A woman with dyed black hair pulled into a severe bun peers over small square spectacles at me. Her hand juts out for the sample shoes I’m holding.
“Um.” I give her the pointe shoe and the pink ballet slipper with the split leather sole. “I was a seven last year, but do you think you could measure me? Over the summer they started to feel tight.”
“They’re supposed to be tight.” She has the slipper right up under her nose, trying to read the style number printed on the inside. Her accent is Russian. Or Ukrainian perhaps.
“Yes, but would it be OK if we just checked?” My Peds-clad foot is already on top of the metal measuring contraption. “I don’t want to make a mistake.”
The sales lady crouches beside me and adjusts the marker against my toes. “I will get you seven and half. And seven.” She marches to the back, the ribbons from the pointe shoes trailing behind her.
“What’s her story?” Chrissy puts her hands on her hips. She scowls as she climbs over the bench to sit beside me.
“I’m thinking failed trapeze artist.” It’s a game I made up to pass the time when Merrit was in the hospital. “She escaped a household of seven older brothers, three of whom ended up inheriting their mother’s lycanthropy. Before she found out if she was going to turn into a werewolf too, she ran off with the circus.”
Chrissy’s grinning. “So why did she fail? At trapeze, I mean.”
“Well, in Paris, she was courted by a renowned acrobat from India and they started a torrid affair. Photos of them kissing midswing, knees locked around their own trapezes, plastered the city papers.”
“Ooh! Like Greatest Showman!” Chrissy clasps her hands together and sighs.
I nod and pause, thinking of the worst thing that could happen to my character, who I’ve named Tatiana. “They were going to marry, but she made the mistake of telling him about her unstable family. Ajay left her and followed his troupe back to Mumbai. Poor Tatiana was heartbroken. She moved to New York and never touched another trapeze again.”
Chrissy looks toward the open doorway that says EMPLOYEES ONLY. “No wonder she’s such a bitch.”
I go to smack Chrissy with a packet of tights, but she scoots out of the way. She turns over the shoe she’s holding and makes a face at the price tag.
“Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t buy your shoes online. They’re so much cheaper. And then you don’t have to deal with Ms. Trapeze Wannabe Werewolf over there. What? You know the real reason she’s so uptight isn’t because she didn’t get the guy. It’s because she never got to throw her head back and howl.” Chrissy puckers her ruby-red lips. She always wears that same lipstick, with thick black eyeliner and fake lashes. Otherwise strangers on the subway would still be asking her if she lost her mother and needed help getting home.
I nail her in the face with tights as a long “Arh-ooo!” comes out of her. I check to make sure Mom hasn’t heard her. Chrissy’s mom, Mrs. McCallum, has cornered a sales associate next to the cash register. Thankfully, our moms haven’t seen each other. A giant display of mannequins clad in tulle stands between them.
The lady who was helping me—“Tatiana”—comes through the doorway, a tower of boxes obscuring her face. Chrissy makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a woof as the woman lowers the boxes to the ground. Tatiana removes the first shoe and holds out a hand for my foot, just as a voice booms behind me.
“Well if it isn’t my second-most-favorite ballerina in the whole world. How are you doing, sugar? Stand on up and give us a hug.” Chrissy’s mother holds out her arms.
Tatiana frowns. “I have shoes here. Hug can wait.”
“Goodness me, that can’t be right. There’s always time for a hug.” Mrs. McCallum pats her ample bosom as she steps in front of the store lady. I rise and put my arms around her, bending my head a bit. My mom never hugs Chrissy like this. She never hugs me like this.
Tatiana click-clacks away to help someone else. Chrissy’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.
“Ruh-ude,” she warbles, giving the word two syllables. “Though maybe this is good. I’ll take a pic of the pair you like and we can buy them online after all.”