I wake up sweating. And that night, it takes me a long time to fall asleep.
22
The next morning, I wake up to a text from Seth.
Can we talk about what happened yesterday?
I don’t answer.
I know that isn’t fair. Seth was the one who was assaulted. By my ex-boyfriend. Because of me. It wasn’t his fault.
But he could have told me.
There’s a small, uncomfortable voice in my head asking me if I would have believed him. Would I have thought it was that bad? If he had no scar? If Jeremy hadn’t been there yesterday , if I hadn’t seen the truth written on his face?
Addie? We ok?
I can’t talk right now. Heading to Fiona’s studio
I didn’t get the chance to ask Jeremy if he saw Gen the night Fiona died. And now I don’t know when or even if I will. So maybe Fiona’s old dance teacher knows something about her scholarship. It’s the only lead I have right now.
I visited the dance studio last year, when I was doing my own investigation into any stalkers or jealous ballerina friends Fiona might have had. But I never asked about her scholarship.
Another buzz. Seth: I’d come with if I could
I’ll be fine
The sky is gray, but my weather app says no rain until later, so I hop on my bike and ride to The Studio, on the outskirts of downtown, alone.
I lock my bike on a rack a block away. The Studio is a small local space, clean white front, picture windows stenciled with the outlines of dancers. I took ballet for two years here when I was little, in an effort to be more like Fiona, before it became clear I sucked at it. There are two actual studios plus a changing room and bathroom. Nothing fancy. Most of the kids who go here never have a shot at anything like the American Ballet Academy.
A tinkling bell announces my arrival. The only person in the small lobby is the woman behind the desk, gray-haired and spectacled. She looks up, sees me, and visibly sighs. “Madame LeGrand is with a class right now, Ms. Blackwood.”
I fix her with my I’m-not-going-anywhere expression. “That’s okay. I’ll wait.”
I sit down on one of the chairs in the lobby, directly across from a professional portrait of my sister. It’s from the winter performance of The Nutcracker her junior year. She was Clara, of course. She was always the lead. She smiles at me, her white dress immaculate, her blond bun impeccable. I feel a deep sadness go through me. Sometimes I think about what loss must have been like in the days before photographs. I wonder if it was worse, never being able to see their face again except in your memories. Or better, because you weren’t constantly reminded of how alive they used to be.
The sound of a door opening makes me look up.
A flurry of chattering ten-year-olds in leotards pours out of the nearest studio, heading for the changing room. Madame LeGrand is just behind them. She’s a tall woman in her forties, made entirely of muscle, dressed in a black leotard and skirt, with white skin, dark hair, and hooded dark eyes. Her eyes flicker to me as she walks by—and then she stops.
“Miss Blackwood.” Madame LeGrand gives me a nod.
“Hi. I’m sorry to bother you again, but I have another question, if you have a minute.”
She nods. She’s always been exceedingly nice to me. “Come with me.”
I rise and follow her through a door to the left. Inside is a small office, one window, a chipped wooden desk. Framed pictures of dancers adorn the walls. I don’t know if they’re past students or just dancers she admires. Fiona’s picture isn’t in here.
Madame LeGrand sits down behind her desk and gestures to the chairs across from her. “How may I help you today?”
I sit down. “Do you know anything about Fiona’s scholarship to the American Ballet Academy?” I blurt out.
Madame LeGrand frowns. “You mean her financial aid?”
“Not that. I mean the scholarship she got to pay for what the financial aid couldn’t cover.”
Her perfect black eyebrows rise. “She never told me about this scholarship. From what I understood, your father was paying for the rest of it.”
I blink. “I— He was?”
Madame LeGrand sits back. “Your sister came to me in tears when your father told her he couldn’t afford the American Ballet Academy with only partial financial aid. I offered to start some sort of fundraiser for her; she was so talented, it would have been such a waste for her not to go…but she didn’t believe the town could raise that kind of money in a few short months. I was afraid she was right. But I was willing to try.”
“And then what happened?”
“She came in a few weeks later, said she’d sorted it out with your father.” She looks at me shrewdly. “I’m guessing from your expression that this is news to you.”
I don’t want to tell her that Fiona lied to her. “Maybe they just didn’t tell me because they…thought I’d be jealous or something.” I realize as I say it that it could be true. But I don’t think so. Where would my dad have gotten forty-two thousand dollars on that short of a notice? And why would they both have lied to me about it?
I only have one more question. “What about— How much did you pay her for her cleaning job?”
Madame LeGrand frowns. “Cleaning job?”
I’m still. “That’s what she told me. She was gone so much last summer. She was here practicing, and then she took a job cleaning to make some extra money.”
But the dance instructor is shaking her head. “No. We have a woman cleaning now, the same one we had last summer and all through the year. Fiona never asked me for a job. And she was not here practicing much, either. Last summer, she was here even less than usual. I was worried; she needed to keep up with her practice for school. It was so rare for them to accept a student at eighteen, and she was already going to be behind as it was. She told me she was spending extra time with her family before school started.” Her brows have come so sharply together, they’re a black V. “But I take it from your questions that this is not true, either.”
“No.” I don’t see the point in keeping Madame LeGrand in the dark. This woman saw my sister even more than I did over the years. If anyone deserves to know what happened to Fiona besides me and my family, it’s her.