Patricia opened the door because she would not let a bell ring twice where a neighbor might hear the second time.
Cold came in ahead of the person. Coach Lena Moretti stood on the mat, thirty-four, dark hair pulled into a low knot the wind had already started to undo. Black athletic zip-up. A garment bag over one shoulder. A canvas tote with a water bottle and a form clipped to the outside, the form's corner bending in the draft. She smiled the way a person smiles when she is on time and has decided, for the moment, to expect the same of the house.
"Morning. Ready for the scholarship audition?"
The hallway changed in a way that had nothing to do with the open door.
Willa looked at her mother. The sentence was already losing its bones. "She says I'm not going."
Patricia's mouth tightened. "We have a prior commitment. Audrey is being seen today. I told Willa the community thing could wait."
The coach did not step all the way in. She looked at Willa's feet, then at Willa's face, then at the gray box open on the bench. The cheerfulness did not vanish. It set itself down, the way a tool is set down when the job turns out to be different.
"Calder Academy," she said. "Not the community center. Junior associate scholarship. Ten o'clock call. Audition at ten forty. I sent the confirmation to the email on the spring clinic form. It may have gone somewhere you don't check."
"We don't do excuses about email in this house," Patricia said.
"All right." Coach Moretti shifted the garment bag to her other shoulder. Her voice stayed level, the one she used when a formation was wrong and shouting would only lock the bodies tighter. "Then I'll say it in the doorway. The Academy specifically requested her. By name. And those shoes are perfectly fine."
Audrey made a sound that was almost a laugh and not far from something else. "They requested her. Willa."
"Willa Keene," the coach said. "Yes."