I glance to the side. No one is gawking or even batting an eye. It is the City of Love, after all. I’ve seen so many couples—young and old—kissing on the streets, embracing on the tiny sidewalks, or just staring deep into each other’s eyes on a busy corner, right in the way of foot traffic. Every day it seems like you’re walking through dozens of love stories, getting a glimpse into these intimate moments. L’amour est dans l’air. It’s easy to get swept up in it.
Suddenly it hits me: If I really want something, I can’t just wait for Prince Charming to make it happen. So I stand on my toes, look up to him, and, just as I tilt my face to one side, he does as well, so that his lips, wherever they may have been headed, hit just to the right of my mouth.
Almost touching it, but not quite.
And I may not know all about French customs yet, but this is definitely not any kind of kiss. Not a friendly bise. Not a kiss kiss. Just a weird in-between that means nothing and everything at the same time.
Have I just missed my first chance at a French kiss, original edition? I wish I could be brave enough to lean back in and smack my mouth on top of his, but afternoon classes start in a few minutes, and I still have to get changed. I’m going to have to make a run for it, again. I can’t leave things like this, but the truth is, if something is going to happen between me and Louis—despite all the reasons why it shouldn’t—what I want is a real kiss. Not a quick little whatever hidden behind a bus stop, next to an old lady chewing loudly on a piece of gum. This is not a Paris moment, not how I picture it, anyway. And my time here is far from over.
“Louis,” I say.
“Mia,” he replies sweetly.
“Can I see you this weekend?”
He smiles. “The weekend is really soon, right?”
Not soon enough. Absolutely, one hundred percent not soon enough.
AS WE CLOSE up week two of the program, Monsieur Dabrowski announces a change to the schedule: for the next four weeks, afternoons will be devoted to Swan Lake rehearsals. He will meet with the corps de ballet first, and then with the leads: Odette, Odile （that’s me!）， and Prince Siegfried. Since Max taught us the choreography, I’ve practiced little bits every chance I get: before and after class, of course, but also around lunch, right before bed, and even in the shower. For the record, I don’t recommend trying to pirouette on a wet surface.
“Mia, Fernando, let’s see the entrée and adage from your Act Three pas de deux,” Monsieur Dabrowski says when it’s just the four of us in the studio. A pianist has stayed back as well, but they’re all so good at making themselves discreet that they usually just blend in behind their music.
I take a deep breath as Fernando and I get in position at opposite ends of the room. Until now, it didn’t even occur to me to suggest that we practice before our session with Monsieur Dabrowski. I bet Audrey did, and that, when it’s time for their duet, they’ll dance seamlessly together. I glance at Fernando, and my stomach ties in a knot. Louis’s face pops up in my mind, and I shake my head to make it go away. Not now, Mia. If Monsieur Dabrowski knew what or who you’re thinking about…I don’t feel prepared enough for our ma?tre de ballet’s tough judgment, but then again, I never will. He nods at the pianist, and the music starts. Fernando and I make our way toward each other, and my concerns melt away with every step. We can do this. We are doing this.
“You need more intent here!” he calls to Fernando as my dance partner lifts me into the air. “Watch your leg, Mia; a little faster there, Fernando.”
As our sequence ends, he tells us to go again, and again.
“Softer on the port de bras, Mademoiselle Jenrow. Round out your arms!”
None of his comments surprise me, especially not the one about my port de bras. It’s been giving me so much grief. Getting it right is particularly important in Swan Lake, because while real swans have strong and graceful wings, we mere humans have to try to achieve the same movement with fleshy sticks also known as arms. And while it doesn’t look hard, it does make your muscles burn so intensely that you feel like you will never be able to raise your hands again. Put simply, if you can still rip up a piece of baguette, then your port de bras practice has gone very wrong. I guess that’s why Audrey was wincing and grumbling as she ate her ratatouille last night. She’s been avoiding me since the phone-beeping incident, which is fine by me: I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with anyone’s bad mood.
“Let’s stop here,” Monsieur Dabrowski says after maybe our tenth round.