But my apology doesn’t work. She just grabs her bag and heads for the door. Without looking back, she says, “I know.”
I cringe, unsure what to do. Of course I can practice myfouettésby myself, and, when I’m ready for someone’s opinion, Lucy and Anouk or any one of my classmates will be more than happy to help. Still, I feel guilty for ruining Audrey’s practice time. And even guiltier about letting Louis filter into my ballet practice. So I get back to work, making a pact with myself to dance for another half hour before I allow myself to read his messages.
Then, I sit on the bench and, still panting, savor them all at once.
Wanna meet for lunch today?
I know a great place next to school. Your school I mean.
By now, you’ve probably noticed that school cafeterias suck everywhere in the world.
I mean, it’s not that bad, but I wouldn’t want you to think that this is the best Paris has to offer.
Okay, I feel like I’m just talking to myself now. Let me know!
I smile, and smile again, as I read and reread the messages. Would I like to pop out of school to meet Louis for a delicious meal? Yes, I would. I look down the hallway to where I assume Audrey is practicing on her own, and my shoulders sink.
I’m sorry,I type, but delete it immediately. How can I explain? I can’t do this over text, so I call Louis. He picks up right away.
“Bonjour!”
“Bonjour,”I reply, my heart beating a little faster at the sound of his voice. Then I switch to English, because I’m starting to realize that, in my few weeks in Paris, I can focus on my dancingormy language skills, but not both at once. “I got Odile,” I say.
“That’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you, Mia!” He sounds genuine, and I feel embarrassed remembering my mini meltdown in the train on Monday. In hindsight, I can’t imagine that Monsieur Dabrowski would share the details of his work with Louis. “We’ll celebrate over lunch,” he continues.
Yes, please!I’m dying to say. But, no. I must be firm. No lunches. No escapades. No. More. Fun. Argh! Who comes to Paris to not have fun? Me, I guess. And every other student in the program who would do anything to take my spot.
“I can’t have lunch with you today,” I say.
“Tomorrow, then?” Louis asks, just as cheerful.
“Louis,” I say, in the softest possible voice. “I can’t do this.”
He chuckles, but it sounds a little awkward. “You can’t do what? Eat?”
I sigh. I’m not sure, exactly. Come on, Mia, what is it? I can’t waste an hour of school time when I could be practicing my solo. I can’t take the risk that anyone might think that I’m getting preferential treatment because I know Monsieur Dabrowski’s son, or that I’m not taking the program seriously. For a brief moment, I picture my instructor telling me that I don’t deserve Odile, after all. It sends shivers down my spine, and not the good kind.
“When we missed the train on Sunday,” I say, lowering my voice, “I could have gotten into a lot of trouble if I hadn’t made it back on time.” Through the glass windows, I see a few students walk past me in the hallway and file into the next studio, a sign that classes are about to begin. “And now that I’m dancing Odile…”
“You need to practice for hours a day, I get it,” Louis says, “but you’re still going to eat lunch, right?”
“Well…yes.”
“And, if eating is going to happen no matter what, do you really think the geographical location of said meal will affect your dancing skills?”
“Louis…”
How can anyone be this cute all the time?
“It’s a genuine question.”
“I only get an hour break for lunch….” I can feel my resolve weakening. Saying no to Louis might be the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do, and that includes all thefouettésI’ve just practiced.
A woman walks into the room, probably an instructor for another level, and gives me a strange look. I need to hang up.
“I get it,” Louis continues, his tone suddenly serious. “This is probably not a good idea anyway. I can’t get between you and your passion.”
This jolts me. “No one could ever get between me and ballet.”
