“Try it again.”
Penelope did.
Then she tried again.
By the end of the week, she had learned a new solo.
During the final demonstration, Patrick and I sat together in the audience.
There were judges in the room.
There were scouts.
There were directors from several programs.
Penelope knew they were watching.
She walked onto the stage anyway.
Before the music began, she looked toward us.
Patrick pressed one hand to his heart.
I nodded.
Penelope took her opening position.
She did not dance to prove Rebecca wrong.
She had already done that on a national screen in front of everyone Rebecca had tried to impress.
She danced because the stage still belonged to her.
When the final note ended, Penelope held perfectly still for one breath.
Then the room rose around her.
Months later, her first-place certificate hung above the tape marks in our garage.
The trophy sat on a shelf beside her old jazz shoes, not inside a glass case and not beneath a spotlight.
Penelope still practiced there when she wanted privacy.
One evening, I watched from the doorway as she missed a turn, stopped the music, and returned to her starting position.
She caught me watching.
“That one was terrible,” she said.
I smiled.
“Are you giving up?”
Penelope looked at her reflection in the dark garage window.
Then she restarted the music.
“No,” she said.
“I’m trying it again.”
