Page 59 of Soft Limits

I leave my bag on the floor and walk quietly upstairs. The box room is uncarpeted and chilly, and I open several cartons before I find the one I want: all my stuffed animals. I begged my mother not to have a garage sale, and she has relented so far. I scoop them out in armloads and lay down on the floor with them. They are my pillows, my warmth and my comfort. I breathe in their furry softness and close my eyes.

* * *

“Abby. What are you doing up here?”

I wake with a start and see daylight. My head is pillowed on Mr. Snuffles and I’ve got my arms wrapped tightly around Chubbles the rabbit. I’ve slept all night on the box room floor. As I look up at my mother my sense of safety and warmth evaporates. Her mouth is twisted with the words she’s holding back.

“I was just, uh, looking for something. When I got home.”

“I see.” Her voice is breathy, like she’s annoyed, and she begins scooping up all my toys and putting them back in the box. She even pulls Chubbles out of my arms.

“Are you still in yesterday’s clothes?” she calls after me as I push past her and head downstairs. “Abby, I wish you’d take better care of yourself.”

In the kitchen I pour a glass of strawberry milk. It’s what I have for breakfast every morning but I can still feel my father frowning at me over his newspaper. I glance at the front page and grimace. War. The economy. Politicians lying. I don’t know how people can bury themselves under a tide of bad news first thing in the morning.

My mother comes in and looks hard at me. “You haven’t read the brochures yet.”

There is a pile of glossy flyers on the table, each one stamped with a college crest. She wants me to take a course in marketing or bookkeeping. My grades in high school were decent, and I could probably get in, but taking a course in something I dislike, and then—worse—getting a job with deadlines, performance reviews and presentations? I grip my glass and force myself to breathe slowly. “I didn’t have time yesterday.”

She purses her lips. “Will you have time today?”

My parents want me to study so that I’ll have something “to fall back on,” as they put it. They don’t think dancing is a real job. It doesn’t seem to matter to them that dancing is something I’m good at, or that it makes me happy.

Do the other dancers feel pressured by their parents? I should ask them, but I’ve always felt too shy to get to know the other girls.

“Abby! I asked you a question.”

I jump. Why can’t she let up? If I get upset I’ll make more mistakes tonight, and Mr. Kingsolver will surely be watching me like a hawk. His warning rings in my ears. “Make one more mistake and you’re fired.”

What about all those other times I didn’t make any mistakes? What about all those times I was perfect? I’m a good dancer. I’ll be fine as soon as I can find a way to stand up to my parents. I can do it. I’ll find a way. Somehow.

I glance at my mother, who is frowning at me across the counter, and feel myself wilt. Today is not that day.

“Soon. I promise.”

As I leave the kitchen I hear my mother muttering to my father about my “excuses.”

It’s a warm, sunny morning, so after my shower I change into a baby-pink leotard and gray leggings and take my yoga mat and e-reader into the back garden. My routine takes forty-five minutes and I force myself to concentrate on the stretches and poses.

After I’ve finished I pick up my e-reader and lie on my tummy. I flick to my favorite story, a middle-grade book set in a magical realm with talking horses, and start to read. I know it by heart, and the lines of fluffy prose are soothing, almost hypnotic. I need this now. Nothing else is going to make me feel relaxed before I have to head for the theater and Mr. Kingsolver.

My dad comes out into the garden after lunch. “What are you reading?” he asks, weeding dandelions out of the flowerbed.

I look at the pony story on my e-reader. “It’s Pride and Prejudice,” I tell him.

He nods approvingly, which means I’ve avoided yet another lecture. The back of my neck prickles and

I’m worried he’s going to look over my shoulder at the screen, so I roll up my mat and go to my bedroom.

Chapter Two

I’m up in the wings fifteen minutes before my cue, which isn’t allowed, but I’m worried that I’ll be late again. Also, I really love this scene. This is a production of Amarantha, a modern fairy tale with witches and heroes and fairies. I’m a woodcutter, along with five other girls, and we wear brown shorts and shirts and carry little axes. I’ve got my hair tucked up under my peaked cap and I’m watching the pretty fairies onstage in their floating tulle and silver wings, my lower lip caught between my teeth with envy.

There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. A man has appeared by my side in the dim light and folded his arms. I glance up and instantly quail. It’s Mr. Kingsolver. I straighten, my hands by my sides, trying to look professional and not like a dancer who’s disobeying rules. What was I thinking? Being up here more than five minutes early is enough to get me fired. My heart starts hammering against my ribs.

He steps closer. His face is handsome in a steely way, like he’s been stamped out of metal. Because it’s late, there’s a dark pattern of stubble over the hard lines of his jaw.

“Look at me.” He’s speaking softly but I can hear the command in his deep voice. I turn toward him and he puts his hand under my chin, forcing it up so I meet his eyes. They’re gunmetal gray in the dim light. “You’re not going to make any mistakes tonight. Is that clear?”

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