Fourteen was there. Under a heading that said junior associate callback, Saturday intensive, scholarship interview to follow for selected dancers. Not a crown. A door that had not shut.
Her knees went unreliable. She locked them because locking them was a mistake her coach had named, then softened them, then stood like a person who was allowed to occupy a square of tile.
Coach Moretti read the sheet over her shoulder without touching her. "There you are."
"It's just a callback."
"It's a callback at a school that sees a hundred children and writes down twelve. You can call it just if you need to stay modest in the car. You don't have to call it nothing."
Willa nodded. Her eyes stung. She tipped her face up toward the tall window so the sting would be about light. "Do I have to talk in the interview."
"Yes. They'll ask what you want from the training, how you'll get here, whether anyone at home supports the schedule. You answer honestly. If the honest answer is complicated, you say the complication in a clean sentence. You don't indict your mother to a panel. You also don't pretend you have a car service."
"What if she won't drive me."
"Then we solve the next mile after we know there is a mile. Buses exist. Saturday classes exist. I exist on a limited basis and I am not your chauffeur for life, so don't build a religion out of my hatchback. One problem at a time. Right now the problem is you haven't eaten since toast."
They sat on a bench in the lobby. The coach produced a granola bar that had seen the bottom of the tote and a tangerine. Willa ate both. The tangerine smell got on her fingers and made the morning feel like a place, not a test. Children left with parents who clutched the paper or avoided it. Number 9 waved, glitter smudged, genuine. "See you Saturday, maybe."
"Maybe," Willa said.
She was tying her windbreaker sleeve around her waist, uselessly, when the front door opened and the cold brought in a camel coat.