mind, but not out of her muscles. Her arms and legs ached as if she had fallen down that flight of stairs, instead of running down them, when she had left her mother's room. She pulled the purple leg-warmers up over her knees and started the record of Swan Lake again. Resting her foot on the barre, she leaned over her thigh and stretched until it hurt.
She stared at herself in the mirrors that lined the walls of the high-ceilinged room, but not with her usual eye to form. Her arms spread wide, her back arched, she gazed at her face, hoping that by studying it, she would somehow be able to decipher her feelings. It was too dark to see. She had pulled open the velvet drapes her mother insisted on keeping shut to block out the view of the sea, but outside a curtain of clouds stifled the first light of morning. All Cassie could make out was her slender, hesitant shadow in the mirror.
She bent her legs slowly in a series of plies in each of the five positions, then did three pirouettes towards the center of the room, snapping her head around so that she didn't lose her image in the mirror, and ending with her arms curved overhead, her left foot on the parquet floor firmly in front of her right. She wasn't dizzy - she never got dizzy when she danced - but the troublesome thoughts lingered, like the salt smell which clung to her hair from last night.
With a nervous flick of her hand, she brushed back the chestnut wisps of hair that had loosened from the knot pinned on top of her head. Two separate anxieties were tugging at her - what to do about Todd, and what to do about her mother - and as if she were trying to perform two different ballet steps at the same time, it seemed impossible to resolve either of them.
Go up and check on her.
No, let her sleep. She needs sleep. You can be out on the boat with Todd and back before she wakes up.
Cassie raised her chin, then threw back her shoulders so that her tiny breasts pushed against the black nylon leotard, and imagined Todd was staring at her the way he had stared at her last night.
The door clicked open.
Todd ... He must have been too impatient to wait for her on the beach. She arched her back, looking into the mirror to catch the expression on his face when he walked in.
'Cassie, we've got to go.'
Her mother was standing in the doorway.
Go back to bed. Please go back to bed.
'What are you doing up?' Cassie asked.
'We're leaving.'
In a long batik skirt over a leotard and tights, the outfit she always wore at Cliffs Edge, Ann Broyles looked like a ballet teacher. But something was different about her this morning: her raven hair, which was usually pulled into a tight bun, was wild and unkempt; her eyes were red (from sleeplessness or tears?), and her complexion . . . her complexion that had tanned so readily in one week of sunshine, was as wan as the dawn sky.
'Are you okay?' Cassie's cautious words were an echo of last night. And like last night, her mother ignored them, pulling the velvet curtains back across the window. She's shutting me in, Cassie thought. She's always shutting me in.
'You'd better get dressed.'
'What for?' Cassie walked to the Baldwin upright in the corner, grabbed a towel from the piano bench and wiped her forehead with it. 'Our plane's not till tonight.'
'We're due at Woods Hole in an hour.'
'You've got to be kidding.' Cassie threw the towel on the floor and started the record again with an angry scratch.
'Cassie, sometimes your father's needs come first.'
'I thought he said we didn't have to go . . .He didn't want us to go.'
'It's important.'
'Come on, you hate those dumb political things more than / do. I thought the whole reason you came out here was to get away from all that Senator's wife junk.'
'Honey, we don't have much time.'
Cassie turned her back on her to face the barre. She balanced her leg up on it and stretched until the pain shot from her ankle into her hip. 'You go ahead. I'll be okay here . . .' (With Todd.) 'I'll meet
She stared at herself in the mirrors that lined the walls of the high-ceilinged room, but not with her usual eye to form. Her arms spread wide, her back arched, she gazed at her face, hoping that by studying it, she would somehow be able to decipher her feelings. It was too dark to see. She had pulled open the velvet drapes her mother insisted on keeping shut to block out the view of the sea, but outside a curtain of clouds stifled the first light of morning. All Cassie could make out was her slender, hesitant shadow in the mirror.
She bent her legs slowly in a series of plies in each of the five positions, then did three pirouettes towards the center of the room, snapping her head around so that she didn't lose her image in the mirror, and ending with her arms curved overhead, her left foot on the parquet floor firmly in front of her right. She wasn't dizzy - she never got dizzy when she danced - but the troublesome thoughts lingered, like the salt smell which clung to her hair from last night.
With a nervous flick of her hand, she brushed back the chestnut wisps of hair that had loosened from the knot pinned on top of her head. Two separate anxieties were tugging at her - what to do about Todd, and what to do about her mother - and as if she were trying to perform two different ballet steps at the same time, it seemed impossible to resolve either of them.
Go up and check on her.
No, let her sleep. She needs sleep. You can be out on the boat with Todd and back before she wakes up.
Cassie raised her chin, then threw back her shoulders so that her tiny breasts pushed against the black nylon leotard, and imagined Todd was staring at her the way he had stared at her last night.
The door clicked open.
Todd ... He must have been too impatient to wait for her on the beach. She arched her back, looking into the mirror to catch the expression on his face when he walked in.
'Cassie, we've got to go.'
Her mother was standing in the doorway.
Go back to bed. Please go back to bed.
'What are you doing up?' Cassie asked.
'We're leaving.'
In a long batik skirt over a leotard and tights, the outfit she always wore at Cliffs Edge, Ann Broyles looked like a ballet teacher. But something was different about her this morning: her raven hair, which was usually pulled into a tight bun, was wild and unkempt; her eyes were red (from sleeplessness or tears?), and her complexion . . . her complexion that had tanned so readily in one week of sunshine, was as wan as the dawn sky.
'Are you okay?' Cassie's cautious words were an echo of last night. And like last night, her mother ignored them, pulling the velvet curtains back across the window. She's shutting me in, Cassie thought. She's always shutting me in.
'You'd better get dressed.'
'What for?' Cassie walked to the Baldwin upright in the corner, grabbed a towel from the piano bench and wiped her forehead with it. 'Our plane's not till tonight.'
'We're due at Woods Hole in an hour.'
'You've got to be kidding.' Cassie threw the towel on the floor and started the record again with an angry scratch.
'Cassie, sometimes your father's needs come first.'
'I thought he said we didn't have to go . . .He didn't want us to go.'
'It's important.'
'Come on, you hate those dumb political things more than / do. I thought the whole reason you came out here was to get away from all that Senator's wife junk.'
'Honey, we don't have much time.'
Cassie turned her back on her to face the barre. She balanced her leg up on it and stretched until the pain shot from her ankle into her hip. 'You go ahead. I'll be okay here . . .' (With Todd.) 'I'll meet
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