Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

I unlock their handcuffs. They all, except for Lily, shake Strad’s hand, saying, “Congratulations.” Penelope even says, “Congratulations, you’ve made it.”

“Into the group?” Strad asks, his face lighting up. “You know, it did occur to me that this might be some sort of initiation. If you tell me that I have made it into the Knights of Creation, you’ll make me a very happy man.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Penelope says. “I just meant that you made it through this strange evening. There is no such thing as ‘making it into the Knights of Creation.’”

Strad is disappointed though he takes it well. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, now that everyone is so cheerful and authorized to go to the bathroom unaccompanied. We move to the couch area and Strad says he’d like some more coffee, but asks if he can get his phone back to quickly first check his messages.

I get him his phone. He’s surprised to see he has three new ones.

As he listens to each one, our attention is drawn to his gasps and facial expressions, which become progressively more despondent.

He finally turns off his phone and says, “Barb, you ruined my day, possibly my life, by taking my phone from me. I have to go.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Lily asks.

He speaks quickly: “First, some chick tells me there’s a fantastic film audition I’d be perfect for, in an alley. She gave me the address. It’s just a few blocks from here. She said she spoke to the casting people about me and they really want to see me, but it has to be soon because they’re closing casting at midnight, no exceptions. She said not to bother coming after that. She left me that message at ten o’clock. It’s now after midnight.”

“In an alley?” I ask faintly.

“Yes.”

I can’t believe what a close call that was. I took Strad’s cell phone into my bedroom right before the cuckoo scared us at ten. If I’d waited another ten minutes, Strad would have answered the call and gone.

Strad glares at me. “The second message was from someone saying there’s a leak from our music store to the basement apartment and that if I don’t get there in the next hour, they’ll have to get a locksmith to force the door open because the super’s not there.”

We don’t comment.

“The third message is from someone who says he’s a friend of my friend Eric, and that they’re both at a party and just met this chick who’s unbelievably beautiful and who wants to meet me because they’ve been talking me up to her, but I’d have to go there right away because she’s only staying ten more minutes and doesn’t want to leave them her number. So he tells me to hurry on over. The message was left an hour ago. That woman might have been my future wife. And now she’s probably gone.”

I’m all too aware that each scenario could have led Strad to a probably deserted place, perfect for slaying him. If we’d accompanied Strad to the location, the killer among us would have committed the act personally by grabbing a weapon that was possibly stashed ahead of time at the scene or along the way. If we’d let Strad go alone, some hired killer might have done the deed.

Strad gets ready to leave, but as he begins putting on his shoes, he cries “Argh!” and withdraws his foot immediately from his loafer. His toes have something gross-looking on them. Hard to tell what. He slides his hand into the shoe to investigate and extricates a smelly mash, which I recognize as sardines from our dinner. There’s no mistaking it, thanks to a little sardine tail sticking up in the air.

“Why is there fish in my shoe?”

No answer from anyone.

“Who did this?” he asks.

I apologize profusely and say, “One of us has a serious mental problem and likes to leave this kind of gift for people he or she likes. Like a cat who brings a dead rat to its owner.”

“Which of you?”

“We don’t know.”

He dumps the sardines in the trash, washes his hands, cleans out the inside of his loafer, and leaves me his dirty sock.

About to plunge his other foot into his other shoe, he thinks the better of it and checks it with his hand. Instead of sardine mash, he pulls out a little piece of paper that he reads aloud: “If I could have, I would have.” Strad looks at us, clearly waiting for an explanation and a quick one.

“God only knows,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m sure it was meant in the nicest possible way. But as I said, serious mental problem.” I circle my temple with my finger, hoping that will be enough to satisfy Strad.

“If I had to guess, I would guess it’s you.” He approaches me, searching my face. “You’ve been acting like a lunatic all evening.”

“That was necessary,” I say. “But this wasn’t me.”

He sees it’s pointless to argue with me. He grabs his things and his engraved gifts, which I’ve turned over to him. We say our goodbyes and he departs.

As soon as I close the door, I grab Georgia’s arm to get everyone’s full attention, especially hers. I hiss at them all: “My compliments to whichever one of you is responsible for those voice messages he received. But it’s now after midnight. I hope it is understood that nothing, nothing bad will happen to Strad at any of these locations he may go to. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Now or ever. One of you is clearly a psycho, but I hope even psychos can have a sense of honor. You gave Gabriel your word that Strad would not be harmed after midnight tonight, KAY.” I look at one after another. They stare back at me.

“Well, I’m not the killer,” Georgia says, “but if I were, I would absolutely keep that promise. And I tend to think the actual killer will have that same decency.”

The others nod uncertainly.

She says, “I think we should get back on the horse immediately and have one of our Nights of Creation as soon as possible. Say, tomorrow night. I’m free.”

We look at each other but no one answers.

She says, “If we don’t make a big effort to regain a sense of normalcy right away, things could stay awkward between us forever. And that would be a shame because I love our group. I know we all do.”

So we agree to meet the next day for a Night of Creation.

Chapter Twelve

The following morning, Lily calls and thanks me for the “unbelievable amount of effort” I put into protecting the man she loves. She says she’ll never forget it.

I’m glad I didn’t schedule my dinner with Peter Marrick for tonight. I need this whole day to rest and unwind, though I did some Internet research on him and learned he’s thirty-five and won the Emmy for local news five years straight. In addition to anchoring the local news, he anchors the national news when the usual anchor is out, and he does regular special reports for Newsroom Live, the weekly current events show. As I already knew, he got a huge amount of attention nationally when he saved the three children from the fire. Soon afterward, he appeared on The Ellen Show, Letterman, and The View. He (along with his singed hair) was in People magazine’s 100 Most Beautiful People. The article under his photo talked about his “inner beauty.” He did a series last year about poverty in America that won a Polk Award, after which Time magazine selected him as one of the hundred most influential people in the world. All of this is a little intimidating. I love talking about current events but I’ve never had to hold a conversation with someone this well versed in world affairs.

Not wanting to get any more nervous than I already am about my dinner with Peter tomorrow night, I decide to distract myself by going to Strad’s store to find out if I was right about the voice messages being part of an elaborate plan to kill him. I bring him his sock, which I’ve cleaned twice to get rid of the sardine smell. I ask him if everything turned out okay with the leak from his store.

He places his palms on the counter and leans toward me. “You’re not going to believe this, but it seems that every single one of those messages was a prank.”

“Really?” I say, trying to look surprised.

He tells me there was no flood in the music store, no audition in an alley, and no beautiful woman at a party. In fact, no party.

This grim information chills me, even though it’s what I expected.

I must stop obsessing about Strad’s near murder. It’s in the past, he survived.

This evening, during our Night of Creation, I’m too tired and stressed to work on the hat. Instead, I read a script for a film I’ve been asked to costume design—not sure I’m interested. But it’s hard to tell, because I have a hard time concentrating. The fact that one of my friends is a killer is something I have to live with—not comfortably, but I have to endure it, because the alternative is worse. We all have to endure it. We don’t talk about it.

Nevertheless, I do watch my friends. And I notice them watching one another, too. I wonder if we’ll ever find out which of them did it. I wonder if we can live with never knowing. In truth, that may be the only way we can live with it.

We are all completely crazy to have decided not to tell the police. We are spending large amounts of our lives with a homicidal maniac who could, at any time, decide, on the spur of the moment, to kill anyone, kill all of us, kill strangers. We are crazy and I assume my friends realize this. I wish I could express it to them, but I don’t want to because I’m afraid my argument will be too convincing. I don’t want them to decide we must tell the police.

THE NEXT DAY, Sunday, I design the hat. I can sense right away that I’m back. I know what a hat is today, and I’m able to judge my own work. It’s a good hat. That little hat is a huge load off my conscience. I spend the rest of the day designing ballet costumes that are due in two weeks. I get all sixteen costumes done.

Thanks to my productive day, I’m in a decent mood as I sit down to dinner with Peter Marrick at Per Se. We’re seated near large windows with a beautiful view of Columbus Circle and Central Park.

I’m glad I did my research on Peter because after we place our order and the waiter has explained the detailed history of the three kinds of butter on our table, I’m able to turn to Peter and say, “I watched your interview with the Chinese president on YouTube. It was very impressive.”

“Thanks. Being on Newsroom Live gives me some great international opportunities.” He chuckles. “After I got an interview with him, every Asian leader wanted to talk to me.”

I hope he’s not going to expect me to know the names of any of those presidents. I have an urge to put on a seatbelt because I sense we are about to launch into a detailed conversation that might require a knowledge of the minutiae of world politics. But I’ve got nothing to worry about. Suddenly appearing uninterested in the topic, he veers off and tells me he always dreamed of being creative but somehow never had time, life just whizzed by, propelling him in the direction of TV journalism.

To my surprise, he asks if he can join our group, the Nights of Creation, for just one evening.

“Oh,” I say, startled. “It’s nice you’d want to. I’ll ask them. I know they loved meeting you.”

“Thanks.” He smiles and takes a sip of wine.

“Would you be working on an art project, if you came?”

“Yes.”

“Great. What would it be?”

“I don’t know.” He tears a piece of bread.

“What art form would it be?”

“I don’t know,” he says, buttering his bread.

A bit embarrassed for him, I softly say, “I just mean, would it be, like, painting, or music, or writing, or sculpting . . .?”

“I know. I don’t know,” he replies, just as softly. We gaze at each other. Then he whispers to me, with a sad, dreamy air, “I must sound like an idiot.”

“Not at all!” I say, thinking he sounds a bit strange. “Which art forms have you tried in the past?”

“Practically none. In school, I drew a bit in art class. And I learned to play the recorder when I was ten.”

I nod. “Were you good at either?”

“No. But I was a total beginner.”

I laugh, and nod again. “Do you have a good imagination?”

He looks away quickly. “Probably not.” He raises his arm high in the air to flag the waiter, which I sense is to hide his discomfort. He orders another bottle of water, even though ours is still three-quarters full.

Feeling sorry for him, my mouth starts uttering words without my brain having completely approved them. “You can come to our Night of Creation. No problem. It’ll be fun. I’m sure the others will be fine with it. We have one tomorrow night, if you’re free.”

He says he is, and thanks me. He seems happy.

Since we set foot in the restaurant, everybody’s been staring at us. Perhaps they’re surprised that this famous news anchor is having dinner with someone so conspicuously unattractive.

But Peter seems completely oblivious to the stares and very much at ease with me as his dinner companion.

During dessert, Peter says to me, “The truth is, I think I haven’t got an ounce of imagination.”

When I did my research on him yesterday, I found out he’s been married once. Since his divorce three years ago, he’s been linked to a couple of women, but nothing serious.

“Do you like being an anchor?” I ask.

“I like it. I don’t love it. When you’re an anchor, you cover events. You don’t create them. You report on contributions. You don’t make them.”

“Reporting on contributions is a contribution, isn’t it?”

“Such a minor one.”

“I disagree. Plus, you’re so good at it. How did you become so successful if you weren’t that interested in your work?”

“Of course I was interested. It’s easy to be interested in a big, fat soap opera—which is what local, national, and world events are, you know. If I could go back and do things over, I might have preferred to become one of the notable people who is notable for something other than reporting on notable people.”

I nod, understanding.

After dinner, he hails a cab for me, smiles down at me, and says, “See you tomorrow.” He kisses me good night on the cheek. It leaves me feeling weak.

When I arrive at my building, Adam the doorman says, “I should change my shift. Seeing you so close to my bedtime gives me nightmares.”

I don’t mention that we have that in common.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, my friends arrive early to our Night of Creation so that we can watch Peter on the six o’clock local news before he joins us. They’re excited I’ve invited him, and it works wonders to lighten the mood, which frankly was a bit weighty last time, when all we could think about was which one of us was the killer.

We wait for Peter. He finally bursts into my apartment carrying a large drawing pad and exclaiming, “My friends!” with such an air of relief and yearning, it makes us laugh.

When he sees my mysterious, dim, cavernous living room filled with upright, human-sized animals wearing my costumes and masks, he falls silent.

“Oh my God. This place is amazing,” he says, walking in slowly, taking it all in. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful room.”

I’m glad he finds it beautiful. Everyone finds it striking but not everyone finds it beautiful.

“These costumes are gorgeous. Are they your creations?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s like walking into a fantasy land of imagination, of endless possibilities. No wonder your friends like to work here. Did you put this whole decor together yourself too?”

“Yes, but the lighting is what makes it work, and that was done by a lighting designer friend of mine.”

He looks at me and laughs. “The lighting? So on top of being astonishingly talented, you are also breathtakingly modest.”

During the session, he draws imaginary landscapes, but his output is low and his skill is poor. Georgia whispers to me in the kitchen, “If he spent less time gazing at you and more time turning that gaze inward, he’d boost his productivity. If you want to help him, you should sleep with him. It would get that sexual tension out of his system and allow his creative juices to flow.”

I laugh her off. “If you spent less time surfing the Internet and more time working on your novel, perhaps you’d boost your productivity.”

“I can’t. My novel makes me nauseated.”

“Then write a new one.”

“I can’t. I’ve put too much time and work into this one. I can’t just abandon it.”

Peter seems endearingly concerned that Georgia hasn’t been able to write since she lost her laptop and got it back four days later.

He asks her, “If your laptop had been returned to you more quickly, say after one day, do you think you’d be experiencing the same difficulties with your writing now?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

He turns away. “I’m just always interested in how creativity works.”

“It’s not like I do no writing. I do write in my journal.”

“That doesn’t count,” Peter says. “Not to belittle journal-writing, though. I wish I could keep a regular journal. I’ve tried it, but I can never stick to it for more than a few days. I should give it another shot at some point.”

We invite him to join several more of our Nights of Creation. He seems delighted.

Peter Marrick

Sunday, 12 November

I started showing up early for the Nights of Creation, hanging out with Barb in her kitchen, just talking. She’s a fascinating person. I’m charmed by her focus on her work and by the wildly imaginative drawings that result from that focus. I’m charmed by her sense of humor. I’m amazed by how much she cares for her friends and by how much they adore her.

Now that we’re becoming closer, I know I should tell her I’m the one who found Georgia’s laptop in the taxi—that I know she’s wearing a fat suit and a wig, and that underneath it she’s drop-dead gorgeous. But I don’t want to hurt or frighten her, and I don’t want to make her angry. More than anything, I want to keep spending time with her.

Barb

Peter Marrick comes early to our Nights of Creation, week after week, and he stands in the kitchen with me. I don’t know why. He’s subtly flirtatious, yet doesn’t ask me out on another date. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in his mind, no idea what he’s feeling. He’s a mystery.

Georgia, too, has noticed his strange air, and she remarks to me in private one day, “He seems a little tortured.”

“I know,” I tell her. But I have to admit I enjoy his company.

Lily hasn’t been making much progress on a piece of music that will beautify her for the man she loves. She works on it all the time, including every time we meet for our Nights of Creation. As the days pass, she gets more frustrated and depressed.

I know that the killer promised never again to try to kill Strad, but every time Lily exhibits extreme sadness I worry that the killer won’t be able to resist the urge.

Midway through Peter’s eighth Night of Creation with us, when we’re focused on our work and Penelope has just broken, very gently, yet another small pot, Lily gets up, lifts her piano bench in the air, and lets it drop on the piano. She smashes the sides and back as well.

We stare at the spectacle in utter shock.

Without its mirrored coating, the piano is ugly. Its surface is matte brown with patches of exposed glue.

After we’ve cleaned up the mess and everyone has gone home, I call Lily before going to bed to make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t answer but calls me back a few minutes later and tells me I just saved her life. She explains that she was playing at her piano, feeling in the pits of depression, and her hands started turning reflective again. It began spreading up her arms and she knew that this time she wouldn’t have the strength to stop it and it would kill her and she didn’t care. Hearing my voice leaving her the message is what gave her the strength to stop the progression.

THAT EVENING, PETER calls me. He says he was very disturbed by the incident of Lily smashing her piano and that he’s worried about her.

This is not the first time he has seemed caring about my friends, which is something I really appreciate. He’s kind and gentle and strikes me as a genuinely good person. I’m particularly touched that he is concerned about Lily’s well-being, as she is the one I’m the most anxious about.

“I wonder if there’s anything anyone could do to help her snap out of it,” he says.

“If you get any ideas, let me know.” And then I remember he doesn’t have much imagination.

We move on to more pleasant topics. Peter is in no hurry to get off the phone. He seems to enjoy talking to me and getting to know me. But our conversation ends with no suggestion that we get together outside the group.

He probably can’t overcome his lack of attraction to my appearance.

“AN INTERVENTION,” PETER declares. That’s the idea he comes up with a few days after our conversation.

“Like for addicts?” I ask.

“Yes. Because that’s what she is. She’s addicted to a person.”

It’s true. The day after smashing her piano, Lily went right back to trying to beautify herself through her music. She worked on this impossible project not only on her home piano, but on her now ugly, naked piano at my apartment. Gone is the energy she was infused with when practicing on Jack and then on herself. She plays slow, melancholy pieces. Now that every reflective surface of the piano has been shattered, we’re afraid she’ll treat us as her mirrors and ask us for progress reports on her looks. The last thing we want is to have to say, “No, you don’t look any prettier yet.”

MY FRIENDS AND I decide to give Peter’s idea a shot. On the day of the planned intervention—the first Monday after Thanksgiving—Lily is sitting at her ugly naked piano, striving for the impossible, as usual. She thinks this is one of our regular Nights of Creation.

As a group, we approach Lily. I put my hand on her instrument and say, in a formal voice, “Lily, we would like to speak to you.”

“Yes?” she says, looking at me without stopping her playing.

“On the couch.”

“Really?”

I nod.

The music dwindles and stops. “What’s it about?”

“Come this way.”

She takes a seat on the couch. Peter and I sit on the ottoman cubes in front of her. The others sit on either side of her.

Peter will be making the speech. He told us in confidence that he prepared one, so we decided to let him be the main speaker, since the intervention was his idea. I hope it’ll be good.

Leaning toward Lily, his elbows resting on his knees in a casual pose, this is what he says to her: “You know, in my line of work, I’m out and about in the world a lot. I go to fancy dinner parties and I see women who dehumanize themselves, who treat themselves as though they’re pieces of meat. They objectify themselves. And as if that’s not bad enough, they don’t even do it for themselves, they usually do it for someone else: for a man. It’s really sad.”

“Okay,” Lily says, appearing uncertain as to what he’s getting at.

Peter remains silent, until she says, “And? What? You think I do that?”

“Only you know,” Peter answers.

“I don’t do that,” she says.

“These women see themselves as merchandise.” He pauses and looks at her meaningfully, letting his words sink in. “They get facelift upon facelift upon nose job upon cheekbone implant upon breast augmentation upon liposuction upon lip enhancement. It seems to me the only way these women are able to subject themselves to so many procedures is by viewing their bodies as nothing more than material possessions. Can you imagine how hard that must be on their spirits, to see themselves as nothing but meaningless, lowly objects? They may not realize it, but consistently thinking of the external appearance as both supremely important and also as an object whose uniqueness and differences are not valued or appreciated and must therefore be butchered and uniformized has got to wear the spirit down on some deep level.”

His words express how I feel so perfectly, they make me want to cry.

I have to admit I’m intrigued by him. And I’m starting to like him very much: for this speech, for his effort, for recognizing Lily has a problem, and for caring enough to do something about it. I like that he took the initiative on this, that despite knowing her less well than we do, he took a more forceful step than we have ever taken with her. He’s the first person outside of our group that I’ve been drawn to in a long time, since before Gabriel died.

Lily is listening to him very attentively. She appears genuinely interested. I think Peter is making progress, which is not surprising considering how persuasive his argument is.

“And it requires a lack of self-esteem, too,” Jack adds, “even though these women often try to claim the opposite. You know, they like to profess that it’s because they value themselves that they do all these cosmetic procedures. But that’s just spin.”

Peter continues: “What I’m getting at, Lily, is that you are such a beautiful person, intrinsically. You shouldn’t try to alter yourself to accommodate the tastes of a shallow prick who’s unworthy of you. You’re a great artist. Do you know how much I’d give to have even a fraction of your talent? This may sound corny to you, but my advice is love yourself and love the people who love you, not the others.”

I’m nodding in agreement. The others are, too.

The most thrilling part is that Lily is nodding, too. Peter’s words seem to be getting through. And I don’t think she’s just being polite.

Lily raises her index finger to interrupt Peter, and says, “Wow, you’re saying some very interesting stuff. You’re really helping me put things into focus. You’re so right on every front.”

“You see my point?” Peter says.

“Oh, God, totally!” she replies, getting up. “Can we continue this a bit later?”

“We haven’t finished!” I cry.

“I got the gist of it, though,” she says. “But please, keep talking. I can still listen.” She walks over to her piano, sits, and goes right back to playing—completely undeterred.

We stand around her piano. Through the filter of my frustration, her music is hell to my ears. “Why are you doing this?” I bark.

“Don’t mind me.”

In a whisper, I ask Peter if this is common, the alcoholic getting up in the middle of an intervention and going straight to the liquor cabinet.

“I’m sure it happens a lot,” Peter says.

I turn to Lily. “Have you even heard a word Peter said?”

“Yes, every word,” she replies, clearly reabsorbed in her playing. “And I will give it some serious thought.”

Jack says, “Lily, do you see that getting up in the middle of Peter’s talk is a symptom of your disease?”

She nods. “I’m sorry. But you know how it is . . . when the impulse takes you.”

“The impulse to what? Destroy your life?” Penelope pitches in.

“I can play and listen at the same time. I’m a good multitasker. You guys can keep talking to me, if you want.” But her eyes are downcast, and she doesn’t really seem to be listening to us.

We ask her to please stop and pay attention.

“I am!” she claims. She has an intense expression on her face—a look of deep concentration. But her gaze seems to be turned inward. As I speak to her, she nods mechanically while playing.

And then I stop talking. An unsettling sensation has quieted me.

Still nodding, she says, “Go on, I’m listening.”

But I don’t go on.

“You were saying?” she says.

I just gaze at her. Words are meaningless now.

Then she asks, “Has the cat got your tongue? I’m all ears, keep talking.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I finally manage to murmur.

And the reason it doesn’t matter, the reason I have been silenced, is that the unthinkable, the impossible, has begun.

Beauty is crawling all over Lily like a disease. It is clawing at her face, chewing her features, transforming their shapes, harmonizing their lines. It attacks her flesh, takes hold of her skin like a rapidly-moving cancer, leaving behind pure loveliness. Waves of delicacy wash over her. Ripples of symmetry soften her. Layer upon layer of grace sweeps over her entire countenance.

I shake my head a little, to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I blink.

We need the tape recorder.

The melody is fast and inescapable. It’s an ocean of notes crashing around us in my living room. Gorgeous and delirious.

This has got to get recorded. Before it’s too late. Does Lily even know what’s happening to her—what she’s achieved?

I finally manage to tear my eyes away from Lily, who no longer resembles the Lily who entered my apartment tonight. I look at my friends.

Jack is fetching the small recorder from the bookshelf nearby and comes back with it on tiptoes, turning it on. He holds it out of Lily’s sight, so as not to distract her—not that she would notice anyway; her eyes are closed.

She still hasn’t looked at us since she sat at her piano. We, on the other hand, can’t stop looking at her—with the solemnity of country folks watching a spaceship land. Her beauty continues to increase. She looks like an angel.

I’ve never seen anything like this, beauty of this magnitude. I had no idea it existed.

And suddenly, the angel speaks. “I’m tempted to look into your eyes to see if anything has happened. But I’m afraid of being disappointed again.”

“Open them,” I say.

Slowly, she does. The effect is spectacular. Her eyes are turquoise, large and clear.

There is no model, no actress in any movie I have ever seen who is as exquisite as Lily right now. When I’m not wearing my disguise and men look at me, if they see even a fraction of the beauty I am seeing right now, I forgive their shallowness. There is power in beauty. That’s the tragedy of it.

It’s hard to imagine that Lily can’t decipher from the looks on our faces the extent of her success. If we were cartoons, our mouths would be hanging open wide in awe, our lower jaws on the floor.

But because we are human and because Lily has endured months of failure, her insecurities aren’t permitting her to read our expressions with any degree of accuracy. So she seeks out an answer in a roundabout way. “Does this piece need to get recorded?” she asks.

“Yes,” Jack says, lifting the recorder within her line of vision. “It’s on.”

A smile appears on her lips and her music takes off again, free and wild. She’s done it and—at last—she knows it.

She plays for a while longer and says, “Time to see the rate of the fade.” She stops playing, gets up and goes to the ballet bar. She stands with her hand on the bar, facing the narrow full-length mirror at its side.

She seems startled by her reflection and takes a step closer to see better.

“You’ve succeeded,” Georgia tells her. “Probably beyond what even you imagined, right?”