Chapter 17

The kitchen staff stood in the doorway watching him. Nobody offered him a glass of water. Nobody asked if he needed anything. He was standing in a room full of empty chairs and dirty tablecloths, and for the first time in his life, not a single person on Earth wanted to be in the same room with him.Outside, in the parking lot, Daphne sat on the curb in her mother's silver shoes. Bernice sat beside her. Neither of them spoke. Above them, the Bronx sky was the color of rust, and somewhere on the other side of the city, a rehearsal hall in Harlem was still standing—for now.Bernice didn't move from the curb for a long time. She sat with her hands in her lap, looking at the streetlights turning on along the block. Beside her, Daphne was still wearing the silver shoes."You danced better than your mother tonight."Daphne's breath caught. She turned to look at Bernice. The old woman wasn't smiling: Bernice Fontaine didn't offer compliments with a smile; she offered them plainly because the truth didn't need help."Mama was better.""Your mother was brilliant. You're better." Bernice paused. "She'd be furious that I said that. And she'd know I was right."Daphne looked down at the shoes. She pressed her thumb against the worn spot on the left heel where the leather had thinned almost to nothing. For the first time that night, she cried: not loudly—her shoulders shook twice, and tears ran down her face, and she didn't wipe them. Bernice put her arm around her and held her the way she always held her: firmly, without fussing.The dining hall door opened. Lucille Voss walked out, a manila folder in her hand. She stopped in front of Daphne."This is the scholarship paperwork: full tuition, housing, meals, studio access. The academy's fall term begins in six months. Your spot is guaranteed."

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