Silhouette Read Free

answer without starting a fight, so I just shrug. I like looking like a dancer. ‘At least I’m wearing street shoes,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. She doesn’t react.
    Mum checks the mirror before pulling away from the curb. ‘How’d it go today?’
    I shift in my seat. ‘Good.’ There’s no way I’m telling her about the audition. ‘Wish they’d let us use the studios on the weekend.’
    I feel her look at me then back at the road.
    ‘You already work too hard.’
    ‘Says who?’ She’s not a dancer so I don’t expect her to understand.
    After a while Mum sighs and glances at me again. ‘Just try to keep it in perspective. That’s all I’m saying.’
    So I say, ‘Okay,’ because everything is in perspective. Dancing’s not just something I do, it’s who I am.
    I should wait until we’re home, I know, but I pull the seatbelt away from my neck so that I can look at Mum properly. ‘So, today? Jack said that I should totally audition for the NBC.’
    Mum keeps facing the road as she drives. In the dim light I see her neck lengthen, her face harden. ‘We’ve been through this,’ she mutters.
    ‘Actually, you’ve been through this.’
    ‘Scarlett …’
    ‘It’s one of the world’s top ballet companies. Why won’t you at least let me try?’
    ‘I’ve told you already,’ she snaps. ‘There are other companies. I won’t let you waste your life chasing a ghost.’
    ‘Chasing a ghost ?’
    ‘Scarlett, please.’
    That’s not even the real reason; it’s just what she says. This is about her ghosts, not mine. She can’t handle anything that reminds her of the accident. Anytime something makes her think of Dad she turns away, nursing a wound that never seems to heal.
    For a while the only sound is the swishing of the wipers. I flex my foot, feeling a twinge, and think about classes today. Jack. Talk to her.
    After a while, I take a breath. Another try. ‘Look, I know it hurts. But it’s my life. It should be my choice.’
    ‘Scarlett, that’s enough!’
    ‘No, it’s not enough.’ She has no right to keep doing this. ‘You never let me talk about him.’
    ‘Because there’s nothing to say.’ Mum grips the steering wheel with both hands as we stop at a light.
    ‘But he was my father! He was a principal artist at the NBC. You never tell me anything –’
    ‘What do you want me to say?’ Mum’s head whips around towards me, her face half in shadow. ‘How bad it was after his shoulder injury?’
    ‘No. I don’t mean –’
    ‘The roles he missed out on? Or do you want to hear about the accident? The way his car wrapped around the power pole?’
    I shrink back. ‘Stop it! I don’t mean that!’
    The lights turn green and Mum fumbles with the gearstick, crunching into first and swearing under her breath. Our words echo between us.
    He was my father.
    There’s nothing to say.
    I rest my head against the window, watching light fall on the glass before disappearing and returning again. I’ll stand up to her about this, but not tonight. Not until I know how to change her mind.
    ‘Want some pasta?’ Mum asks when we get home. It’s a peace offering.
    ‘Nah thanks,’ I say, but the look on her face makes me add, ‘I’m too tired. I’ll just grab a yoghurt.’
    She hovers as I choose a tub from the fridge, then disappears into the living room.
    I’m hungrier than I realised and I end up sneaking a handful of almonds and then slurping a whole tomato as well. It wakes me up again and I worry that I won’t sleep. But after a hot shower I sink into bed, and the only sensation in my body is heaviness.
    The next morning, I’m lifted out of sleep by the notes of a rising piano scale. For a while I let them carry me, eyes closed, knees to chest. When the scale changes I sit on the edge of the bed. Crack my neck. Crunch my toes. I pull on denim shorts from under my bed and choose a T-shirt that I’ve had since I was ten. Still fits, though tighter.
    In the kitchen I boil an