“This,” Louis says as we walk along, “is the French ancestor to—”
“The Highline in New York!” I finish for him, remembering the elevated pedestrian walkway going through downtown Manhattan.
“Yep. I went there with my mom when she had to go for work, and I must have walked up and down the Highline three times. French people like all things American, but I think the feeling is mutual. We’re always stealing each other’s ideas.”
A sign informs me that the Parisian version is called “Promenade plantée” (Planted Promenade), which sounds more poetic. Louis tells me that it goes on for miles—well, kilometers—but we don’t need to go very far to find an empty bench by a patch of grass.
“I love a good terrace,” Louis says, unwrapping goodies from his basket—cheese, charcuterie, a carrot and beet salad from his local deli, and a pint of cherry tomatoes—“but since it had to be close to school, and cool enough to impress you, I thought this would tick both boxes.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, ripping off a piece of baguette with my hands. I like how the hard crust snaps to reveal the soft-as-a-cloud flesh.
Conversation is easy with Louis. He tells me that his mom is coming from London next week. From the way he talks about her, I suspect that, even though she moved away to pursue her career, he’s closer to her than to his dad. It’s hard to imagine Monsieur Dabrowski doing anything else besides shouting “Higher! Lower! Faster! Slower!” I wonder what their relationship is like. Immediately, I feel the twitch of uneasiness at the thought of mymaître de ballet.Louis’s dad has the power to make or break my career—I’m sure the ABT apprentice program director values his opinion more than anyone else’s—and going out with Louis is at best risky, and at worst totally wrong. So wrong. But so good.
After we polish off most of the food, I check my watch. “See,” Louis says as we get up to leave. “Quick, easy, delicious lunch, as promised.”
“Thank you, this was wonderful.”
Youare wonderful,I want to say as we pack up cups and utensils. I can’t believe I said yes to this, but I also can’t believe I almost said no. I find myself wishing that I could stay with Louis all afternoon, wandering around Paris and discovering all his favorite spots.
“Mia,” Louis says, leaning forward so close I can smell the sweet taste of tomatoes on his breath. He stares at my mouth, his eyes sparkling, and my heart drops. I know what he’s about to do, and I freeze, scared of disrupting the moment. He inches closer, and I think, this is torture, but the best kind of torture, and I would like more of it, please andmerci.
“You…,” he says softly, “have bread crumbs all over your face.” I think he brushes them off with his thumb, but in truth I’m not sure what happens.
When I’ve recovered, we head down the stairs, walk along Rue de Lyon and back toward Place de la Bastille. But just as we arrive at the main square, I stop in my tracks right in front of the modern opera building. Fernando, my classmate and future dance partner, is standing there, talking with a girl I recognize as one of the student teachers: Sasha, a graceful redhead who always looks very tough and serious for her eighteen years. If I walk any farther, they’ll see me. And Louis.
I don’t have time to think: I duck behind the bus stop we just passed and hide behind an advertisement. I peek through the glass partition, checking on Fernando and Sasha, who haven’t moved.
This…is not my proudest moment. It’s even less so when Louis rushes to join me behind the billboard, the look on his face a cocktail of adrenaline and amusement. I’m pretty sure the look on mine reads something like “mortified.” I give him an embarrassed smile.
“Are you hiding from that guy?” Louis asks, looking to the side behind me. “Because he’s gone.”
“Oh,” I say, relief flooding me. “I wasn’t hiding fromhim…,” I say, my cheeks growing hot. I should just stop talking.
“You just didn’t want him to see you.” He bites his bottom lip, suppressing a laugh.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean…it’s complicated.”
“He’s from your program, right?”
“It’s not what you think,” I reply right away. Could Louis actually be jealous? I mean, Fernando is totally cute, but he’s not Louis. No one is Louis.
“What I think is that you don’t want people from school to see you out having lunch,” he says. “Because it’s your business what you do outside ballet.”
“Oh,” I say, my eyes opening wide. “Well, then it’sexactlywhat you think.”
We both let out a laugh, and I immediately feel better. But then I think of Odile. How ecstatic I was when Monsieur Dabrowski called my name. He gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. I cannot forget that.
“You’re allowed to have a private life. No one has to know about us.”
It takes my heart a second to recover from that “us.” You’d think waiting to find out about the roles inSwan Lakewas nerve-racking, but the meaning of that “us” will probably keep the wheels turning in my mind all day and night. “I’m taking the program very seriously, and…”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he says seriously. “And I won’t tell anyone.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Not even Max?”
Louis shakes his head, like this is a silly question. “No way.” He glances at his watch, then adds, “So I really shouldn’t walk you back to school.”
“No, I’m just going to…”
