The Turnout

by Megan Abbott

  As if on cue, they all heard the faint screech from the changing room. Dara moved quickly to the doorway and, amid the piles of coats and backpacks, denim and purple corduroy, saw Bailey Bloom bending down in front of her cubbyhole, her hands trembling, her face stricken.

  The dead rat inside looked waterlogged, its fur quilled.

  * * *

  * * *

  Huddling around Bailey with sympathetic coos and paper towels from the powder room, the girls had many theories—too many, really. The rat must’ve arrived with the flood, washed from some secret eddy in the building into the cubbyhole, so low to the ground. Or the rat, fleeing the flood, found safe harbor in the cubby only to die there.

  “Maybe Bailey was keeping food in her cubby,” Iris Cartwright speculated. “Some people like their snacks.”

  “Gross,” Gracie Hent said, shaking her head. “That’s nasty, Bailey.”

  * * *

  * * *

  You’re telling me,” Charlie said after, “a rat emerged from the subfloor in Studio B and climbed into this cubbyhole two feet off the ground?”

  Dara made a note to call Mrs. Bloom, or to have Charlie do it.

  It was all very unfortunate and Marie spent an hour calming Bailey in the back office, the girl’s face green and her hands still shaking.

  “Clara suffered too,” Bailey said. “She had to face the Mouse King. This will only make my Clara better.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Marie said, stroking Bailey’s hair in that way Marie had that made everyone feel like a most beloved dog. “That’s the way.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Dara didn’t have time for the escalating Clara drama. She had bigger problems.

  She had the contractor, who seemed to grow larger every day. Not his girth, which was not insignificant, but his presence. He was never not there, from when Dara arrived until, it seemed, after she left—Marie taking his hand and slinking up the spiral staircase with him to her attic hovel.

  * * *

  * * *

  That night, Benny and Gaspar worked late, their arms sunk deep in polyplastic. Derek was nowhere to be seen.

  “You two should go home,” Dara told them finally.

  They looked at her dubiously, pulling the masks from their faces.

  “I won’t tell him,” she added discreetly. “Go home.”

  Benny nodded knowingly, but Gaspar, sliding his mask back on, added, under his breath, “He comes back sometimes. You know.”

  Dara let out a tangled cough and wished suddenly that she had a mask too.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was after eight. Dara had sent Marie and Charlie to the Ballenger Center to meet with Madame Sylvie and the set designer and prop master to get approvals on the Christmas tree preparations. Neither appeared too eager about their task. They increasingly seemed to avoid each other lately. Shouldn’t Dara go, they both said, not me?

  “You know all the important things,” Marie said glumly. “And I have plans . . .”

  “I have a private session tonight,” Dara said. “Faites votre devoir. Do your duty.”

  Marie looked at her, her shoulders drawing back in surprise.

  “You sound just like her,” she said, her voice suddenly small. “Mother.”

  Dara paused. “No, I don’t,” she said. “You better get moving.”

  And so Marie left.

  If Derek returns, Dara thought smugly, he’ll be out of luck.

  * * *

  * * *

  I hope I make you proud,” Corbin kept saying, blinking nervously.

  “I hope so too,” Dara said, eyes on his port de bras, his arms droopy, weak. The simplest things were always the hardest.

  She’d promised some extra time to Corbin, her struggling Nutcracker Prince. He came back to the studio late, his face ruddy from the cold, and pled with her.

  How could she say no? It was a challenging role. He had to do battle and to woo and, in that famous moment when the Nutcracker costume, attached with cables, is whisked away to reveal the Prince behind the festive carapace, he had to make sure he wasn’t swept away with it.

  But, as always with the Nutcracker Prince, the big moments were never the problem. It was the small, the elemental things. The port de bras. The movement of the arms, fluid, elegant.

  “Watch those hands,” Dara said, shaking her head. “I want to see a pocket of air between the thumb and fingers. And straight spine, please.”

  “Yes, Madame Durant,” he replied, half-breathless.

  * * *

  * * *

  He lifted his arms again and immediately over-rotated, his shoulder blade jutting unnaturally. Chicken wings, Charlie had said earlier that day, watching him. Tsk tsk.

  “Can you—might you show me?” he said.

  Dara shook her head dismissively. Because you didn’t touch students. Not past eleven or twelve. Other than rotating or softening a hand. It was a shame because the boys in particular would benefit from it. Many had a tendency to be too hard, too rough. To compensate, overcompensate for the fact that they were boys who were dancing, who stretched tights over their bodies and strapped on dance belts. It was so difficult anywhere, anytime, to be a boy who wanted to dance.

  Charlie knew that.

  At one time, teachers used to touch all the time, used to manhandle. Their mother used to tell them her former teachers would be appalled to know it was now considered unsuitable, worse. Épater la bourgeoisie, she used to mutter. They’re the ones with the filthy minds.

  And poor Corbin seemed so fretful, seeking. Again, it was like he wanted to be touched, his need so great it ached. Show me. Might you show me.

  Instead, Dara began to demonstrate.

  “Your arms as an extension of your back,” she said, moving her arms, turning her wrists. Airy, light, from first position to second, third, fourth to fifth, her arms ending above her head, her breastbone lifting, his eyes on her. “Like wings.”

  “Yes, Madame,” Corbin said softly, watching.

  “You must understand, Corbin,” she said, “that you have wings.”

  His eyelids fluttered a moment and then stuttered to a stop. He watched her. He watched her shoulders out, arms in, wrists and hands out once, twice, three times in succession. He watched with those heavy-lidded, drowsy eyes of his, their pupils tight and bright now.

  He watched her, and Dara could hear him swallowing. Could see his Adam’s apple jumping.

  The space was that quiet. They were that still.

  “Do you see now?” she said, her breath even, her body hot and orderly.

  “I see,” the boy said. “Yes, I see.”

  Dara smiled and held her pose. He kept watching.

  There was something so precious, always, in the shyness of the boys.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was only moments after Corbin left, Dara still gathering her water bottle, her sweater from the floor.

  “Private sessions, now, eh?”

  Dara turned to see Derek in the doorway, one arm holding the plastic curtain back.

  “What?” Dara said. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you done enough damage for one day?”

  “Came back to check on the fellas’ work,” he said. “And I couldn’t help but catch some of that. You and the boy. What is he, fifteen? Gotta feel good being around that. The way he looks at you.”

  “I’m leaving,” Dara said, turning away from him, her face inexplicably hot.

  But Derek merely leaned against the wall, jingling his keys, ruminating. “Hell, nothing can stop you when you’re a fifteen-year-old boy, can it? When you’re fresh and unspoiled and strong.”

  This again, Dara thought. She pretended not to listen, tucking her water bottle under her arm, slinging her sweater o
ver her shoulder. He was just trying to provoke. He wasn’t making any sense.

  “And you have all this energy, so you’ll go crazy from it. Your brain running hot, your body even hotter. You just want everything.”

  He stopped and looked at her. She could smell him. That sharp, clean smell. Breath mints, aftershave, that big bar of Lava soap from the powder room. And something else. Beer, and something more intimate. She stepped back.

  “You must like feeling that near you,” he said.

  Dara backed up, shifted, turned her torso away from him, but it didn’t matter. He still felt too close, as if his mouth were on her ear, in her head.

  “Don’t worry. He likes it too,” Derek said. “He’s gonna dream about you tonight, tucked in his Spider-Man sheets. That must feel good.”

  Dara turned and began walking, her body tight and not her own. In the mirror, she could see him watching her.

  “I thought so,” he called out after, a soft chuckle echoing after her.

  * * *

  * * *

  What is it, Dara kept asking herself. What is it we’ve let in our studio, our mother’s studio. My sister’s bed. My sister’s body. Our lives.

  * * *

  * * *

  In the back office, trying to catch her breath.

  She wanted to go home but couldn’t yet. Charlie was picking her up. It was too late to walk. She didn’t want to run into Derek in the parking lot, worse.

  Popping the dust-brown window open, Dara took a long breath of cold, hard air.

  Glancing down into the parking lot, she saw his truck, like a dark puddle.

  And a figure darting quickly past the dumpsters and toward the truck.

  Dara leaned out and saw her, a petite woman in a princess wool coat, poppy-red wool gloves, and enormous Jackie-O sunglasses swathing her face. She was moving slowly, furtively.

  One of the mothers, Dara figured. Any of three dozen of the wealthier mothers. My Emily forgot her algebra homework. Can I check her cubby?

  But this woman was walking in such a funny way, as if the pavement were covered with black ice, or fire.

  Then Dara watched as she approached Derek’s truck.

  What is she doing? Dara thought, watching as the woman reached out with something in her hand—an envelope, white—which she slid beneath the windshield wiper in one swift gesture.

  The woman paused, then reached out again and laid her hand on the vast hood, rested her palm there. Nearly stroking it, like the belly of a large cat.

  Dara felt her palms itch, her hands grow sticky.

  It was only when the woman turned, removing her sunglasses and moving away, that Dara realized it was Bailey’s mom, Mrs. Bloom.

  Mrs. Bloom, whom she hadn’t seen in more than a month, since the renovation began. Because, as Bailey had explained, the construction made her sick.

  Mrs. Bloom, who always held her expensive handbag across her chest in the studio, shielding it from the dust, the bobby-pinned buns, twitching little girl heads all around. Mrs. Bloom, who slathered sanitizer on her hands constantly. Mrs. Bloom, who never let Bailey remove even her leg warmers in front of the boys.

  But this too: Mrs. Bloom who’d dyed her hair platinum blond just like Marie.

  Mrs. Bloom, Dara suddenly remembered, the very one who’d brought Derek into their lives. Her referral, her recommendation.

  What is she doing? Dara thought, rapt.

  A heavy metal door slammed somewhere and Mrs. Bloom seemed to jump to life, turning, ducking behind the truck for a moment. Her whole body in an animal crouch.

  Dara turned and looked through the open door to see if Derek had left. The lights were finally off in Studio B.

  When she returned to the window, Mrs. Bloom was gone. And there was Derek striding to his truck, that John Wayne swagger of his. That rooster strut.

  Mrs. Bloom.

  Sinking down to the desk chair, she took three breaths and wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing.

  Six, seven, eight, she counted until she was jolted, the sound of Derek’s truck starting like a shotgun pressed between her shoulder blades.

  * * *

  * * *

  Well,” Charlie said at home that night, “he worked for her.”

  “So she doesn’t show up at the studio for a month, then sneaks up to his car after dark like some kind of Peeping Tom?”

  He shrugged, his eyes rung brown with weariness. He was so tired. And his back . . .

  “Maybe she owed him money,” he said. “Doesn’t everyone owe him money? People just keep sending him checks. Our insurance company, his. That guy’s really got it all figured out.”

  “You say it like there’s nothing we can do about it,” Dara said.

  Charlie looked at her, palming his pills, lifting them to his mouth.

  “You want to do something, Dara,” he said, like ice, “do it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  After, Dara took a bath. She wondered if she should tell Charlie about the things Derek had said, about Corbin. The insinuations. But Charlie wouldn’t see it the way it was, she thought. That was Derek’s greatest trick. You could never prove anything. But every provocation felt like a deeper threat. You couldn’t prove it, so he was going to just keep going. Until he got what he wanted.

  They prepared for bed in silence, Charlie doing his stretches, Dara with their mother’s pearl-backed hairbrush in hand, doing her nightly one hundred strokes.

  * * *

  * * *

  It wasn’t until late into the night that Charlie’s hand found hers under the sheets, the duvet. His hand cool and clamped over hers. Clamped tight.

  His breath so familiar, the same as hers. All his smells, her smells.

  She moved against him, her right hand in his, her left palm on his chest.

  She could feel his heart beating, slow and sluggish, but there.

  A BUTCHER’S THUMB

  The next morning, Dara and Charlie arrived at seven and saw an unfamiliar car in the lot, its girth straddling two spots. So new it still had the window sticker.

  Low slung and burnt orange, it was impossible to miss. It looked, obscurely, like a big, wide thumb. Like Derek’s thick tanned thumb, a butcher’s thumb. That’s what their father would have called it. Outsized and curved like a scythe. There was something obscene about it.

  “Derek,” Dara said, approaching the car.

  “But he drives a truck . . .” Charlie started, his voice trailing off.

  “He told her to do it,” Dara said, peeking in the car windows, smoked and ridiculous, “and she did it.”

  She looked up at the building, all the way up to the third-floor dormer window.

  “Marie!” Dara called out. “Sister dearest!”

  “Dara,” Charlie cautioned, hand on Dara’s shoulder. “Dara, don’t—”

  “Marie, explain yourself!”

  Explain yourself, the words echoed in her head, their mother’s old dictum—to tardy students, to disruptive ones. Sometimes, when she was feeling dangerous, to their father. That time she found him passed out in the garage, seated behind the wheel, having driven home from his local, high on Molson and maple whiskey. The car still on, the garage full of exhaust.

  Explain yourself, she kept saying over and over, pounding the car window with the heel of her hand. Dara, standing behind their mother, watched him shake himself awake, his handsome chin and jaw streaked with vomit, something.

  Explain yourself and nearly crying as she said it and Dara would never forget the look on her father’s face: One of bewilderment and shame. One that would turn in moments to something else, jumping out of the car, pulling their mother by the hair—her long, shining swoop—even as she didn’t stop. Explain yourself, explain yourself.

  Who, Marie once said, an aside to Dar
a, could ever explain oneself?

  “This car,” Charlie was saying, walking around the vehicle, “looks really expensive.”

  But Dara was barely listening. Neck arched, she gazed up at the third floor again, feeling suddenly drunk in the frigid morning, her wool cap covering her ears, the heat in her face and the dizziness of gazing up, up, up.

  “Explain yourself!”

  Bam! The dormer window popped open at last and Marie’s bombshell-blond hair shaking itself loose, Marie’s fox face eyeing her. The look on it, gloating.

  It’s mine, she seemed to say. All mine.

  “It’s mine,” she then said, smiling proudly. “All mine.”

  * * *

  * * *

  There’s no way she can afford this,” Charlie said. “Is there?”

  “No,” Dara said.

  * * *

  * * *

  Maybe it was in the air, Dara would think later. The feeling of recklessness, profligacy. Because that afternoon, Dr. Weston took Dara aside to bemoan The Nutcracker fees, larger this year to account for new costumes to replace the most threadbare ones, some of the tulle stiff and cracked with age, for the repairs to the backdrop and the elaborate and tumescent Christmas tree. The increase in the facility agreement, the payroll.

  Operating the wet-vac nearby, Benny gave her a sympathetic look as Dr. Weston went on and on about how the fees should be a sliding scale based on the roles their children were granted.

  After, she found Charlie at his desk, making a list of delinquent parents who had yet to ante up for some holiday magic.

  “Good thing Dr. Weston doesn’t know this,” Charlie said, looking at his paper. “Our Clara’s mama hasn’t paid her share.”

  “Mrs. Bloom?” Dara asked.

  “Mrs. Bloom of the emerald-green Mercedes,” Charlie said. “I’ll call her.”