Page 2 of Natasha
"As if you care," Natasha hissed, taking a shaky step back from him. He crowded her against the wall and she wanted to be anywhere but here, sandwiched between him and the cold cinder block at her back.
"You're the star. Of course, I care," the director insisted, but already, Natasha saw that he glanced at her understudy with an appraising and pleased look. She had to get away from him, and now. She felt sick at seeing how quickly she had been replaced.
"No. I'm not," Natasha whispered. She turned and slipped away down the hall toward the dressing rooms.
"Natasha!" The director was behind her now. His frock coat flapped as he stormed after her. "Get back here!"
"No," Natasha rasped, her legs carrying her straight past her dressing room. She didn't care about what was inside. A beaten duffel bag, a pair of sweats, the lunch she hadn't eaten. None of it mattered. Her grandmother had never trusted banks and had insisted that she carry forty dollars on her at all times, even when she danced. She would hail a taxi, and thanks to her grandmother's addition of a money pocket to her costume, there would be plenty of cab fare to get her home to Brooklyn.
"Natasha! Don't you walk out that door!" the director yelled at her. She ignored the screaming man and burst out of the backstage of the theater, stumbling into the alleyway. She could hear him still screaming, even when the door banged shut behind her.
"Get back here!Natasha!"
Lurching forward, Natasha waved a hand over her head once her slippered feet hit the sidewalk. A taxi appeared almost immediately, and she was grateful that her costume was at least more than useful when it came to attracting attention in New York. Slipping into the backseat of the taxi, she barely had a second to collect herself before the director's fist hit the back of the cab.
"Natasha!"
"Brooklyn. Yesterday!" she cried, her fingers digging into the leather of the seat. "Please," she added as an afterthought. Perhaps it was her manners, but the driver didn't comment on her attire or the man screaming her name on the sidewalk. Instead, he drove, and while he drove, Natasha thought.
"What am I doing?" she whispered to herself, her forehead against the glass, but no answer came. She had no idea what she was doing. She'd cracked, finally, after all those years of careful planning and discipline.
Natasha squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to cry. She would not cry, not after losing her nerve. Though, after only a few minutes, her efforts to stem the tears pricking her eyelids proved fruitless. She sobbed into her hands, which only added to her shame of running like a coward. Natasha had been many things, but until today, weak hadn't been one of them.
