Pointe by Brandy Colbert Page B

because I’ll be touring the world with a professional company. Lark is smart—National Honor Society, academic scholarships, the whole deal—so maybe she’ll do something worthwhile with her life when she leaves the kegstand phase behind.
    But I don’t think Ellie has a whole lot going on behind the makeup. She coasts by on her looks and Trisha’s popularity and one of these days that has to catch up to her, right?
    Hosea glances back at me and kind of nods. “Yeah, sure. Later, Theo.”
    I sit down again to wait for Sara-Kate, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around myself as I inhale the sweet smoke that clings to my jacket. And for the tiniest moment, I let myself imagine Hosea’s arms are wrapped around me instead of my own.

CHAPTER FIVE

    I WALK DOWNSTAIRS IN MY PAJAMAS THE NEXT morning to find my father sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He used to bring work to the table sometimes until Mom forbid it. He’s good about sticking to her rule. Even if it means that some days he eats breakfast in record time or goes into the office absurdly early so he can work on spreadsheets over a doughnut and coffee.
    He looks up as I approach, pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. He looks cozy in his green-and-navy flannel robe with the cuffs rolled up. “Morning, babygirl. Ready for ballet?”
    I nod as I stifle a yawn. Saturday mornings always come too early, whether or not I went out the night before. And I’m never hungry for breakfast. I know it’s important because it sets the tone for the day and blah blah blah. But most days, the thought of food before 11:00 a.m. literally turns my stomach. Especially rich breakfast foods like fatty bacon and runny eggs and the worst of it all: syrupy French toast.
    But I can’t skip it. That’s a promise I can’t break or even bend, because one slip-up and they’ll be on the phone with Marisa, who could help them decide it’s time for me to go back to Juniper Hill. And I can’t go back there. I won’t.
    So I make my way to the refrigerator and push aside the leftover baked spaghetti, reach for a carton of plain yogurt. I dump a few large spoonfuls into a bowl and sprinkle fat-free granola on top. Leaning against the island is my favorite way to eat. Standing up, taking in slow, deliberate spoonfuls so no one can accuse me of cheating.
    Dad looks up in my direction, but not really
at
me. He does this for a while and I’ve opened my mouth to ask him what’s wrong when he says, “There’s news about Donovan.”
    I almost drop my spoonful of yogurt on the floor. “More news? Is it bad?”
    He looks right at me now. “He’s not talking, Theodora.”
    My father is the only one who calls me that. His mother was Theodora, too, but I never met her. Usually my full name is attached to fairly innocuous sentences
(How was your day, Theodora? Isn’t your mother’s tomato sauce delicious, Theodora?)
, so it takes a bit for the weight of this one to sink in.
    â€œNot talking?” I set my bowl down on the counter. “Like, at all?”
    â€œNot at all,” he says to me with sad eyes. Then: “And they’ve released information about the suspect.” He rubs a hand over the thinning hair at the back of his head before he folds the front page of the paper in half, highlighting the mug shot on the front. “The person who took him is . . . a man. Thirty years old. His name is Christopher Fenner.”
    I take the paper from my father, scan the story in front of me. Christopher Fenner’s name floats across the page, along with the kidnapping and child endangerment charges. My eyes travel to the picture that accompanies the article.
    Fuck.
    Christopher Fenner has bright eyes and a defiant mouth and dark hair that curls over his collar. Even with a scruffy beard, he doesn’t look