Louis sits down next to me with an amused smirk. I should probably take this as a hint and stop talking, but I don’t.
“I know he’s supposed to be the best of the best,” I continue, stress untwisting my tongue and letting all the words fall out, “but he’s so scary. Seriously, honest-to-God scary. I bet he’s going to say that my leotard is not the right shade of white and then kick me out anyway.”
Louis bites his lip. “You still haven’t told me your name, by the way.”
My face drops. “I’m sorry!”
“Salut, Mademoiselle Sorry.”
My cheeks grow hot for about the tenth time, and Louis laughs. “Mia! Je m’appelle Mia.”
“Nice to meet you, Mia.”
I’m about to speak again, but Louis cuts in. “And I haven’t told you mine. I probably should.”
“It’s not Louis?” I ask. It comes out louder than I intended.
He chuckles. “No, I mean my full name. I’m Louis Dabrowski. And your ma?tre de ballet, that scary man who’s already giving you nightmares…he’s my father.”
“Oh,” I say, my mouth hanging open. There’s no way to fix this. I mean, unless I just happen to find a time machine, like, right now, but I don’t think that’s a realistic expectation. Unfortunately.
“Yeah,” Louis says with an apologetic look.
I swear he wants to laugh, but I really can’t see what’s funny. Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
Have I just been flirting with the son of the toughest ballet teacher in all of Paris? Oh, Mia, no. Non! I don’t care how cute he is—very cute, so cute—that is just not a good idea. Maybe next time don’t jump on the back of a total stranger’s Vespa?
I’ve made so many mistakes already that I’m not sure I’m going to last a whole week. And, let’s be honest, if Monsieur Dabrowski ever finds out what I said about him, I’m going to be on the next flight back to New York faster than I can do a saut de chat.
THESE WERE MOM’S exact words when I told her about being moved up to level five:
“Hmm, that sounds like a lot of hard work.”
I think it was the “hmm” that really made my heart sink. Like, she couldn’t find a single good thing to say about the fact that I’ve been recognized as one of the top dancers in the entire program.
“I’m probably just stating the obvious,” she added after a while.
“Yep,” I answered curtly.
We were FaceTiming. She was in the kitchen, and there was a baking dish next to her full of brownies just out of the oven. I wanted one. But it was fine. I’m in Paris. I can’t have everything. No one has everything.
“I’m happy for you, Mia.”
Are you? I wanted to ask. I didn’t, but she must have read it on my face.
“I am. It sounds great. Congratulations.”
“Hmm,” I responded, feeling my throat tighten.
We hung up soon after. I didn’t know what else to say, and Mom was running late to Grandma’s house.
Like Mom predicted, level five is hard work. So hard that I have to focus solely on ballet, which is why I don’t think about Louis for the rest of the week. I don’t picture his smile in the middle of pointe class, or remember the feeling of wrapping my arms around him as I learn to improve my form during an arabesque. I don’t replay our conversation in my head during lunch with Lucy and Anouk. I don’t wonder where he is every time I pass a neat row of scooters parked on a sidewalk. I don’t hope that he’ll be waiting at the front of the school every evening as I head back to the dorm with the girls after a long day.
Seriously. I don’t. I swear. I do cringe at the memory of my silly rant about his dad, of my broken French as I tried to plead my case to the shopkeeper. I was so ashamed afterward that I just muttered a thank-you and ran out of the store, ditching him right then and there. I was terrified that he would tell his dad about all the stupid things I’d said, but thankfully I don’t think he has. Monsieur Dabrowski is a tough instructor, but he doesn’t seem to hate me, at least. When I showed up in my white leotard to my first class—early, of course—he gave me a quick nod, and that was that.
“Kenza, you’re losing focus,” Monsieur Dabrowski now calls out to the girl on my left. She’s from Senegal, subtly toned from head to toe, the body of a true ballerina. “I can see it in your eyes. Your mind is not here. Does it have anywhere better to be?”