"Why doesn't someone ask me?" he said. "I'll pick her up, do paperwork while she's in class, and bring her home. We're practically family."
I was so grateful I nearly cried.
For a few weeks, it was wonderful. Audrey burst through the door every night, hungry and glowing, demonstrating combinations between the stove and the table.
Then it changed.
She stopped demonstrating. She carried her bag straight upstairs. Her answers shrank to "fine" and "not really." Her ballet shoes stayed zipped in the bag. When the studio emailed about recital auditions, she said, flatly, "I'm not auditioning," and wouldn't say why.
One evening I was taking out the trash when Derek dropped her off, and Audrey stayed at his window, gripping his sleeve.
"But you promised you'd talk to her," she said.
"Audrey, not now," Derek answered sharply.
"Please, Uncle Derek."
Then he saw me, and his whole face changed, and Audrey let go and hurried inside.
