I nod. “I will,” I say. “I’m going to make Odile proud.”
“I believe you,” he replies as he sits on the floor, his legs spread apart, stretching out his inner thighs and rolling his ankles. Then he gets up, slips on thick knitted socks, and zips up his bag.
He walks away, leaving Audrey and me alone in the studio. I’m massaging my feet as she removes the pins from her tight bun. She stares at me for a moment too long.
“What?” I ask, getting back up and making my way to the center of the room.
Our rehearsal is finished for the day, but I’m not.
“Nothing,” she replies after a moment.
I stay long after she’s gone. I stare at myself in the mirror, lifting my chin with my index and middle finger, checking my port de tête. I lift one leg onto the barre and fold myself over it, releasing my hamstrings and my lower back, and repeat with the other leg. And then I get back to dancing. At some point, the school janitor wheels his vacuum into the studio, and I plead with him to give me a little more time. I play the music for my solo on my phone, and, with no one else to watch me, I’m free to fail, to curse, and to let tears fall down my face midway through the sequence. I perform fouettés until I feel like I might fall over.
Just last night I was skipping through my Parisian summer with hearts in my eyes. I thought my life was falling into place, but it was just the opposite. I knew I’d missed that step, and I tried to pretend that it didn’t happen. That’s the worst part of it. Did I really think that Monsieur Dabrowski wouldn’t notice? Did I honestly believe it wouldn’t matter? If I did, then the joke’s on me. I challenge myself to another ten takes of my solo, promising myself that if I can dance it twice flawlessly from the first arabesque and tendu derrière to the last, I could go home. But I don’t dance it twice flawlessly. Instead, I manage it five times in a row.
By the time I walk out of school, I almost think I’m okay. I even trick myself into believing that I’ve put Louis out of my mind. Except that when I find him waiting outside on the steps, in the exact spot where we first met, I realize once more how foolish I am.
My heart knocks against my chest. I want to ignore him, to pretend that I don’t see him. I could walk away and never speak to him again. But then I’d never get to express how much he hurt me. And right now, all I want is to hurt him back.
“I know I’m not supposed to be here…，” he says, “but you haven’t responded to any of my texts, and I was starting to worry about you.” He gets up and brushes off his pants, then leans over to kiss me. I pull away sharply.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
I take a deep breath, flared nostrils and all. “Everything is very not okay.”
He reaches for my waist. I push him away. “Don’t,” I say. “This is over.” And even though I mean them, the words rip another hole through my heart.
Louis’s frown grows deeper. “What’s going on? I thought we had an amazing time last night.”
“Let me ask you something, Louis. How many amazing nights have you had with other students? How many times have you sat on these steps, checking out ballerinas, and just picked one you liked?”
“What are you talking about?” One more time, Louis tries to grab my hand, but I cross my arms. “Let’s go get something to eat. We’ll talk, okay?”
“Did you want to keep us a secret because you have another girlfriend here?”
“What? No, that’s ridiculous.”
I shake my head with rage. “So you’ve never dated another girl from this school?”
A small part of me still hopes that this has all been a terrible misunderstanding, and that Monsieur Dabrowski was just annoyed with me about the performance. He could have made up that story to bring me back to reason.
But Louis doesn’t deny it. Instead, he just sighs. “Who told you that?”
I want to crumble to the ground and scream. Someone please wake me up from this nightmare. “That’s all you care about?”
“I care about you, Mia. You have to know that. It’s different than the others…”
The others. Plural. “I never want to see you again.” I bark this so loudly that a couple of passersby turn to look at us, but I don’t care. Two older students—probably from the yearlong program—come out the front door, and I catch Louis glance at the petite blond one.
“Her?” I ask way too loudly.
“Stop it,” Louis says without raising his voice.