But soon, every question seemed to bother her.
“How was class?”
“Fine.”
“What did you work on?”
“Nothing special.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’ll eat upstairs.”
Her dance bag stayed zipped.
Her shoes disappeared into her closet.
When the studio announced auditions for its spring performance, I expected Tessa to talk about nothing else.
Instead, she told me she wasn’t auditioning.
I actually laughed because I thought she was joking.
“You’ve been waiting for this.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“I’m not good enough yet.”
That stopped me.
Tessa had never been arrogant about dancing, but she had always been determined. This was the same girl who repeated the same movement fifty times in our kitchen because she hated getting it wrong.
“Did your teacher say you weren’t ready?”
