you’ll forgive me now for breaking our agreement and demanding to see your work. I needed to judge where you were, and have something to turn in with your nomination.”
Overwhelmed, I nodded, then blinked away the tears that threatened. “I do. Of course. Thank you.”
“It gives you extra time here, if you want it. You can stay through the summer, in addition to the nine months of your original fellowship. There are other benefits as well, so wear the charm while you’re here.
“I’m so proud of you, Imogen.”
Proud of you. I played the words in my head over and over again as I walked back home. It wasn’t the first time I’d been complimented on my writing. I’d sold stories, gotten good reviews. Hell, I’d gotten into Melete. I knew that I had achieved a certain level of competence, enough to know I wasn’t wasting my time with my work.
If I had been asked, I could have said that I was proud of myself, because I had worked hard to make all of those things happen.
But, growing up, writing had been something I had to keep secret. My mother didn’t want me hiding in my room and “making up lies,” and there had been consequences when I did. So this was the first time that I had been told that someone was proud of me because of something I wrote. For those words to come from Beth,whose own work meant so much to me, made it matter even more.
I wanted to write her words down, tape them above my desk, make them a talisman against the days when my own words didn’t come, or were facile and flat. To hold them as a shield against bad reviews and rejection letters. I held the charm around my neck hard, hard, until the metal embossed itself on my skin.
Once I got home I braced myself, then knocked on Helena’s door. She let it open only the thinnest sliver. “What?”
This was going well already. “I need to talk to you.”
“About what? I’m not really in the mood for another lecture on believing in my art.”
“I saw Janet today.”
“Why would you do that?” Horror in her voice.
I could only see part of her face through the door, but she looked worried. No, not worried. Like she was braced for a blow. My stomach clenched.
“I was worried. So I told her about your notebooks. The fire. She asked me to come and speak to her. It . . . it was strange, so I thought I should tell”—warn—“you.”
Helena closed her eyes, whispered, “No.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I wish I had never said anything.”
“Me too.” She leaned her head into the door frame. “Is there something else?”
“Look, Helena, if you need anything—”
“You mean beyond what you’ve already done? Yeah, thanks, I’ll remember that.” She shut the door.
When I was halfway down the hall, I heard something crash and shatter. I paused, and then kept walking. She had made clear that I had done more than enough already.
11
Marin was still in her practice clothes, face flushed, her hair a tangled knot at the back of her head, when she knocked on my door later that night. “Did you get an email from Mommy Dearest, too, or am I the only lucky one?”
I clicked on the icon for my email program, then loosed a breath in relief that there was no new mail. I’d learned not to read them, but just seeing her name in my inbox messed with my head, made me feel trapped, panicked. Like it was the start of a countdown that ended with her appearing. “Nope. Just you this time. Did you read it?”
“It was really informative. You see, I’m wasting my time—how did she put it?—‘languishing in obscurity’ out here in the middle of nowhere while my company is doing Giselle , and how I’ll never get to perform the role now, and everyone will have forgotten about me by June when the fellowship is over, plus I’ll be a year older, and we all know what time does to a dancer’s career, don’t we?” Marin paced the room as she spoke, striking exaggerated poses for emphasis.
“About the only thing
Overwhelmed, I nodded, then blinked away the tears that threatened. “I do. Of course. Thank you.”
“It gives you extra time here, if you want it. You can stay through the summer, in addition to the nine months of your original fellowship. There are other benefits as well, so wear the charm while you’re here.
“I’m so proud of you, Imogen.”
Proud of you. I played the words in my head over and over again as I walked back home. It wasn’t the first time I’d been complimented on my writing. I’d sold stories, gotten good reviews. Hell, I’d gotten into Melete. I knew that I had achieved a certain level of competence, enough to know I wasn’t wasting my time with my work.
If I had been asked, I could have said that I was proud of myself, because I had worked hard to make all of those things happen.
But, growing up, writing had been something I had to keep secret. My mother didn’t want me hiding in my room and “making up lies,” and there had been consequences when I did. So this was the first time that I had been told that someone was proud of me because of something I wrote. For those words to come from Beth,whose own work meant so much to me, made it matter even more.
I wanted to write her words down, tape them above my desk, make them a talisman against the days when my own words didn’t come, or were facile and flat. To hold them as a shield against bad reviews and rejection letters. I held the charm around my neck hard, hard, until the metal embossed itself on my skin.
Once I got home I braced myself, then knocked on Helena’s door. She let it open only the thinnest sliver. “What?”
This was going well already. “I need to talk to you.”
“About what? I’m not really in the mood for another lecture on believing in my art.”
“I saw Janet today.”
“Why would you do that?” Horror in her voice.
I could only see part of her face through the door, but she looked worried. No, not worried. Like she was braced for a blow. My stomach clenched.
“I was worried. So I told her about your notebooks. The fire. She asked me to come and speak to her. It . . . it was strange, so I thought I should tell”—warn—“you.”
Helena closed her eyes, whispered, “No.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I wish I had never said anything.”
“Me too.” She leaned her head into the door frame. “Is there something else?”
“Look, Helena, if you need anything—”
“You mean beyond what you’ve already done? Yeah, thanks, I’ll remember that.” She shut the door.
When I was halfway down the hall, I heard something crash and shatter. I paused, and then kept walking. She had made clear that I had done more than enough already.
11
Marin was still in her practice clothes, face flushed, her hair a tangled knot at the back of her head, when she knocked on my door later that night. “Did you get an email from Mommy Dearest, too, or am I the only lucky one?”
I clicked on the icon for my email program, then loosed a breath in relief that there was no new mail. I’d learned not to read them, but just seeing her name in my inbox messed with my head, made me feel trapped, panicked. Like it was the start of a countdown that ended with her appearing. “Nope. Just you this time. Did you read it?”
“It was really informative. You see, I’m wasting my time—how did she put it?—‘languishing in obscurity’ out here in the middle of nowhere while my company is doing Giselle , and how I’ll never get to perform the role now, and everyone will have forgotten about me by June when the fellowship is over, plus I’ll be a year older, and we all know what time does to a dancer’s career, don’t we?” Marin paced the room as she spoke, striking exaggerated poses for emphasis.
“About the only thing
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