I noticed boys, but every time one of my friends mentioned kissing or even holding hands, I felt like that was so far away for me, it was beyond comprehension. And clearly, Donovan was even less interested at that point. He’d much rather toss around a baseball with the other boys in class than spend time worrying about girls.
I looked away from the book after a couple of minutes. I felt warm all over, though I’d barely moved except to turn pages with the very tips of my fingers. It all seemed weird and a bit wrong, but I also felt a sense of relief. At least now I’d know what people were talking about whenever sex came up. Sort of.
That was the last time we looked at that book. The last time we discussed it, too, but sometimes over the next few weeks I’d notice Donovan zoning out and I didn’t know how to explain it but the look on his face was how I felt when I was paging through the book, and I was sure he was thinking about it. Every time.
I need to get my shit together now because I swear, Marisa seems to be watching me more closely than usual in class. She knows our bodies almost as well as we do, what each of us is capable of doing. But the more I worry about disappointing her, the harder it is to concentrate. To stop thinking about the guy who took Donovan.
I use the extra seconds between combinations to close my eyes and breathe in deeply, and then, just when I think I’m safe, the memories of my ex-boyfriend come flooding in.
I remember how we used to drive out to the abandoned park because nobody would think to look for us among the overgrown paths and rusted swing sets. He’d always bring something for us to share—a small, flat bottle of whiskey, a fresh pack of Camel Reds. Anything that might relax me, make me feel better about the things we did when we were alone.
So many firsts happened in that park. My first taste of strong liquor. The first time I was touched between my legs, the first time a long, slow path was kissed along my breasts. The first time I saw a guy completely naked and held him in my hand.
It was also the first time I told someone “I love you.”
It was easy to believe he felt the same way. Especially when his mouth curved into a small smile, when he kissed me long and deep. Those times, the sex was sweet. Slow. Making love, he’d say as he held my stare. I love making love to you, Theo.
Then there was fucking. Hard and fast and no time for kissing. Just grunting and grabbing. Eyes squeezed into slivers, lips tense with effort. I was surprised the first time because I still responded to him. My body didn’t mind the new way of doing it. But I felt used afterward. Disposable. He never looked in my eyes when we were fucking.
I yearned for him to look at me, to make that connection. His eyes were hypnotic enough to captivate me, even as he lay on top of me, sweating and drowsy after I’d given him what he wanted.
It’s those eyes that cause me to stumble on a double pirouette a few moments later. Marisa notices. So does Ruthie.
It doesn’t help that she’s a machine, Ruthie Pathman. She barely seems to break a sweat during class, but she always works her ass off. She may roll her eyes when Josh and I talk about our careers and she may pretend like she doesn’t want it as much as we do, but she does. If I wasn’t sure before, the determined set of her jaw, the spark in her eyes lets me know how true it is now.
At the end of class, Marisa asks me to stay behind and I’m cursing myself for practically falling apart until she calls Ruthie and Josh’s names, too.
I glance at the piano, where Hosea slides the day’s sheet music into a single stack, slings his backpack over one shoulder, and nods in our general direction before filing out of the room behind the rest of the company. I feel Ruthie’s eyes on me as he leaves, but I look down at the floor, stare at the scuff marks that swoop across my pointe shoes.
Marisa closes the door behind Hosea, stands in front of the mirrored wall, and gestures for us to sit down in front of her. She’s wearing her standard outfit—a black long-sleeved leotard under a thin white wrap skirt, black leggings, and plain ballet slippers.
“I don’t think I have to tell you why you’re here. But just in case . . . Well, you’re my best.” She smiles big, stops to look at each of us. “You have my full support if you’d like to audition for next year’s summer intensives.”
A professional career has always seemed so far away, but one day, Josh, Ruthie, and I will headline our favorite ballets. Coppélia. Giselle. Sleeping Beauty. Swan Lake. Josh was damn near tailor-made for the role of Prince Siegfried and every little girl pictures herself dancing Odile at least once in her lifetime. We don’t kill ourselves practicing all those fouettés for nothing.
But first, our sights are set on summer programs, at one of the best schools in the country. It’s the next logical step if you’re on our path. The word is that Marisa recommends summer intensive auditions to only a couple of her students each year, if that. And we don’t need her permission to audition, but Marisa doesn’t make mistakes.
I try to bite back a smile, but I can’t help it. Even my sick stomach and weak legs can’t ruin this moment. These are the words I’ve wanted to hear from Marisa since I first went on pointe.
“I’m afraid this is also where it becomes more of a job.” Marisa’s smile fades just a bit as she paces in front of the mirror, the piano to her left, the door on her right side. “If you decide to audition, it will be a huge commitment. Less time with friends, more days and nights here at the studio.”
We nod in unison, our faces turned up to her like we’re three years old again. Josh, especially, looks nearly the same as he did back then, with his wide eyes and the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. I cross my legs and lean forward with my elbows on my thighs, catch a quick glance in the mirror to evaluate how much of me has changed and how much has stayed the same. I can’t see a big difference and I wonder if I’ve changed more on the inside or the outside over the years.
“You’ll have to make some difficult decisions, but I won’t waste my time working with anyone who doesn’t want this, so think hard before you decide to audition. Professional ballet is incredibly difficult. It’s physically and mentally taxing, and this is just the start.” She hesitates and then slowly, her smile returns. “But I know all of you can handle it and then some. You wouldn’t be sitting in front of me if I didn’t believe it.”
She says our training will increase and we’ll need to list the pros and cons of each program, from type of instruction to tuition payments. It’s strange to think we may not be auditioning for an identical list of schools, that there will be a day I won’t dance next to Ruthie and Josh. But it’s even weirder that the only reason we’re friends at all is that we’ve been training for a career in which we’ll compete against one another for as long as we’re dancing. We haven’t discussed it outright but I know we’ll end up auditioning for some of the same programs.
Josh will be all, “This doesn’t change anything between us, Cartwright,” because he’s sweet and earnest like that and it’s true—it wouldn’t change us. But I don’t know about Ruthie. She’s talented and competitive, and there’s not always room for friendship when those two come into play.
“I want to see you all push yourselves,” Marisa says before we go to the dressing rooms. “Think beyond the summer. If you’re admitted to a summer intensive that has an affiliated school and dance for them the way you’ve been dancing for me all this time, you could very well be invited to attend their preprofessional program.”
Year-round ballet school—which could lead to a contract at a major company someday.