“You didn’t,” he responds firmly. “You can’t control everything, Mia. Yes, I wish you and Louis hadn’t gone out that night after the show. And I definitely wish that car hadn’t gone through a red light. But things happen. No one lives in a bubble, unfortunately.”
“So you’re not mad at me?” I ask, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“I know you’re mad at yourself already, and that’s enough. What’s done is done.”
“I missed my audition with ABT. I ruined my chances,” I say, stating the obvious. It hurts to admit it out loud again, but I need to accept this new reality.
“Yes,” Monsieur Dabrowski answers, serious. “The apprentice program director was stunned when I gave him the news. He didn’t know what to say.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, just because I feel the need to fill the void. It’s my future I screwed up, but it’s clear I disappointed so many people around me. The people who mattered the most.
Monsieur Dabrowski takes a deep breath. “I talked to him some more. I don’t normally like to meddle in these things, because it’s not up to me how companies recruit their dancers. Still, I asked him if he would give you another chance.”
“Oh,” I say, wondering if I’m understanding him correctly. I can’t picture Monsieur Dabrowski pleading my case, but it sounds like it’s exactly what he did.
“He said no,” Monsieur Dabrowski adds in a whisper. “While he was impressed by your performance, he’d invited other students to audition and felt that they should get priority, given your injury. So many dancers want to join ABT…” He trails off, and I’m sure that, like mine, his mind goes to Audrey. She must be back home now, already preparing for her new life in New York City. I shake off the twinge of jealousy before it becomes too much to bear.
“Thank you for trying,” I say, the words catching in my throat. It’s no surprise, of course. Why would ABT give me another chance when I didn’t even turn up at the audition?
“There’s another reason I called,” Monsieur Dabrowski says. “The program director at the l’Institut de l’Opéra de Paris called me yesterday. She was also told what happened to you, of course, but she thought about it again overnight. She saw great talent in you. She comes to New York a few times a year, and she said she’d like to see you there next time, if you’ve recovered. She hasn’t made any promises, but…sometimes students get an offer with a delayed start. Exceptions can be made. I know it’s not ABT, but the Opéra de Paris has a pretty great reputation as well.” He adds the last part with a chuckle.
I let out a scream, and Mom looks at me with concern. I quickly smile at her, letting her know that I’m fine. I’m better than fine. I don’t know how long it will take me to heal, or what my life will be like in a year’s time. But that open door, that chance to meet with the director from l’Institut de l’Opéra de Paris again, is the only sign I need.
THERE’S SO MUCH to do and see in this neighborhood, Mom and I don’t even take the métro for the next two days. It’s called le premier arrondissement—the first neighborhood—for a reason: it’s got everything.
We stroll through the Jardin du Palais-Royal, and stop to take photos at a modern art installation in the palace’s courtyard—black-and-white-striped columns of all lengths that contrast with the classic architecture surrounding it. They’re fun and unexpected, another sign that Paris is so elegant, but with a definite edge. Later, at Ladurée, we try almost every macaron flavor, because why not? Rose is my favorite, while Mom is all about the strawberry-marshmallow combo.
Even though I can’t bring myself to talk about ballet, Mom insists we visit the Repetto boutique on Rue de la Paix. She thinks I need to treat myself, that I should bring something back from Paris for when I’m finally ready to dance again. I don’t tell her all the reasons why it hurts to go back there—for one, it was my first thrilling, scary, and magnificent adventure with Louis. But it seems important to her that I leave Paris feeling good and happy, or at least better and not as sad. Mom insists on buying me a new white leotard. I don’t protest, and I wait until she’s turned around to stop smiling.
Mostly we just wander around without a plan, turning down pretty streets, stopping for drinks at charming cafés, listening to street performers singing French songs we don’t know, and going inside stunning little churches to admire the intricate stained glass from up close. There’s a lightness in the air, sweet and hopeful. Summer is still well and truly here. We FaceTime Dad and Thomas, too—who seem kinda jealous of our little adventure. Thomas makes us promise to bring him back macarons, but Dad is quiet. I see concern in his eyes, so I do my best to sound upbeat, but I know he’s worried about me.