I look over and see Audrey biting her lower lip, hanging on to Myriam Ayed’s every word. She’s putting on a brave face, but I’m certain she’s praying for the role in her head.
After we meet Monsieur Dabrowski, the school’s artistic director, and a few other instructors, we head to the cafeteria, where we’ll be having lunch every day, starting now.
My race through the airport this morning made me ravenous, and I help myself to extra cheese—a gooey Camembert—to tide me over until dinner. Afterward, we’re divided into small groups for a tour. We’re led through each of the five floors, which are full of glass-walled studios with high ceilings, beautiful antique wooden floors, and Steinway pianos, along with the locker rooms. The corridors feel never-ending, and the rooms are so much bigger and more impressive than the ones I’m used to, but I tell myself that I’ll know my way around here in no time.
At the end of the afternoon, Lucy, Anouk, Audrey, and I meet up outside on the front steps of the school. I edge closer to our group, curious about a tiny little major thing. “Myriam Ayed didn’t say much about the final performance. And no one else spoke about the apprentice program directors. They will come watch Swan Lake, right?”
While this summer intensive isn’t supposed to be competitive—there are no medals at the end, and the students aren’t ranked—it’s no secret that many apprentice program directors for the world’s major ballet companies attend the final performance in the hopes of discovering up-and-coming talent. If you’re lucky enough to be chosen by one, you get to practice with a corps de ballet for a year before hopefully joining the company for good. I’m sure it’s the ultimate goal of pretty much everyone in the program.
The rumor is that our instructors pass along the names of their favorite students beforehand to the program directors, which means we have to give it our best all summer long to make an impression. If your ma?tre de ballet notices you, then it’s likely a program director will as well. And if they do…an offer might not be far behind.
“Anouk, is that true?” Lucy asks. “Did anyone get offered an apprenticeship last year?”
The three of us turn to Anouk. If anyone knows something, it’s going to be her. “Don’t look at me,” she says jokingly. “I was only in level three.”
“But you must have heard things,” I insist.
“Okay, fine,” Anouk says, “but don’t blame me if it turns out not to be true.”
“Just spill,” Audrey says sharply. Lucy and I frown at her, and she sighs. “I mean, come on, we need to know.”
Anouk leans closer. “From what I heard, at the end of the final performance, the program directors make a list of the students they’re interested in. It’s usually the leads, but not always. They might decide someone in the corps de ballet has potential, too.”
I bite my lip. So there’s a chance for those of us in level four. A small one, but it’s there.
“Then,” Anouk continues, “they invite them to a private audition. Those happen the next day, I think. Last year there was the Australian Ballet, the Bolshoi Ballet, the Royal Danish Ballet, the Royal Ballet in London, and ABT, of course.”
Audrey glances at me at the same time I steal a look at her. ABT. The American Ballet Theatre in New York City.
I close my eyes and see countless weekends of practice, my school breaks filled with competitions in faraway places, my nights spent bandaging my bloody toes—it’s all led me to this. Here is the proof that you always get another chance. ABT may have rejected me once, but I’m only just getting started.
THE GIRLS DECIDE to take the métro back to the dorm, but I don’t feel like joining them. This is my first day in Paris, and I want to enjoy it before school starts for real tomorrow.
“I think I’m going to walk,” I say, surprising myself.
I’ve never been alone in a big city, and I don’t know my way around here. I should unpack and rest. Do the reasonable thing. But I don’t want to.
Lucy frowns.
“I’ll see you for dinner,” I promise.
Audrey and Anouk start to walk away, but Lucy insists. “Will you be okay?”
I smile. “I’m in Paris. Of course I’m going to be okay.”
Instead of south, I head west toward the heart of the city. My eyes are wide as I try to take it all in at once: the tangy scent of asphalt warmed by the summer sun, the casual yet polished appearances of most passersby （no shorts or flip-flops in sight）， the lovely shade of pastel blue in the sky. I’ve heard Paris called a gray city, but today the sun is bright, like it’s putting on a show just for me.