Read Online Pointe by Brandy Colbert - Free Book Online

thirty. He seems like the kind of guy whose worst offense would be pounding too many Bud Lights and passing out in his truck, not someone who would kidnap a child and drag him thousands of miles from his home so he could—
    No. I can’t think about the images that have been swimming through my mind for so many years. He’s only a suspect. Maybe there was a mistake. Or maybe that’s what I’ll tell myself until we know more, because it’s easier than putting a face to all the abuse I’ve imagined that Donovan endured.
    Donovan was—
    No match for someone like this.
    The suspect’s flat, still eyes stare into mine until I can’t take it.
    Fuck.
    â€œThey say he worked at the convenience store a few months before the abduction, that Donovan probably knew him.” Dad is talking again but I can’t look at him.
    I try to swallow the bile in my throat but seconds later I’m rushing toward the sink, leaning over, vomiting what little breakfast I’ve had into the basin. I stay hunched over for a while, rasping out breaths and wiping my eyes, even after Dad jumps up to stand behind me. He sort of pats my back and says, “Oh, Theodora” over and over in this sad voice.
    A couple of moments pass before he adds, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I wouldn’t have shown it to you if—”
    If he’d thought I couldn’t handle it.
    I turn on the faucet to wash away the mess, then cup my hands under the water, rinse out my mouth.
    â€œNo, it’s okay. I wanted to know.” My voice echoes back up from the sink. I straighten up and wipe my lips with the striped dish towel sitting on the counter. “I needed to know.”
    â€œWhy don’t you stay home today?” He says it like he’s doing me a favor, like he’s suggesting I skip school on the day we’re scheduled to dissect fetal pigs.
    â€œI can’t.” I haven’t missed a dance class in three years, and the times before that weren’t by choice. He knows this, which is why he doesn’t challenge me.
    I dump out the rest of my breakfast because I don’t think I could get down another bite.
    â€œYou’re sure you don’t want to take the morning off?” Dad removes his glasses to look at me. He only needs them when he’s working or reading. “I could call Marisa and explain. I’m sure she’d understand if you need to stay home today.”
    â€œI should go,” I say. Throat burning. Tongue sour. “I’ll miss the train if I don’t leave soon.”
    â€œTheodora, you know you can always talk to me, right?” He’s standing next to the island and he could be the father in one of those feel-good coffee commercials right now if he didn’t look so
sad.
His eyes, they kill me.
    â€œOf course, Dad.” I start making my way to the door. Hoping he’ll get the hint. Hoping he’ll drop it.
    He doesn’t.
    â€œOr you can talk to your mother. Or someone . . . professional, if that’s more comfortable for you.” He clears his throat once, twice. “I know this is hard, Donovan coming home after all this time when we thought . . . And now this. It’s . . . it’s really hard and I want you to know you can talk to us, babygirl. Anytime.”
    â€œSure. I mean, I know.” I’ve almost got one foot out of the room now. “I do. Thanks, Dad. I’m going to class now, okay? I’ll come home right after and rest.”
    He nods. “Have a good class.
Merde.
”
    I’ve told him dozens of times that dancers say that to each other only before they go onstage—the ballet world’s answer to “break a leg”—and that if there’s no performance, he’s simply saying “shit” in a poor French accent.
    But as I walk up the stairs, I can’t help thinking he’s inadvertently described how I feel