For days, my heart has skipped a beat every time my phone has chimed, but it was never Louis. No texts, no sign of life. It’s like I made up our time together in my head.
Audrey nods. “Good. Let’s get to it.”
A picture flashes in my mind: Audrey Chapman, twenty years from now, wearing all black in this exact studio, badgering students who haven’t yet mastered the flick of a foot or the rounding of an arm. They’ll be terrified of her, and she’ll love every minute of it.
We warm up for a few minutes, from our necks down to our toes, and finish off with a round of pliés. I peel back my layers—my cozy cardigan, my leg warmers, and my puffy slippers—until I’m only wearing my white leotard, skirt, and tights.
“Let’s start with the fouettés,” I say, quickly putting on my pointe shoes.
Audrey’s face lights up. Even though she’d never swap roles with me, I bet she’d welcome the challenge of the Black Swan solo, those thirty-two fouettés. But it’s mine to tackle alone.
I get into position, and without music or further ado, I begin spinning over and over again.
“That leg!” Audrey snaps, a little too loud. “It should be whipping through butter, not concrete!”
“I’m whipping!” I yelp. “Whip, whip, whip!” I say with every turn.
I stop and attempt to laugh while catching my breath. That, too, is quite technically challenging.
Audrey rolls her eyes. “Come on, Mia, focus!”
“I’m here to bring the fun, remember?”
Audrey pretends she didn’t hear me. “What did I tell you?” she asks, seriously.
I sigh. “That I can’t think, even for one second, that I might not be able to do them.”
“Exactly. The moment you doubt yourself, you’ve lost the battle. Your body knows when your mind fails you. That’s when it gives up.”
I nod gravely. At the start of this week, my fouettés were still a work in progress. They were getting there, but slowly. And now, thanks to the Audrey Chapman school of thought, they have almost arrived. I’ve developed much better control over my standing leg. I can keep my hips and leg more level throughout. I can and I will.
Every day my technique improves, and with it my time in Paris comes closer to an end. But I won’t let myself get sad about it. I’m doing exactly what I came here to do: refine my skills, learn to be a better dancer, and get a shot at impressing an apprentice program director. Even if I jump a little every time my phone beeps, it’s a win all around.
“You’ve made so much progress,” Audrey says as we towel off after getting out of the showers.
Just a few days ago, my jaw would have been on the floor. But something has changed between Audrey and me. A barrier has been lifted.
Which means I can be as honest with her as she is with me. “And you haven’t made any.” She looks at me funny, but I think she knows exactly where I’m going with this. “We’ve been working on my technique all week long,” I add.
“And it worked!” she says with a genuine grin.
“That was only half our deal: you help me be more like you, and I help you be more like me. Every time I tried to get you to loosen up, you sent me off on another round of fouettés.”
“You can never do too many fouettés.”
“That’s not the point,” I say, putting on my skirt.
Audrey slips her belt through the loops of her jeans. “Fine.” She pauses, her T-shirt in her hand. “We can stay if you want.”
“Oh, no,” I say, running a comb through my wet hair. “What I have in mind cannot happen between these walls.”
Ever the dutiful student, Audrey agrees to follow me. When we step outside, the evening breeze has already taken over the streets. It has rained a lot over the last few days—at least that’s what I saw from inside the studio—but tonight the sky is clear, and everyone is out again. We walk through the Marais, sneaking glances at the pretty shop windows, and turn onto Rue de Rivoli, the main street on the right side of Paris that goes all the way beyond the Louvre. But we stop way before then, at the main square in front of H?tel de Ville, the city hall.
“A concert? That’s what you had in mind?” Audrey asks, pointing at the stage. It hasn’t started yet, but hundreds of people are already gathered around.
“Not quite.” I checked the schedule earlier: tonight’s act is a French reggae band that covers Bob Marley songs, among others. While most of the crowd is huddled up in front of the stage, a smaller group hangs a bit to the side, in plain view of Notre-Dame.