Page 39 of The Devil of Downtown

“Come on, Elsie Boo,” I say with a sigh, helping her into her purple glitter backpack.

“Will you still be here when I get back? It’s important.” I chew my lip, annoyed with myself for putting this off. In truth, I didn’t want to spend the weekend with Sloane being mad at me, but springing it on her now is probably not the best move.

“Don’t look so worried, Ivy. It can’t be that bad; otherwise, Dane would’ve already blown up my phone. You know he never holds back when there’s an axe to grind.”

Oh God. She has no idea.

“Listen, we’ll talk tonight,” she adds, glancing at her watch. “I need to get in early. But if it’s really urgent, call me at work. Dane isn’t in today. He has a conference out of town.”

“He does?” My heart jolts, cautiously daring to beat again. A temporary stay of execution.

“It can wait,” I blurt. “I’ll see you this evening.”

Sloane bends to kiss Elsie, tucking a dark curl behind her ear. “You be good at school today.”

“Yes, Mom.” She flashes her mischievous smile.

“Just like your mom was,” I grin.

“What about you, Auntie Ivy? Were you good too?” Elsie peers up at me with the same big blue eyes Sloane and I share.

Sloane smothers a laugh while I lie straight through my teeth. “Oh, the best.”

“So good,” Sloane teases, “she was basically on first-name terms with the principal.”

I flip her the bird behind my back and herd Elsie out the door. “Come on, the bus will be here any second.”

Elsie presses her nose against the bus window with a goofy grin as she waves goodbye. I wave until the bus is out of sightand head back to our apartment to get ready. I have an audition this morning, and I can’t be late.

My room looks like a bomb went off in a dancewear store as I slip into a black leotard under a loose off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, low-waisted joggers, and silver sneakers. I style my hair in two French braids, light makeup—enough to look alive, not like a woman whose brain is still short-circuiting from a Dane-shaped disaster slash infatuation.

Today’s audition is for a modern revival of42nd Street—all neon and street-jazz choreography instead of tap shoes and feathered hats. My agent said they’re casting for ensemble and Lorraine, the sassy supporting dancer who gets solo lines and a featured duet. Translation:actual money and lines that people remember.

By the time I reach the theater, there’s already a line snaking down the block, girls in crop tops and character heels doing nervous stretches and guys in sweatpants practicing double turns.

I spot Jennie, my best friend and partner in dance-crime, waving from the door.

“It’s so good to see you,” I say, hugging her. “Thank you for covering my dance class while I was in London.”

“Please, my ears still haven’t forgiven me. I didn’t realize five- and six-year-olds were so loud,” she laughs.

The theater doors are flung open, and a man with a clipboard ushers us inside.

“I need to talk to you after,” I whisper as we file in. “I’vereallyfucked up.”

Jennie gives me a knowing smirk. “Why do all your best stories start like that?”

“Don’t,” I groan.

I slide on my black character heels and a sheer wrap skirt over the black leotard, slick some flyaway hairs back. We warm up,and I try to block everything else out—the guilt, Dane, Sloane’s clueless face this morning.

A panel of casting directors and a pianist who looks like he’s been chain-smoking show tunes for the last forty years sit in front of the brightly lit, bare stage.

The choreographer, a wiry guy in a beanie who is probably allergic to carbs, claps his hands.

“Alright, people, give me something that says showbiz meets street grit.”

“Five, six, seven, eight—”