"What if I mess up the phrase they teach," she said.
"Then you mess it up in time," the coach said. "I'd rather see you late and musical than early and terrified. Count in your feet if your head gets loud. You've been doing that for months. This floor is just a floor that has a name."
Willa looked at her shoes. The salt from the porch had left a faint white kiss on the rubber. She thought of brushing it off and did not. The floor could meet her as she was, or it could send her home. Either way, the shoes had already done what her father asked. They had not made a speech. They had gotten her here.
***
Patricia did not turn the radio on. The river bridge in the other direction had a grind to it, a metal song under the tires, and she preferred it to music that might ask her to feel a particular way. Audrey sat with the headshot folder on her knees and her phone facedown, which meant she was nervous enough to pretend she was not checking.
"She'll be fine," Patricia said, and heard how the sentence tried to close a door.
"I didn't ask," Audrey said.
"You were thinking it loud."
"I was thinking about my entrance. The second one, where the picker from Belland usually writes. If I rush the turn he marks it. Ms. Dyer said so in October."
"Then don't rush the turn."
Audrey looked out at the water. Her profile was her father's and also not. Sam had had a softer mouth. Audrey's was precise, as if she had edited it. "You told her the shoes were embarrassing in front of me. You could have waited until the coach left."
"The coach was not invited to have an opinion about our closet."