“Really?”
He nods, a smile forming on his lips. “I loved it when I was a kid, and my dad would bring me art books so I could get ideas. But then I just dropped it at the start of high school. I got lazy, I guess. Or maybe I felt like I should do the opposite of whatever my parents were doing. You made me want to start again. In fact, I’ve been working on something…”
I find myself holding my breath. “Can I see it?”
“No,” Louis says firmly. “It’s not ready.”
I lean back, a little surprised. “I’m sure it’s amazing. Can you at least tell me about it?”
Louis ignores my question and gestures to the waiter for the check. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, but I stop him.
“It’s my treat, remember?” I try to sound upbeat, like I haven’t noticed the sudden change in the atmosphere.
“You don’t have to worry about my dad, Mia. He can be really tough sometimes, but this is about me. Not you.”
“He had every reason to be mad at me,” I say. Maybe he didn’t have to say it like that, but I missed that step, and he knew why I was so distracted. I don’t blame him.
“You’ll do amazing, I know you will,” he says as I drop a bill and a few coins on the little tray.
Then he gets up. “I have to get back to it.”
We part ways a few minutes later. Our goodbye is quick and slightly awkward. Louis seems deep in his thoughts, and I feel like everything has been said. For now. The sun is starting to go down as I walk home, the sky turning a hazy shade of blue. Only one question burns up inside me for the rest of the night. When am I going to see him again?
AS OUR PERFORMANCE approaches, Audrey and I double down on our rehearsals. We’re at school long before anyone arrives, and long after they’re gone. But, today, as the excitement for the show mounts, a few younger students ask if they can stay back and watch us.
“As long as you’re silent,” Audrey responds coolly. But I notice her smiling. What ballerina doesn’t enjoy devoted fans?
She offers to set up the music for my variation while I go first. I try to quiet my mind as I take position, forgetting the people in front of me, the noise of honking cars coming from the street, and even Louis. I want this practice to be all about me, or at least, all about Odile. The first few notes fill the room, and I make my entrée. As soon as I lift my right leg up in the air, my mind blocks all the stress and confusion, allowing my feelings to inspire every move. The dance lasts about three minutes, but in my heart it goes on forever, blending the strain of my muscles with the pleasure of doing what I love the most.
I only join the real world again when it’s over. The small crowd claps; even Audrey joins them. I take a bow and head over to the bench to catch my breath. Audrey doesn’t waste a minute, and hands me her phone as she takes my place center stage. She gets in position, aligns her spine and shoulders, and raises her chin at the perfect angle. I play the music, and she’s off. I watch, mesmerized by the elegance oozing out of her. She’s the dream White Swan, destined for the role. That’s when it occurs to me: Monsieur Dabrowski chose perfectly. He saw right through us from the very beginning.
I haven’t taken my eyes off Audrey, but the minute she finishes, something feels different. People clap quietly, and there’s a strange air in the room. Audrey’s face drops. I follow her gaze, her mouth half-open, and I let out an inaudible gasp.
Myriam Ayed, the danseuse étoile of the Paris Ballet, is here, watching from just behind the open door. She’s wearing leggings and a loose sweatshirt—under which the straps of her leotard are showing—and she’s carrying her dance bag. It hits me that she must be here to do exactly what we’re doing: practicing for her next performance. The school is so big, and the professional dancers’ studios are in a different wing from ours. We haven’t seen her since orientation.
“Bravo,” she says, clapping a few times and stepping inside. “Very good.”
“Thank you,” Audrey mutters, clearly starstruck.
“You too,” Ms. Ayed says, turning to me. I blush in response. “You both dance very well.”
I smile, mumbling my thanks, but that’s it. I’m scared of saying anything stupid to a ballet legend.
“Now, can I make a suggestion? Switch,” she says, making the gesture with her fingers between Audrey and me.
Audrey frowns at me. I frown back.
“I don’t understand,” I say.