"Either you did or you didn't," my dad says bluntly. "Did you do your best?"
A montage of my life floats through my brain. All the hours upon hours of rehearsal. The injuries, the bleeding feet. The pain … everywhere. Practicing combinations in my kitchen. Practicing steps in my shower. Running through variations in my head while I was trying to fall asleep at night. No social life. No boyfriend. No fun.
No Josh.
"I gave it all I had to give."
"Then there's nothing more you could have done. You should be pleased with your efforts and how far you've come. Not many people make it as far as you did."
"And Leslie," my mom chimes in, "remember that you're a beautiful dancer. I've always loved to watch you. A big part of that enjoyment was knowing the joy it brought you."
I think about what my parents said. I can't imagine not dancing. I need that movement in my life. But I'm not sure that “joy” is how I'd describe it. The feelings are too complex to be distilled down to "joy."
"I wish we could see you in this show," Mom laments.
Tickets were sold out weeks before I was brought in. Everyone wants to see Tabby Cat.
"I know. I'm going to see if I can get permission to record at least my main number so I can send it to you." I take a deep breath. As long as I'm ripping off the Band-Aid …
"So the other show I'm in here later in the summer …"
"Yes," Mom says eagerly. "Tell me about that. We're definitely going to get tickets and come out to see you."
The pit's back in my stomach, though not as deep as it used to be. We've had some breakthroughs. They'll accept this.
"I'm the understudy for the lead. Not the actual lead."
There's silence on the line.
"Oh," my mom finally says. "What happened?"
I shrug, not that they can see it through the phone. "I don't know." I don't. Was it my turnout? My singing voice? My read? Is the other person a better dancer? Suddenly, I have to know. "You know what, I'm going to find out."
I disconnect from my parents, marching over to The Edison offices in the front of the theater. Henderson's in there, working on the computer. I knock slightly. He looks up and tips his head to the side, indicating I should come in.
"Howzit going, Leslie?"
Nervously I sit down on the edge of the chair. Henderson doesn't seem like the friendliest of sorts. He's not mean, just … grumpy … most of the time. He's still clacking away on his keyboard. "I'm okay. I … I have a weird question to ask you."
I think I see an eye roll, which is sort of his trademark facial expression. "Sup?"
Inhaling deeply, I steel myself to start. "So you cast me as the understudy for Lise. Why?"
"Why did I give you a part?" He furrows his brow.
"Why understudy? Why not the lead? Why was I the second choice?"
Henderson stops typing. He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment before looking up at me. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that."
"What?"
"I reckon you don't know me well, but I hate drama."
"You're literally in the drama field."
"Yes, I know. But I hate the drama that goes along with it. The high-maintenance divas who complicate everything for everyone, that sort of thing. I don't like conflict and confrontation. When you came in and couldn't figure out your own name, I decided I didn't want to deal with your drama. On the other hand, you had the talent, so if anything happened, I wanted you to do the part."
I blink slowly, trying to process what he said. "You didn't cast me because I was still working on my stage name?"
