“That was not the right thing to do,” Kelsey said.
“It was selfish.”
Kelsey hung her head.
“Repeat,” she could hear her mother say.
“It was selfish.”
“It was cruel.”
Kelsey put her face in her hands. “It was cruel.”
Her mother took her hands down and held them, squeezing. “You are a wonderful young woman who was a little mixed up.”
“A little more than a little.”
“A lot. But you know who’s supposed to be there when young women get mixed up?”
Kelsey looked up.
“Their mothers. And I wasn’t,” her mother started, and her chin began to tremble.
Kelsey put her fingers under her mother’s eyes, catching her tears. “Don’t cry, Mom.”
“And their fathers, too. And we were so wrapped up in our own grief, we didn’t do our job. We had no idea how bad it was for you. You were always such a fighter. Michelle was the sensitive one, feeling everything so deeply, but you were tough.”
“I’m still tough,” Kelsey offered, but it sounded silly coming from her now, her nose red, her pink cardigan over her graduation dress.
“Oh, Kels.” Her mother reached out, and Kelsey nestled against her for the first time in so long, feeling some of the pain ebb away. But most of it was still there. It had been there before she knew Peter, and it would be there forever.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“Me, too,” her mother said.
“I just miss her so much.”
“Me, too,” her mother said, and Kelsey could feel her mom’s chest begin to tighten against her, tears falling in her hair. Kelsey pulled her closer.
After a while, they began to walk again, in step with each other, moving back east, toward the sunrise.
Kelsey realized that the ache inside her wasn’t just grief, it was something else. Something simpler. She broke the silence. “I’m hungry. Can we get ice cream?”
Her mother let out her squawk of a laugh, making Kelsey jump. It was so rare to hear these days.
“It’s seven a.m.,” her mother replied. Then, after some thought, she asked, “You think the grocery store is open?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Kelsey stood at the center of Memorial Stadium in a line of dancers, her curls so stiff with hair spray she could almost hear them clack together as she moved her head. Her eyelashes were heavy with mascara, and her lips sticky with a fresh coat of color. She smiled at the enormous empty egg of seats as if they contained thousands of adoring fans. She hadn’t said a word to anyone except for hello and her name. She had made herself into a machine, because that was what it took to compete.
Now it was paying off. She was one out of twelve left in a full-day tryout that began with hundreds. After the first round of basic moves, half of them dropped like flies. After the second round, dozens were unable to pick up a basic two-minute sequence in the time allotted. They let her stay. Not because she stood out, and not because she had a certain way about her. No one can pick up individuality from stadium seats. She was still there because she could execute.
A redhead on the current team paced on the Astroturf in front of the line of girls, her poms behind her back. She was Missy, Kelsey remembered, the girl she met at Davis’s party so long ago. She’d given Kelsey a little wave and a wink from the sideline.
“Welcome to the final round of Rock Chalk Dancer tryouts! Congratulate yourselves. You’ve come this far out of a group of incredible dancers.”
Missy gave them a few exaggerated claps with her poms, and the dancers on the sideline did the same.
“You were expected to memorize a hip-hop combo. You will perform it solo. Can we see number seven, please?”
The first girl was also a machine, Kelsey observed. But good mechanics shouldn’t necessarily mean the dancer looks like a robot. Each motion was crisp, but the movements looked disconnected from one another. They should flow, as if the dancer was exposing something, as if she was thinking about each movement as she went. Like the video Mrs. Wallace had showed her. That was what dance should be.
“Thank you,” the redhead called, and looked at her clipboard. “Fifty-two, please!”
The next girl was perfect, until the very end. The back handspring left her off balance, which caused her jump turn to be poorly timed.
Kelsey swallowed, still smiling, clapping for her competitors, but she knew the back handspring might give her trouble, too. Unless you were a gymnast, a back handspring would give any dancer trouble.
“Thank you. Twelve, please!”
As number 12 performed, Kelsey let her mind drift. She had stopped trying to block her thoughts of Peter. In fact, his anger had pushed her to work harder. She found it was easier to lose herself to dance when there was something to run from.
So she would focus on her back handspring. She would visualize herself completing it over and over, until her body did its job.
Watching the flip in her mind’s eye, Kelsey couldn’t help but think of the absurdity of her entire future resting on one half-second movement.
If she made the team, she would complete hundreds of handsprings each year, and yet this one was so important because she would do it today on the Astroturf, in front of a bunch of girls who called her by a number.
She watched 12 complete the combo, and in lieu of applause, the dancers clapped twice, following their leader.
The row of faces, made up in Technicolor reds and blues, reminded Kelsey of Andy Warhol’s prints of Marilyn Monroe. Except she couldn’t see how they made anyone think twice about dancing. In fact, if she deviated from the routine in even the smallest of ways, if she made herself “special,” she would be eliminated.
Is this how she wanted to spend hours and hours of the next four years?
“Thank you. Thirty-four, please!”
Too late to decide now, the decision was already made. Kelsey was number 34. She stepped out of the line, toes pointed as she walked to the center of the field, marking her spot on the 50-yard line.
The music began, and she let her doubts fall. She let her body do its job.
As she got down on her knees, she thought of the last time she felt special as she danced: when she had made up the moves herself. When her dancers had fallen to the floor and jumped up to the drop in “Dance Yrself Clean.”
She didn’t miss a beat. She had been working on this combo for six months.
Then she thought of swinging her hips in Paris as Peter watched her. He loved the way she danced. He was discovering who she really was without even knowing it.
Time for the back handspring.
She wound up, and it was perfect. She almost wanted to laugh. All that worrying for nothing.
She killed the routine.
Kelsey was a great dancer.
But she didn’t need them. She wanted to make people feel special. She wanted to make people think twice. And the first person who she needed to do both with was in El Dorado.
As the girls put their poms together twice, Kelsey tore off the number stuck to her tank top, and walked off the field.
If she hurried, she could catch Peter before he left Kansas again. For where, she didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to let him go without her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kelsey sped west as if a fire spread behind her. It may have not been the right thing to do. She didn’t know if this was the right thing in the eyes of her mother, of all others, but she knew it was right for her.