Her heart sinks. She goes to the kitchen, to the fridge, sliding out strawberry yogurt. Kay snatches a spoon and hops onto a barstool. Her shoulders droop as she twists side to side in the stool, rubbing her neck.
I know Mom and Dad love me, but couldn’t they call off sometimes?? I hate being in a ghost town. Do they care how I feel? I feel meaningless. Kayla allows her eyes to water. She unwraps the yogurt, dumps the spoon into it, pulling it out repeatedly—not caring to eat it. It’s only a distraction. The droopy spoon plunges in and out of the pink slop.
Why can’t they be here? Tears trail down her cheeks. Kayla wipes them away fast. I guess I have to deal with it. As always. A wall clock ticks, echoing the mansion. The sound reveals how empty the penthouse is. How hollow. Kay stares out of the tall windows at a plane. Her gloomy eyes fixate on the aircraft. I guess I gotta deal with it, she repeats, forcing the words to ease her mood.
Kayla awaits her boyfriend’s call, knowing his voice will end her need for attention. I don’t think he knows how much he helps me when I’m here alone. Or maybe he does? Darius always calls to soothe me. She watches the wall phone, yearning for conversation. When it rings, she sprints to it.
“Hey, beautiful.” His warm voice banishes her sadness.
In the morning, she post to a beam with other ballerinas. All the girls wear white leotards. Each member holds onto bars with one hand, with the free one outward. The heels of their feet face in, while the toes extend forward.
Standing before the group is a dance instructor, Isabell—a woman in her early thirties dressed in all black, her blonde hair in a ponytail. She holds the same position as the class.
“Demi. Demi.” The girls follow the instructor; her free hand sways outward, bends, then goes forward. Grom plié.” Her demeanor is similar to a boarding schoolteacher—firm. She dips low with her toes pointed. “Six, seven, eight, parallel.” The instructor straightens her arm outward, legs spread, and hands crossed behind her back in a bow. “Eight counts, turn in.” Isabell returns to the starting position. “Demi. Demi.” The moves repeat.
Kayla zones out, gazing at the studio windows at fluffy clouds. I have to say I love you... I can’t mouth it when he turns away! Why am I so scared? Why? I’m a wimp. I know how Darius feels—it’s clear as day. So, what’s the issue? What’s in the way? I know my feelings aren’t the culprit. Whatever it is...it needs to stop.
Afterward, the dancers retire to a sunny locker room, sitting on benches to untie their lacy shoes. Some bend over while others cross their knees.
Mya examines her friend. “You zoned out. What’s up?” The three untie their ballet shoes, beginning with the lace at the top, roped around their ankles.
“Nothing.” Kayla avoids eye contact, angrily untying her shoes, upset that she can’t say three simple words.
Jia eyes her with understanding. “She’s probably just tired, Mya.”
“Kayla,” Isabell summons her from the doorway. “Your mom is on the line.”
Kayla goes to the hall, wondering why her mom is using the car phone. She only uses it for business. Kay spots the corded phone. The receiver lies atop a bulky wall base. She picks it up and instantly hears car windows muffled by wind. “Hey, Mom.” She pictures her mother’s short, coily hair blowing wildly. I bet she’s driving somewhere immaculate. Probably on her way to close on another mansion or a condo. Whichever one it is, I imagine it’s a glamorous property.
“Hey, sweetie! So, your dad and I are free tonight. I’m so sorry about yesterday. I’m making chili con carne. We can catch up, okay?”
“Sure, that sounds fun. Can Darius come?”
“Yes, he can. Great, okay, that’s a plan! See you later. Bye, honey.”
The call ends as Kay begins to say goodbye. She holds the phone to her ear, hoping the buzzing line was her mom’s voice still. I want to talk more. Doesn’t she? Kayla hangs up, half happy about tonight but irritated over the rushed chat.
At home, she bathes in a luxurious platform tub. The cold water frosts up the knobs. Kay adds bath bombs, which fizz green in underwater explosions. She undresses and gets in, releasing satisfying sighs. Her muscles de-stress as she soaks in icy water. Ahhh...” Her brown eyes peer at the Chicago skyline. A clouded-out sun dims the autumn afternoon. Her mind returns to analyzing why she couldn’t say the three words. Maybe I’m just not there yet.
When Kay is done bathing, she wraps herself in a robe. Her bare feet graze the spacious penthouse, to the glass staircase. She works on a canvas in the art studio. The ballet positions are all captioned. She uses a pencil, Prismacolor Ebony: model 14420, and sketches tutu figures in various postures.
I need this solo. If I fail to secure it, someone else will take the spotlight. I can’t afford to lose. That’s the only way my parents will spend time with me. If I’m in the spotlight...that’s the only time they reschedule their work. I need this!
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