Audrey and I agree that we’ll each practice by ourselves for half an hour first, before watching each other’s variations—aka solos—for feedback. She takes up the farthest corner of the room while I stand at the barre near the entrance, starting with a few stretches to prepare my calves for what’s about to hit them. And off we go: two little swans, two gigantic dreams.
We’ve been dancing for twenty minutes when I hear a muffled beeping sound. I ignore it, focusing instead on my arm work: up and down in a sweeping, seamless motion, just like a swan taking flight. The beeping sound continues once, twice, three times, before I realize it’s coming from my bag, which I left on the bench by the door. I stop and glance at Audrey, who appears to be about halfway through her Act Two solo. Phew. She didn’t hear it. I decide it’s best to pretend that I didn’t, either.
But as soon as she finishes her sequence, she glares at me, hands clenched on her hips, and says, “Are you going to turn that thing off?”
“Sorry!” I say, skipping to my bag. “I thought I had it on mute.”
“Well, you didn’t,” she quips, shooting daggers at me as I fish out my phone.
Here’s what I should do: turn my phone off, zip up my bag, and get back to business. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I can’t resist a quick glance at the screen. I know Audrey is watching, but when I see that Louis has sent me not one but five text messages on WhatsApp, I grin.
I glance up to see that Audrey’s arms are crossed against her chest. I’ve seen her look annoyed before, but now she’s mad. Really mad.
“Is there some kind of emergency?” Audrey asks.
“Um, no. Sorry. I’m turning it off!” I say, doing just that and jumping back into position. But that’s not enough to keep the peace.
“This isn’t a game to me!” she snaps, taking quick strides toward the bench. “We have less than five weeks to rehearse our roles, and I’m not going to do it while you’re texting your friends.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.”
But my apology doesn’t work. She just grabs her bag and heads for the door. Without looking back, she says, “I know.”
I cringe, unsure what to do. Of course I can practice my fouettés by myself, and, when I’m ready for someone’s opinion, Lucy and Anouk or any one of my classmates will be more than happy to help. Still, I feel guilty for ruining Audrey’s practice time. And even guiltier about letting Louis filter into my ballet practice. So I get back to work, making a pact with myself to dance for another half hour before I allow myself to read his messages.
Then, I sit on the bench and, still panting, savor them all at once.
Wanna meet for lunch today?
I know a great place next to school. Your school I mean.
By now, you’ve probably noticed that school cafeterias suck everywhere in the world.
I mean, it’s not that bad, but I wouldn’t want you to think that this is the best Paris has to offer.
Okay, I feel like I’m just talking to myself now. Let me know!
I smile, and smile again, as I read and reread the messages. Would I like to pop out of school to meet Louis for a delicious meal? Yes, I would. I look down the hallway to where I assume Audrey is practicing on her own, and my shoulders sink.
I’m sorry, I type, but delete it immediately. How can I explain? I can’t do this over text, so I call Louis. He picks up right away.
“Bonjour!”
“Bonjour,” I reply, my heart beating a little faster at the sound of his voice. Then I switch to English, because I’m starting to realize that, in my few weeks in Paris, I can focus on my dancing or my language skills, but not both at once. “I got Odile,” I say.
“That’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you, Mia!” He sounds genuine, and I feel embarrassed remembering my mini meltdown in the train on Monday. In hindsight, I can’t imagine that Monsieur Dabrowski would share the details of his work with Louis. “We’ll celebrate over lunch,” he continues.
Yes, please! I’m dying to say. But, no. I must be firm. No lunches. No escapades. No. More. Fun. Argh! Who comes to Paris to not have fun? Me, I guess. And every other student in the program who would do anything to take my spot.
“I can’t have lunch with you today,” I say.
“Tomorrow, then?” Louis asks, just as cheerful.
“Louis,” I say, in the softest possible voice. “I can’t do this.”
He chuckles, but it sounds a little awkward. “You can’t do what? Eat?”