Chapter Sixty-Two. Olivia Blake
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
OLIVIA BLAKE
Olivia Blake is only seven years old, but she’s been going to Encore Dance Studio for four years.
She’s the only girl in her grade chosen for a solo at the annual recital, held in the auditorium of Preston High.
The high school feels as big as a theme park.
She peeks around the curtain to see the audience packing in—moms and dads, aunts and uncles—and all their chatter feels like the hum of bees that gather at the mountain laurel her dad planted at the end of the driveway, the one that always smells like grape candy when it blooms.
The older girls stretch backstage, their limbs long, their smiles pretty, like princesses in movies.
They coo over Olivia, clap at her pliés and sautés.
They smooth gel into her slicked-up hair until it shines.
They paint up her face like theirs, overly garish, so it shows under the harsh stage lights.
Red-red lips, thick layers of mascara, round stamps of blush like you would draw onto a doll’s face.
In her platter tutu, Olivia poses in the mirror, fifth position, arms arched above her head. She is excited, excited about everything, most of all excited because her mother will be here today. Her mother will see her dance.
The thought of it fills her up with warm sunshine.
She can feel it shooting like beams of light from the tips of her fingers, from the points of her toes, as she takes the stage, as the crowd cheers, awestruck at her grand fouetté into arabesque, balanced, spinning on one foot and then sweeping her straight back leg forward into quick, sharp leaps.
The move takes both strength and grace, impressive for a girl so young, and when she is done, she knows she has done it well.
She is proud. Her heart hammers. Her breath is quick.
She searches the audience, searches with applause in her ears, searches as that sunbeam in her heart dims, searches for a mother who isn’t there.