I get to the dorm, take a long hot shower, slip into tracksuit pants and a T-shirt, and lie on my bed. I have an hour before dinner, and though my pillow is whispering my name, there’s something even more urgent than sleep right now.
Mom is the first to pick up the family landline.
“Hi!” I say, trying to sound chipper, but it comes out a little coarse.
“Mia, finally!”
“Hi, sweetie,” my dad says, joining the call. “Don’t worry about us. If I’d been in Paris for the summer at your age, I probably wouldn’t have even called my parents once.”
“Well, we’re happy to hear from you, whenever you do call, Mia,” Mom adds. I can practically see her shaking her head at him. We’ve exchanged a few texts over the last two weeks, but this is only the second time that we’ve managed to speak on the phone. Between school, their work schedule, and the time difference, keeping in touch is harder than I thought.
“I had my first official rehearsal today, and it went well,” I say.
“Just well?” Dad asks.
I shuffle a bit, readjusting the pillow behind my back. “Well is good, Dad. Well is excellent, in fact. I got a few notes, but it could have been much worse than that.” I could have been running out of there crying like Audrey, I think. I glance at her bed. Her dance bag is on it, but I haven’t seen her since I got back.
“You sound tired,” Mom says flatly.
Not a word about my rehearsal, not a question about how things are going. I want to grunt, but I don’t want her to hear it. “I am.”
“Are you sleeping well over there?” Dad asks.
“Yes, it’s just—”
“It’s just that she’s working too hard,” Mom finishes for me. There’s irritation in her voice; she’s not even trying to hide it.
“I’m only working as hard as I need to.”
I don’t add that I’m feeling a little homesick. Being in Paris is exciting, but it’s also very different. I miss Dad’s pancakes; waking up in my own bed, wrapped in soft sheets that haven’t been used by hundreds of students before me; and hearing nothing but silence from my room, instead of the continuous honking of cars and ambulance sirens. Their melody, if you can call it that, is completely different over here, with two tones alternating. The first few times I woke up in panic, wondering what was going on.
“I’m sure she’s looking after herself,” Dad says, but he sounds dubious, too.
I close my eyes. They feel heavy, a little swollen. “I try. I’m just so happy I get to dance Odile, you know?” But just as I ask the question, I realize that they can’t know. They don’t understand that this intensity is how things have to be.
We talk a little more. Mom asks where I’ve visited in Paris, what I’m eating for breakfast, what my plans are for the weekend. I answer them all, trying not to sound too annoyed. Because I know what she’s really asking: are you doing something other than ballet?
I mention that I’ve made good friends here—Lucy, Anouk—and that we sometimes take a walk around the neighborhood after dinner. Last night we stopped at a fromagerie, bought the stinkiest cheese they had, and dared each other to finish our slice first. It wasn’t as disgusting as I’d imagined, but my breath still tasted foul this morning, even after I brushed my teeth twice. All I could think was: never, ever eat cheese before seeing Louis.
“I’m jealous,” Dad says with a laugh. “Sounds fun.”
But then I let out a loud yawn, and Mom sighs. “Mia.”
“Yes?”
“Just…”
“What, Mom?”
“You don’t have to push yourself to the limits. Remember that we’ll still be proud of you, no matter what.”
My throat tightens. I want to hang up and erase her words from my memory. Because maybe she’ll still love and respect me if I fail, but I certainly won’t.
THE WEEKEND ROLLS around and I’m ecstatic to sleep in. I enjoy a late breakfast at the dorm with my friends before I leave to meet Louis for…well, I don’t know. He texted me that he had a great idea for our afternoon together, but when I asked questions, he would only say that it’s a surprise.
At the breakfast table, everyone shares their plans for the day. Picnics. Sightseeing. Shopping. I nod and smile, but mostly I just focus on my tartines in silence.
“You’re coming with us to the beach?” Lucy asks with a laugh after Anouk mentions Paris-Plages, the city “beach” set up on the banks of the Seine for summer.