She bumps me with her hip, and I look away from the pizza to meet her playful gaze. “Huff all you want. From my point of view, you’re a ballet legend. Pro by age eighteen? Going professional ever at a sport is huge.” She shrugs. “You got paid to dance. You made your favorite thing your job. That’s the dream.”

Goose bumps rush up my arms. Dawn’s perfect hair has fallen ever so slightly into her face, and before I can overthink it, I reach out and push it behind her ear.

She blinks and steps back, staring down at the pizza. “Well, this looks delicious. Let’s frickin’ eat, shall we?”

It’s late when I finally go back to Jamie’s house. Improv structure and rules are cycling through my brain. That’s all Dawn wanted to talk about the rest of the night.

The lights are off in the house, so Grams must be asleep. I haven’t seen my father since before dinner last night. Does he even live here?

I’m changing into a pair of neon green pajamas from Jamie’s closet when Gladys rings. It’s 11:40 here. Almost 3 a.m. in New Jersey.

“Hello?” I whisper.

“You have to cancel the gig,” Jamie says quietly. Her voice still holds the same panicked quaver from earlier. I don’t think she’s okay. What’s Mom doing to her over there?

“No, we’ve figured it out. Duck Waterfall is going to perform. I’m going to participate the barest amount possible, and it’s going to be great for your team, because they’re going to kill it! You don’t have to worry.”

Jamie exhales an audible breath. “Okay.” She hangs up.

54. A Girl Needs to Do Better

JAMIE

September 5, Saturday Morning

New Jersey

Lara,

Thank you for reaching out with this opportunity, it’s truly an honor to be considered. I’m available for a call today any time before 7pm. Looking forward to hearing more details.

All the best,
Mara Maza

Good deal. I shoot her a thrilled email back explaining that I’ll call her today at 4:30. There’s no new email from Siri in the morning.

Siri,

Hope the plan works. I’ll be confirming Mom’s catfish today with a fake phone call from a British talent manger. I’ll let you know when she gets a plane ticket.

P.S. Can you get Dad to send those notes so I can read them? Thank you!

—Bucket

I pause mid-bite of Special K as Mara tornados into the kitchen at 8:15, grabbing things from the fridge and stuffing them into her bag. She pulls a granola bar from the pantry, rips the wrapper, and yanks off a bite before meeting my eyes.

“Sorry, I’m running late, have to get to rehearsals so I won’t be able to sit down.”

“Avoiding me?” I ask.