“You didn’t find him, huh?” David said gently. “Wherever you went.”
She hadn’t found Dad, but the flying, dancing, playing, laughing—new adventures blazed as bright in her mind as any memory with Dad. All of it lost when she’d screwed up so badly.
Maybe this was what Dad felt. Maybe he felt like he couldn’t come back, or reach out to her even though he loved her, because he’d screwed up so badly. Maybe he was embarrassed and couldn’t face her after what he’d done.
She sniffled and realized she was crying.
“Oh, Birdie.” David fumbled around in the dark until he found a couch and sat her down. He handed her his hankie. “Everything’s going to be okay.” He put an arm around her.
“I made a mess of everything,” she said, muffled by the hankie. She’d let them all down so hard, and then she’d just left without even trying to fix anything or explain.
Light caught a glittering in David’s hand. She squinted, but it was too dark to make out.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He took her chin and lifted it. She tried to find his eyes, but could see nothing but the dimmest outline of him. He could have been anybody. “Hey, whatever you’re sad about, I’ve got something to make it better.”
He held up his hand, out of the way of the shadows. The bit of light coming in through a window showed that his fingers pinched a ring. A ring with a diamond in a Tiffany setting. “See?” he said. “I told you I had a ring.”
David found her hand and slid the ring on her finger. It felt warm and clammy against her skin. “David.” Not this. Not now.
He took the hankie from her gently. She felt the cushion shift on either side as he planted his hands on the back of the couch above her shoulders. “Everything is going to be perfect.” He leaned in.
“Oh my God.” She turned her face away. She should agree, she should cheer, this was the thing that would make it all better—
“Come on, Birdie.” He nuzzled her cheek. “A kiss to seal the deal.”
“I can’t.” Her body heated up, pulse accelerating as she pushed him away, but he didn’t budge.
“Why wouldn’t you want a kiss?” His voice hardened slightly.
“No.” She fumbled with the ring, pulling it off her finger. “I can’t marry you.”
“What?”
She held the ring up to his nose, hoping he could see it in the dark. “I told you, I messed up.” Her voice was shaking. “I’m sorry.”
She couldn’t read his gaze in the darkness. He didn’t move for a moment, then collapsed on the couch beside her and ran his hands through his hair. “Are you serious?”
She held the ring out steadily. “I am.”
He snatched the ring and shoved it into his pocket. “God dammit.” he said softly. “Thank God I didn’t tell my parents.”
Suddenly she couldn’t fathom why she’d ever considered marrying him. “That’s all you have to say?”
He put his hands on her hip and tugged her towards him. “Come on, Birdie. Let me try and convince you one more time.”
Birdie leaned back warily. “I’m calling that stuff off, David.”
“You don’t think I’m so bad.” Another tug, harder this time.
“Stop it.” She ducked away to get off the couch, but he grabbed her wrist.
“We can still date, can’t we?” He drew her in. “It could just be like before.”
“Let go, David.”
They were still for a moment, Birdie trying to keep her breath steady as his fingers tightened on her wrist.
“I don’t get it.” He put his other hand to her thigh and slid it slowly up. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “The way I see it, you should be begging me to take you back.”
She hauled back and slapped him.
He yelped, letting go and putting a hand to his cheek.
“Oh, now I’m really sorry,” she jumped to her feet, pulse pounding, “that I even considered marrying you!”
“God, Birdie! You don’t have to be such a bitch about it,” David said petulantly.
She stalked toward the front door, trying not to look scared. She could hear him stumbling to his feet behind her. “Birdie!” he called, his voice sweetening. “Birdie, Jesus. Wait, I was kidding!”
She flung the door open and raced toward the car. She pulled the door open and slammed it shut behind her and locked it. He pounded against the door as she turned the key in the ignition. “Come on, Birdie!” His voice was muffled. She spun in her seat and locked the back door when he reached for it.
Birdie looked up as the engine purred and bared her teeth in a smile. “You’re gonna to have to find your own way home,” she said loudly, so he could hear her through the glass. “Dad told me not to let creeps into my car.”
She shifted into gear and accelerated quickly. David hung on to the door handle and ran alongside the car, an outraged look growing on his face, until finally he stumbled and let go. She peeled around the drive and onto the road, tires squealing. She rolled the window down and screamed into the wind, hair whipping around her face. She felt like she was flying. Her heart was still thrumming in her chest but it felt good now, exhilarating, the RPMs high enough to get her somewhere with a good view.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
BIRDIE WAS BACKSTAGE AGAIN, AND THIS TIME THE AUDIENCE WAS FULL OF people. She peeked out through the curtain as dancers stretched and talked in low voices behind her. Mom was in the second row, sitting next to Dr. Bridges and wearing one of her favorite dresses. He said something to her and she laughed. She wore lipstick, and her hair was curled and pinned. Birdie put a hand to her own hair, slicked back into a neat bun. She wore her tutu, tights, and pointe shoes, with a cardigan buttoned up over everything.
She’d gone back to the house that afternoon to get her tutu and pointe shoes. She’d put on her makeup and done her hair. She’d filled the Duesenberg with her favorite things: dresses and shoes, things from her vanity, a pillow and throw she’d had since she was five, her prized records. The things she wanted to keep.
She’d called David, but he hung up on her as soon as he heard her voice. She was glad he’d gotten home all right, although part of her hoped he’d had to walk the whole way.
The lights dimmed and Birdie headed for the wings. The music of the first number began as the curtain lifted, casting bright, sideways light backstage.
Izzy came up beside her and nudged her with a shoulder. “I talked to Monty.” Her tone was smug. “He told me David was going to give you something last night?” Izzy grabbed her hand and frowned at it. Then she grabbed the other one, turning it over. “Where is it?” she asked, her face falling. “He didn’t give it to you after all, did he?”
“Oh, he did.” Birdie shrugged out of her cardigan and carefully pressed the toes of one foot into a box of chalk, turning her back to Izzy. “I just decided I didn’t want it after all.”
“Are you kidding? You’re trying to tell me that—” Izzy gasped. “What in the world is that?”
“What? Oh, that?” Birdie pressed the toes of her other foot into the box. “A tattooed lady in a circus gave it to me. You like it?” She half hoped that Izzy would squeal with delight and ask her all about it, and Birdie would tell her everything that had happened when she was gone and Izzy would love it, admire her for it—
“Oh my God. Birdie. Tell me you’re joking.” She pressed her fingers against Birdie’s shoulder, then scrubbed at the skin. “Holy cow, it’s real!” Birdie turned, smiling cautiously, but there was no delight on Izzy’s face—only shock, hardening into disapproval. “You’re really going to go out on that stage like that? Your mom is out there, Birdie. My mom is out there.”
“Of course I am,” said Birdie, too loudly, and a stagehand hushed her. She continued quietly, “Wouldn’t want to break poor Mikhail’s heart again.” She kept her tone flippant and carefree, but tears were crawling up her throat. Birdie had known what would happen as soon as she said no to David, but it didn’
t stop it from hurting. She was becoming someone different, someone who kissed girls and rejected rings and tattooed her skin and wasn’t rich and would probably never be rich, and their friendship would not survive it.
Izzy stood silently as they both watched an intermediate group file on stage. The space between them filled with questions, but Izzy didn’t ask her anything. After a moment she turned on her heel and walked away, and when Birdie turned to look Izzy was whispering with Hope. They both glanced at Birdie, distaste on their faces, and talked behind their hands.
Sadness rose, filling every space inside of Birdie. Instead of making a plan to fix it or pretending she didn’t feel it, she held onto her anguish and dug into its texture. The overwhelming ache in her chest, the clench of her fists, the terrible burn behind her eyelids. Izzy and Hope swept past her, onto the stage with her other old friends, for their number, and Birdie didn’t watch. She closed her eyes and let tears slip down her cheeks.
The dancers jostled backstage when their dance ended, breath coming fast and excited. Birdie walked onto the stage, feeling worlds away from them as the first notes of her piece cut through her dejection. She didn’t pose. She stood in the spotlight and closed her eyes. The audience coughed and shifted in their seats as she stood there inelegantly, head bowed, tears on her cheeks. She listened, hearing threads of yearning that tugged at her muscles, pulling movement out of her. She held still until the music wove deep into her and electricity pulsed through her whole body.
She came to life, letting the music and her own emotion fuel her. Her sadness was overwhelming and terrible, but somehow it poured out of her as she danced and became beautiful and ugly and aching and powerful. She wasn’t dancing because she was supposed to, because she was good at it, because it was pretty. She was expressing something true.
She was dancing in the air, the power of her movement enough to lift her skyward without an engine. She jumped so high she could imagine leaving the ground. Izzy and her old life wasn’t continuing without her, she was leaving them behind. The wings Colette had inked on her skin spread, growing larger and larger, a flock lifting her where she couldn’t raise herself. Drums pounded and horns became frenzied and she tried with all her might to sever the ties of gravity, refusing to collapse to the ground in the final throes of the piece as planned.
When she opened her eyes, arms thrown up, panting as the music faded and applause began to swell, she felt transformed.
“Birdie Williams.” Mikhail fluttered up after curtain call, cheeks flushed with fury. “Don’t you ever perform something I haven’t approved, do you hear me? I have never in all my days been so offended. Never have I heard of such a thing. This sort of thing is absolutely unheard of.”
Over his shoulder, Birdie saw Izzy give her a that’s-what-you-get look. A few younger dancers surrounded them, eyes wide. Most of her cohort didn’t look over at all, making self-conscious small talk as they strained to overhear.
Birdie had never disappointed Mikhail, but she didn’t care. She still pulsed with power. “It was my solo. I wanted to try something different.”
“It’s a choreography,” Mikhail insisted. “You have to follow it or it’s—it’s nothing. It’s just a complete mess.”
“It felt right.”
“Well,” he sputtered. “I just never thought we would end on this kind of note.”
“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” she said quietly. “I could never thank you enough for everything you’ve taught me.”
Mikhail gave her one last squinting look, his mouth tense, then spun around to congratulate other dancers on their well-executed choreography. She knew he’d forgive her. She’d call him from the road and say she was sorry for surprising him, and he’d apologize for yelling at her.
Birdie hopped off the stage and found Mom.
“That was something else!” said Dr. Bridges. “So modern. I’ve seen something like that before, but only in the city, at this new school. You heard of Martha Graham?”
“What is this?” Mom exclaimed, putting hands on Birdie’s shoulders and turning her around. Her fingers touched her shoulderblade tentatively. “My goodness,” she said, after a pause.
Birdie wasn’t going to get approval, so she didn’t try. “The Duesenberg is mine, isn’t it?” She turned around to face her. “Dad always said it was mine once I was old enough.”
“I was thinking,” said Mom, flushing excitedly. “Even at half price, it would pay for your first year at Finch’s. I bet we could find someone who’d buy it for that. And maybe we could find a way to manage the second year somehow.”
“I don’t want to go to Finch’s,” said Birdie.
“You should be a professional dancer,” said Dr. Bridges. “You’ve got the talent for it!”
Birdie’s heart constricted. “I’m too short. They have height requirements.”
“Now, I don’t know everything about it, but I think the new modern dance school is sort of against having those kinds of rules,” said Dr. Bridges.
“Really?” said Birdie, sidetracked. “What school, again?”
“They might let short girls in,” said Mom, “but surely they don’t take girls with—things on their shoulders!”
Birdie shook her head, reorienting. “So if I’m not going to Finch’s, I can have the car?”
“You don’t need that car, Birdie. Honestly, nobody needs that car. The money would be far more useful.”
Birdie took Mom’s hand and squeezed it. “Give me the car, and the bank won’t be able to take it, right?”
“What in the world, Birdie.” Mom’s jaw clenched. “It’s not up for discussion.”
Dr. Bridges cleared his throat. “I’m going to give you two a moment.” He walked away to congratulate a few of his young patients.
Mom’s gaze followed him. “I’ve got a lot going on,” she said distractedly. “I really don’t need you giving me a hard time.”
“I’m leaving, Mom. With or without the car. But the car would make it so much easier, and I think Dad would want me to have it.”
Mom turned and looked at her. “Nonsense, where would you go?”
“I—I have a place at a show. In Chicago.”
Mom’s eyes widened. “A show in Chicago?”
“Yes. Well, I might. I don’t know. I messed things up—I need to take the Duesenberg.” If she went back with a new car that went faster than the Studebaker, and a promise to jump off the landing gear, and maybe a few more stunts—they could put the show on for a crowd, like the show they’d done in Coney Island. They could make some money, and get the show back on its feet.
She had to go back and fix the mess she’d made.
“You can’t run off. A single girl—you know it’s not safe—”
Birdie’s hands clenched. She’d wasted so much time already. Days had gone by with June and everyone else hating her. “I can’t stay here,” she said. “I won’t stay here.”
Mom’s eyes welled up. Birdie grabbed her hand. “It’ll be different this time. I’ll call you every day, and I won’t be gone forever. But I have to go.”
Mom looked over at Dr. Bridges, and Birdie could see worry and fear and excitement about their new lives on her face. That’s how it was right now. Every feeling all at once, more intensely than Birdie had ever experienced them. Mom probably felt that, too. “We can discuss it further, I suppose,” her mother said reluctantly. “You’ll tell me more tonight.”
Birdie felt her starting to let go. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything before I go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
BIRDIE PULLED UP TO HENRIETA’S FARMHOUSE MIDMORNING ON SUNDAY. A gentle sun shone down through the open top of the Duesenberg, but the air was cool. It was one of those strange summer days that felt like fall even though it was still months away. She’d thought she could make it all the way from New York in one day since it had taken that long when they’d flown from Coney Island, but traveling by plane was definitely faster than even a ni
ce car—she’d had to pull over to sleep in northern Indiana and continue on the next morning.
The crocodile-painted Studebaker was parked in front of the house, the hood lifted. Milosh was sitting on the porch steps, legs wide, bent over a paperback. He looked up and took in the sleek lines of the Duesenberg and his mouth opened slightly, eyes widening when they landed on Birdie. She waved timidly as she turned off the engine, expecting his expression to harden, but Milosh broke into a smile, closed his book, and ambled up to her door.
“Well, what do you know. You leave with nothing, us worrying what on earth was gonna happen to you—and here you come back looking like you just won a lottery.” He bent down and took in the interior details. He whistled low and ran his hand over the steering wheel. “Mind if I get in and take a gander?”
Relieved, Birdie nodded and scooted over to the passenger’s side as Milosh opened the door and folded himself into the driver’s seat, setting his worn book on the seat between them. He wasn’t screaming at her to leave—but then again, she couldn’t imagine Milosh ever treating anyone unkindly.
“Bennie’s gonna lose his mind.” Milosh put his hands on the steering wheel. “I didn’t know anybody but celebrities could afford something like this! How fast does she go?”
“It’s supposed to go over a hundred, but I’ve never tried.”
“And it’s a breezer and everything,” he marveled, looking up at the sky through the open top. “Man. Bet she never has engine trouble. The Studebaker’s still broke, though Bennie’s been fiddling with it all week.”
“Here’s the thing.” Birdie’s heart picked up speed. “I came back, and I brought Dad’s car with me—I know I messed the audition up big time, but I was thinking we could still put on a great show, like at Coney Island, only right here, in Henrieta’s field! We could make a bunch of money with this Peter Pan thing. We can flyer the city, get it together, and wow everybody—” Birdie’s hands twisted in her lap. “I could make up for ruining the audition—”
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