Chapter 8 - Six Weeks Away

London exhausted Poppy before it impressed her.

On the first day of the summer program, she got lost between the residence hall and Studio Five, arrived ninety seconds late, and discovered that everyone else seemed to know how to look relaxed while stretching higher than she could.

The instructor, Mr. Laurent, did not ask for excuses.

“You are Poppy Reed.”

“Yes.”

“You are late.”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow you will not be.”

“No.”

He looked at her.

“Is that agreement?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Good. Barre.”

By lunch, Poppy hated him.

By Friday, she wanted him to teach every class.

He corrected without flattering.

He did not know that she had danced through sabotage.

He did not care that she held a scholarship.

He cared that her left hip shifted in développé and that she rushed the final count of combinations when tired.

It was a relief.

At night, Poppy called Elena.

Her mother asked whether she was eating.

Poppy lied.

Elena knew.

“Meals.”

“I ate.”

“What?”

“Food.”

“Poppy.”

“A banana.”

“That is not dinner.”

“There was pasta.”

“Was?”

“I saw pasta.”

“Did you eat it?”

Poppy laughed.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Sienna sent messages almost daily.

Amara made me improvise to silence.

Poppy replied:

Call the police.

Sienna:

Apparently I have feelings in my shoulders.

Poppy:

Tragic.

Sienna:

How is London?

Poppy stared at the question before answering.

Hard.

Sienna:

Good hard or bad hard?

Poppy:

Both.

That was the truth.

Week two brought casting for the program showcase.

Poppy wanted the featured ensemble.

She received second cast.

For ten minutes, she stood in a toilet cubicle and cried.

Then she washed her face and went to rehearsal.

No one knew.

That evening, she told Elena she was fine.

She told Sienna the truth.

I thought scholarship meant I’d be one of the best here.

Sienna replied:

Why?

Poppy frowned.

Because they paid for me to come.

Three dots.

Then:

They paid because they thought you should be in the room. Not because they promised you’d own it.

Poppy hated how useful that was.

You sound like Amara.

Sienna:

Worst thing anyone has ever said to me.

Poppy smiled.

At home, Sienna’s life became quieter.

Celeste completed community hours at a charity shop and attended counseling recommended by her solicitor.

She did not volunteer details.

Sienna did not ask.

Richard remained in the family house.

He and Celeste attended couples therapy but did not move back in together.

One afternoon, Celeste asked Sienna to meet for coffee.

She arrived carrying a small box.

Sienna tensed.

“What is that?”

“Not a surprise.”

“That is exactly what someone says before a surprise.”

Celeste sat down.

“I found these while clearing a cupboard.”

Inside were Sienna’s first ballet shoes.

Tiny pink slippers with elastic straps.

Sienna picked one up.

“I was six.”

“Yes.”

“You kept them?”

“Of course.”

Sienna smiled.

Celeste touched the other shoe.

“You cried because the teacher would not let you wear a tutu in regular class.”

Sienna groaned.

“I had forgotten.”

“I had not.”

They laughed.

Then Celeste became serious.

“I used to think remembering everything meant I knew you best.”

Sienna looked at her.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is an apology.”

“Oh.”

Celeste folded her hands.

“I remembered every competition, every correction, every teacher who praised you. I remembered your sizes and schedules. I thought that meant I understood what you needed.”

Sienna said nothing.

“I did not notice when what you needed changed.”

Her daughter swallowed.

“No.”

“I am sorry.”

Sienna rubbed the satin shoe between her fingers.

“You already apologized.”

“I am learning apologies sometimes need repetition when behavior had repetition.”

“That definitely came from counseling.”

Celeste smiled.

“Yes.”

Sienna looked at the shoes.

“Can I keep these?”

“They are yours.”

“Thank you.”

Celeste hesitated.

“Can I ask about the conservatory audition?”

Sienna’s shoulders tightened automatically.

Her mother noticed.

“Never mind.”

“No.”

Sienna took a breath.

“You can ask.”

“When is it?”

“September third.”

“Do you have a variation?”

“Amara and I are choosing.”

“Can I watch?”

Sienna looked at her.

“Not yet.”

Celeste nodded.

“Okay.”

No argument.

Again, the boundary was small.

Again, it mattered.

In London, Poppy began to change.

Not dramatically.

Her technique did not transform in six weeks.

Her relationship to mistakes did.

Mr. Laurent corrected her in front of everyone.

“Why do you apologize after every correction?”

Poppy blinked.

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

A dancer beside her nodded.

Poppy glared.

Mr. Laurent continued.

“I say, ‘Your weight is too far back.’ You say, ‘Sorry.’ Why?”

“Habit.”

“Did you injure me with your weight placement?”

A few dancers laughed.

“No.”

“Then correct it.”

Poppy tried again.

He stopped her.

“Better.”

She almost said sorry.

She caught herself.

Mr. Laurent smiled.

“There.”

After class, one of the strongest dancers in the program, Naomi, joined her at the water fountain.

“You know he likes you.”

Poppy nearly choked.

“He has called me impatient, tense, overcareful and late.”

“He remembers your name.”

“That is your evidence?”

“He called me ‘blue shirt’ for four days.”

Poppy laughed.

Naomi leaned against the wall.

“What school are you going to next year?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re auditioning?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Poppy named the conservatory.

Naomi nodded.

“Me too.”

Poppy felt the old competitive reflex.

“How many places are there?”

“Twelve, I think.”

Poppy remembered Sienna asking the same question.

Then she laughed.

Naomi frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Was that funny?”

“Only to me.”

They became friends anyway.

That was another thing Poppy had not expected.

At the end of week three, the showcase director moved Poppy from second cast to first.

A dancer had injured an ankle.

Poppy’s first feeling was excitement.

Her second was guilt.

She recognized the pattern now.

She called Elena.

“I got moved up.”

“That is wonderful.”

“Because someone got hurt.”

“That is not wonderful.”

“Exactly.”

“Both things can be true.”

Poppy sighed.

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Perhaps everyone is right.”

Poppy performed the featured ensemble in week four.

No scholarship panel watched.

No final ranking was announced.

There were no trophies.

When the piece ended, Poppy realized she had enjoyed it more than the regional final.

That scared her.

She had spent years believing the biggest moments would be competitions.

Maybe they were not.

After the show, she video-called Sienna from the residence stairwell.

“How was it?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

“Really good.”

“Did you fall?”

“No.”

“Costume survive?”

Poppy laughed.

“Yes.”

“Important.”

Poppy leaned against the wall.

“I think I’m changing my audition solo.”

“For September?”

“Yes.”

“To what?”

“A contemporary piece one of the coaches helped me start.”

Sienna was quiet.

“You hate contemporary.”

“I hated not being good at it.”

“That is different.”

“I know.”

Sienna smiled.

“Show me.”

“Not yet.”

“Rude.”

“You’ll see at the audition.”

“Fine.”

Poppy narrowed her eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“For what?”

“Your solo.”

Sienna looked suspicious.

“Not telling.”

“You demanded mine.”

“I contain contradictions.”

“That was my line.”

“I stole it.”

“Sabotage.”

Both froze.

Then Sienna laughed.

Poppy laughed too.

It was the first time either had used the word as a joke.

The fact that they could did not mean the event was small now.

It meant it no longer owned every room they entered.

During week five, Poppy received a letter from the competition sponsor.

They were creating a new conduct policy for scholarship events.

Parent and coach behavior would now be explicitly included.

Changing rooms would have improved access logs.

Complaints about interference would trigger immediate safeguarding procedures.

The letter thanked Poppy and Sienna for their cooperation.

Poppy read it twice.

She felt strange.

A bad thing had produced a policy.

That did not make the bad thing useful.

She refused to turn pain into proof it had been necessary.

But she liked knowing the next girl might have a locked room.

She called Sienna.

“Did you get the sponsor letter?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“I think their old policy was terrible.”

“That too.”

“And I think I’m glad they changed it.”

“Me too.”

Sienna was quiet.

“Poppy?”

“Yes?”

“My mother got one.”

“Why?”

“They told her she’s banned from their events for two years, not just this season.”

Poppy sat on her bed.

“How does she feel?”

“Bad.”

“How do you feel?”

Sienna thought.

“Relieved.”

Poppy understood immediately.

“You were afraid she’d show up.”

“Yes.”

“At your competitions?”

“Yes.”

“Even if you asked her not to?”

“Yes.”

Poppy did not say she was sorry.

Instead, she asked, “Does she know you’re relieved?”

“No.”

“Will you tell her?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you have to?”

Sienna smiled faintly through the screen.

“Look at you.”

“What?”

“Learning boundaries.”

“London has changed me.”

“No. Your mother has been talking to you.”

“Unfortunately.”

Week six arrived too fast.

On the final day, Mr. Laurent handed Poppy a written evaluation.

She read the first line.

Technically strong dancer with unusual resilience and a tendency to confuse self-denial with discipline.

Poppy stared at him.

“Did my mother call you?”

“No.”

“This sounds like her.”

“That is unfortunate for both of us.”

She kept reading.

He recommended full-time training.

He also recommended more contemporary work and less obsession with external ranking.

Poppy looked up.

“You wrote ‘obsession.’”

“I considered ‘addiction.’”

“That seems dramatic.”

“You are a dancer.”

“Fair.”

At the bottom, he had written:

She is most compelling when she stops asking permission to take space.

Poppy read that line twice.

On the train home, she opened Sienna’s card from six weeks earlier.

For the day we learned winning was the least interesting thing about us.

She placed Mr. Laurent’s evaluation beside it.

When the train arrived, Elena was waiting on the platform.

So were Maya and Miss Keller.

Poppy stepped down with too many bags.

Elena hugged her so hard she dropped one.

“You’re thinner.”

“Hello to you too.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yes.”

“Properly?”

“Mostly.”

Maya grabbed a bag.

“You look sophisticated.”

“I am.”

“You’re wearing a hoodie.”

“London hoodie.”

“Ah.”

Poppy looked past them.

Sienna stood near the ticket barrier.

She had changed her hair, cutting it to her shoulders.

Poppy stared.

“You cut it.”

Sienna touched the ends.

“Do you hate it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Your mother let you?”

The question slipped out.

Sienna raised an eyebrow.

Poppy winced.

“Sorry.”

Sienna smiled.

“I didn’t ask.”

Poppy laughed.

Then Sienna hugged her.

“You’re back.”

“I’m back.”

“Show me the solo.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tonight.”

“Tomorrow.”

“You are unbearable.”

“So I’ve heard.”

On the drive home, Elena asked about London until Poppy could barely keep her eyes open.

At the flat, the repaired costume was hanging on the wardrobe door.

The red seam caught the evening light.

Poppy touched it.

Six weeks earlier, she had thought leaving would be the important part.

Now she understood coming back mattered too.

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She was not the same dancer who had boarded the train.

And the people waiting for her had changed while she was gone.