Chapter 1: The Empty Barre
Audrey had loved ballet since she was little.
Our kitchen in Calder Heights was barely big enough for two people to pass, but she always found room for one more turn, stretching a leg behind her while I made breakfast.
“Audrey, careful! You’ll hit the refrigerator!”
“Mom, I have to learn to control my movements!”
Last fall, all that effort paid off. She was accepted into the advanced teen program at a respected studio in Fernwick, fifty minutes away, with a scholarship covering most of the tuition.
The only problem was getting her there and home — three evenings a week, classes ending after eight, both my husband Scott and I working late.
Then, at a Sunday dinner, the solution came from Derek.
Derek had been Scott’s best friend since high school. Thirty years. He’d been at our wedding, visited when Audrey was born, come to every birthday. His office was right down the street from the studio.
“Why doesn’t someone ask me?” he said. “I’ll pick her up, do paperwork while she’s in class, and bring her home. We’re practically family.”
I was so grateful I nearly cried.
For a few weeks, it was wonderful. Audrey burst through the door every night, hungry and glowing, demonstrating combinations between the stove and the table.
Then it changed.
She stopped demonstrating. She carried her bag straight upstairs. Her answers shrank to “fine” and “not really.” Her ballet shoes stayed zipped in the bag. When the studio emailed about recital auditions, she said, flatly, “I’m not auditioning,” and wouldn’t say why.
One evening I was taking out the trash when Derek dropped her off, and Audrey stayed at his window, gripping his sleeve.
“But you promised you’d talk to her,” she said.
“Audrey, not now,” Derek answered sharply.
