Audrey’s eyes go wide. She’s as taken aback as I am, but she’s not the one who has to answer.
“Audrey is a great dancer!”
Monsieur Dabrowski sighs. “That is not my question.”
I watch Audrey, the panic in her eyes, as total silence blankets the room. She knows I have to say something; she’s just scared of what it might be.
“Well…”
“This isn’t just about her,” Monsieur Dabrowski says. “If you can’t tell what she needs to improve, then how areyousupposed to improve?”
I take a deep breath. Audrey is basically perfect…almost too perfect. I’ve seen her dance dozens of times, and sometimes it feels like I’m watching a battery-powered ballerina. I try to ignore our classmates as I say, “Audrey doesn’t know how to have fun with it.”
Audrey’s mouth drops open, but our instructor nods approvingly, so I continue. “Ballet is not a science, it’s an art. You have to make people feel something, and you can only do that if you feel it yourself.”
The moment I stop talking, she jumps in. “Maybe I don’t have enough emotion, but Mia has too much. Way too much.”
I let out a quiet gasp. It’s not an unfair comment, and that’s probably why it hurts.
“All right,” Monsieur Dabrowski says to her. “Continue.”
“She needs to work on her precision,” Audrey adds with a smile, like the dutiful student she is. “She can’t expect that the steps will just unfold on their own. Mia needs to learn complete control over her body. Over everything.”
“Très bien,girls. I’ve seen everything I need to see.”
Audrey and I both perk up, along with every other student in the room.
He doesn’t say anything else. Still, we know he’s talking about the roles inSwan Lake.He’s been quiet on the topic all week, and no one has dared ask any questions about how and when, exactly, he will assign them.
Audrey hesitates for a moment before blurting out, “When will we find out the roles?”
“Good things come to those who wait,” he finally says before moving on to the next group. We’ll have to hope, pray, and dream for a few more days at least.
For now, Audrey and I stare at each other coldly. She’s wrong about me, anyway. Iamin control, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it, too. It’s a waste of Paris not to drink in the spirit of this place, its history, the art, the culture, the boys. Well, fine, not the boys.
Ugh, maybe I have been distracted by my emotions. Paris is not about dreamy French guys and impromptu trips on the backs of their Vespas. Paris is not about Louis’s gorgeous brown eyes; the dimple in his left cheek that made me want to rub my hand against his soft skin; or the sweet, musky scent that wafted back to me as I held him in my arms. Now I just wish our ride around the city had lasted all night, because it can’t happen again.
So, fine. Paris is not about falling in love, not for me. It’s aboutdancing.The whole reason I came here is to learn from the best and to one day get into the American Ballet Theatre. Maybe even one day soon, as long as I don’t forget why I came here in the first place.
THE MUSÉE D’ORSAYmight be one of the most beautiful of all the Parisian landmarks. There’s a lot of competition, but to me, the contemporary art museum along the Seine river is even more swoon-worthy than the Louvre or the Pompidou. Before the Musée d’Orsay housed world-famous works of art, it was a train station. You can tell by the large clocks on the side of the building, underneath which the old train routes are still engraved. Inside, the high curved glass ceiling with intricate moldings is a masterpiece in its own right. It’s a grand hall, one that’s packed with black-and-white statues of all sizes.
I’ve never seen anything like it, and my heart fills with delight as I look all around me. Is this what it’s always like to discover a foreign place? Experiencing not just new sights, sounds, and smells, but feeling every moment differently, like your life started anew? Or is it just the Paris effect? In any case, there’s a reason why Musée d’Orsay has been on my must-visit list: I read in my guidebook that it hosts the biggest collection of Degas paintings in the world.
After some much-needed rest on Saturday, I’m excited to be officially out on the town. This excursion was optional, and surprisingly few people from my dorm signed up.
“Hard pass” was Audrey’s answer when I asked if she was going. Anouk is off catching up with friends she made last year, and Lucy’s parents are in town from Manchester for the weekend. So the field trip is just me and a few other students I don’t know.
We walked along the riverbank to get here, mingling with the weekend crowds and tourists, to the tune of an enchanting melody played by an accordionist, an older man wearing a vest and a khaki beret. There were little green kiosks all along the way, and I peeked at the vintage books and antique posters in the stalls, which gave off a delicious whiff of old printed paper.
Inside, we’re led toward the Impressionists floor by Max and Émilie, two of the student instructors at school, who are only a couple of years older than me. I wonder if they actually wanted to join us or just got stuck with chaperoning duties. It doesn’t matter anyway; as soon as we arrive in the Degas area, everyone scatters to explore at their own pace.
When I was little, Grandma Joan, Mom, and I would make annual trips to the Met in New York City, and we’d always stop by to admireThe Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer,Degas’s famous sculpture of Marie van Goethem, a Belgian ballerina. The sculpture was reproduced after his death, and the different versions are exhibited around the world, but, from what I’ve heard, the original wax one is right here in the Musée d’Orsay. If the family legend about my great-great-great-grandmother is true, she and Marie van Goethem would have been around the same age. They probably danced in the same ballet, or posed for the same paintings. Isn’t that wild? I know, I know.Ifit’s true.
I make my way through the collection, stopping at each painting for several minutes, taking in every detail: Degas’s ethereal combination of pastel colors, the delicate grace he conveys with just a few quick lines, and the spirited movement of his dancers—which proves he was drawing right there in the same room. I snap a picture of each with my phone, so I can look at them again later. AfterDancers in Blue,I move on toThe Star,then toSeated Dancer.I lean forward to scrutinize the dancer’s face when I sense a presence behind me.
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle. You’re not supposed to get so close to the art. Please step back.”
My heart leaps to my throat and I jerk away, ready to apologize, when I realize I know that voice and that oh-so-cute accent.
