17. Elyse
Elyse
Once a week, Sylvie, Jambon, and I hang out at Fleur’s street dance class.
There’s an inexpensive one at the community center that runs soon after school gets out for the day, and my niece loves it.
She just about has time for a quick juice box and a couple of graham crackers before she gets down to it.
There are actually four girls and two boys from her school that do it, including her new BFF, Marley.
I swear watching twenty little kids squat-bouncing to “Juju on That Beat” is better than therapy.
They’re so adorable, and they’re so freaking happy.
When five-year-olds dance like no one is watching, when they let the music pour through them and find their own—unique—expression of that music, it’s as if hit-and-run drivers and shattered hip bones and medical debt don’t even exist.
“Fleur’s the best,” Sylvie mutters to me out of the corner of her mouth.
“You’re totally biased.” I pop open the lid of my travel mug of tea. “And possibly correct.”
“I’m definitely correct. At least the dance genes didn’t die with me.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “And at least you were too freaking lazy to put the hours in. This would be a lot more disappointing if you were a prima ballerina.” I gesture at this—her bad hip—with my tea.
“Facts. It’s a good thing my genius marketing brain wasn’t impacted.”
“Your once in a generation marketing brain,” I tease.
“Precisely.”
“Though, if you’re holding out for a Hamptons mansion, I’d put my money on her. She can keep you in style.”
“One million percent. I’ll give it all up to become her momager in the blink of an eye.”
We drink our tea and watch Fleur do her thing.
There’s always one kid in the dance class who makes it look easy, whom you can’t take your eyes off.
In this class, it’s my niece. She has serious swagger, and it feels like street is a better medium than ballet.
She’s way too feisty for the conformity that ballet would require.
I should know—I ditched it even earlier than my sister, though I do credit it with my good posture.
When the class has drawn to its raucous conclusion, I keep an eye on Fleur, who is holding Jambon’s leash, while helping Sylvie navigate her wheelchair through the various heavy doors.
Accessibility—or the lack of it—is a big focus for all of these days.
Honestly, it’s pretty shocking how poor it is in general, and it’s equally shocking how little time I spent thinking about this before my sister got run over.
We’re out on the street, and I’m helping Fleur take a Twinkie out of the pack I’ve brought, when my phone rings. I take it out of my bag and glance at it.
“It’s Olivia,” I say. I’ve been waiting on a call from her for the past twenty-four hours while knowing that she might not get an answer from Voss for days and days.
“Take it,” Sylvie says. “I’ve got this.” She’s already fishing out the special gloves she wears so the wheels don’t give her blisters.
I’ll push her as soon as I’m off the phone; otherwise, it’ll take an age to get home and cost her all her energy in the process.
She’s already wiped from her physical therapy first thing this morning.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the dog off Fleur so she can eat her snack. I swipe to answer. “Hey!” is how I greet Olivia, and I cringe as soon as the word comes out, because that sounds way too overenthusiastic.
“Hey, girl!” She sounds overenthusiastic too, and not in an excited way.
More like she’s compensating. My stomach sinks as I wedge the phone between my shoulder and my ear and guide Fleur in the wake of her mom with my free hand on her skinny little shoulders.
“I’ll keep this quick,” she says, and I already know she has a Band-Aid to rip off.
“It’s a no from Voss. I’m so sorry, babe. ”
I blow out a breath. “That’s okay! It’s totally fine.” My voice sounds a little screechy, and I know I haven’t imagined it when Fleur glances up at me in alarm. I shoot her a smile that probably looks a little unhinged.
“We knew it was a long shot,” she says. She’s in the office; I can hear the babble of mainly female voices in the background.
“Exactly! Totally. I mean, it was worth a shot. And I appreciate you putting me forward for the opportunity.” If I had any more platitudes on the tip of my tongue, I’d throw them in for good measure, but I’m honestly feeling a little shaky.
I knew it was too much to hope for, but I guess I got excited.
It was the size of the campaign, all the bustling glamour of being at the test shoot, and, honestly, the fact of it being Voss.
It was like I was given a glimpse of the big leagues, and it’s hard to keep your head when opportunities like that are dangled right in front of your face like the biggest, shiniest diamonds.
I’ve been more intimate with Sinclair in the shadowy corners of Alchemy than I could ever have dreamed, but this would have been legit.
This would have meant a chance for me to shine in the light of day.
Her voice grows less chirpy and more serious.
“Listen to me. I don’t know the full story, but my contact there is pissed—apparently, the decision came from over her head.
She adored you. She thinks you have something really special, okay?
I’m so sorry this didn’t work out for you, but I need you to know how positive the feedback was. ”
“Mmm-hmm,” I manage. “Yeah, that’s so kind, thank you.” My throat is so tight that it feels like I might pull a muscle just from trying to speak. I tug gently on the leash as Jambon drifts toward a passerby holding a huge sub.
“Elyse? Girl. It’s not kind. It’s true. So this one didn’t happen. But honestly, we are going to find you something major. Are you hearing me? This has really made me realize that I need to get you in front of a lot more beauty brands.”
“Yeah. Yes. I hear you. That sounds great. So great! I’m just with my family—I’ll catch you later, okay?”
I hang up and almost walk into the back of Sylvie’s wheelchair. She’s stopped in front of me and is craning her head to look around. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
“Thanks.” I aim for a brisk nod, but it ends up being more bobblehead.
“Are you sad, Lees?” Fleur asks, looking up at me and sliding her little hand into mine.
“I’m disappointed,” I tell her. “Not sad. I was hoping to get a really cool job and I didn’t get it. It would have been fun. But a lot of people went after it, so it’s no surprise, really. I’m just glad they considered me.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, leaning in toward me and giving me a sweet little bump with her shoulder.
“Thank you, Fleurie,” I tell her. Fleurie: our pet name for her and the French term for flowery. It suits her just as much as her real name.
Sylvie is still turned around in her chair. She raises a don’t give me that bullshit eyebrow. “You’re allowed to be pissed, you know.”
I make a noncommittal noise because I don’t really agree.
Being pissed suggests a level of entitlement that I’m not comfortable with.
Even if I hoped, deep down, that I’d get the job, it’s humiliating enough to have to admit I didn’t get it without letting these people who love me see how hard I let myself believe I might.
Besides, the more devastated I look, the more my sister will tell herself that I was counting on that money to help dig us out of our hole.
Therefore, the more I can seem to shrug it off now, the more she will shrug it off.
That’s the plan, anyway.
“It’s all part of the job,” I tell them both airily. “You win some, you lose some. But you have to keep showing up to be in the game. Come on,” I say to my sister with a jerk of my head, “hands off the wheels. I’ll steer. Let’s go, Jambon.”
With a sympathetic grimace, Sylvie settles back into her chair, reaching behind her to pat my hand on the handle.
Fleur trots alongside us as we make our way along the sidewalk toward home, and I force myself to tuck the memory of my Voss shoot away into the recesses of my mind, every bit as pretty and pointless as the sparkly scraps a magpie hides away in its nest.
The only consolation is that I didn’t breathe a word of my casting call to Sinclair.
I assume this has all taken place several rungs below his pay grade: he probably doesn’t even know casting calls happen twenty stories below him.
And I have no idea if he wants a replay of Wednesday night, but if he does, at least I can meet him as an equal and not some tragic wannabe who wasn’t special enough to make the cut in his beautiful, shiny empire.