I return my attention back to the piece of black tulle in my hands. It’s both stiff and soft under my fingers, and, while it needs a few repairs—some of the beads have come undone, and there’s a small rip in the chest—it feels magical to hold. I put it on over my leotard and slip off my straps to get a better feel of the sweetheart neckline. This is seriously an out-of-body experience.
“Let’s see,” Valérie says once I’m dressed.
She studies me carefully and then grabs her sewing kit.
“Oops,” she says, stabbing the top of my thigh lightly with a needle. “This tulle is so thick!” Is it weird if I tell her that she can stab me all she wants? Ballerinas are used to pain. We live with it every day, from our split toenails to our strained muscles. You can’t be a dancer if you’re not willing to make friends with pain.
Audrey spins around to accommodate her seamstress, who starts pinning the top in the back. Facing me now, she looks me up and down, her face impassive. “You were good earlier,” she says flatly. “Your fouettés are coming along.”
Before this, we had another rehearsal with Monsieur Dabrowski, and he was as hard on each of us as ever. “All that stomping around! You’re swans, not horses!”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. An unsolicited compliment coming out of nowhere from Audrey Chapman. Paris, city of miracles.
“I’m impressed,” she says, shrugging, like she could hear me think.
“Thank you,” I reply. “You were really great. You’re always great.”
Audrey shrugs again, but even her shrugs are tired. Her shoulders slump as she looks away.
The truth is Monsieur Dabrowski has been especially hard on us leads. “Where is your heart, Audrey? You’re a young woman in love with a prince who can deliver you from a curse. Does that mean nothing to you?” He will not let that go. “You need more intent in that leg, Mia. It has to carry you all the way! What are you going to do during the performance? Hop like a bunny?” He even called Fernando an Oompa Loompa. Which is actually pretty funny, considering how tall he is.
“How does it feel?” Valérie asks me as she leads me toward the floor-length mirror.
She stands behind me and smiles at my reflection, proud of her handiwork.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “Merci.”
She pinches a bit of loose fabric at the waist. “I just need one small touch-up here.”
A little while later, Audrey and I each remove our costumes, careful of all the pins still stuck in them. Valérie tells us that they’ll come back next week for another fitting as they hang up our tutus. “Don’t lose any weight between now and then,” she adds. “We know how stressed you girls get.”
“Our daily dose of croissants won’t let that happen,” I say with a smile.
Audrey chuckles a little. We make our way through the now-deserted school. I pause when we reach the front door. “I have something to do, actually…I’ll see you later,” I say nervously.
“Oh,” Audrey replies, sounding not so surprised. “You’re going…”
“Out?” My voice sounds more on edge than I’d like it to be. But what else can I say?
“Hmm…，” she replies, arching one eyebrow.
“My aunt invited me to dinner,” I add. I try to keep a straight face, but I can feel my cheeks flush.
Audrey looks at me deadpan. “Your aunt, right.” Her tone is only a little snarky.
Note to self: never underestimate her. She’s not easily fooled.
“She’s…” I take a deep breath, ready to dig myself into a deeper lie, but something in Audrey’s eyes stop me. “I won’t be home late,” I continue. “And I’ll be just as ready to dance tomorrow morning.”
Audrey nods. “Have fun.”
Those might be the two strangest words Audrey has ever said to me.
“Really?” I ask her.
“Really,” she says.
And, maybe for the first time, we smile at each other.
* * *
There was no surprise this time, from him or from me. I didn’t feel nervous, and I refused to overthink it. I just finally found the courage to admit to myself what I wanted to do and simply texted Louis about taking him out on a date at his favorite restaurant. Which is why I’m standing on a hip street in the ninth arrondissement, underneath a neon sign that reads “H?tel Amour.” That’s right, Louis chose a place called the “Love Hotel.” You can’t make that up. One thing I’ve learned about French people is that they’re not afraid to get romantic. When Americans do it, it can feel over-the-top, but Paris is swarming with oh-so-cool Cinderellas in Breton striped tops, lips stained in red, their tousled sun-kissed hair bouncing as they casually stroll down the street toward their knights in shining armor. Or on a shiny Vespa, in my case.