Louis’s mouth drops open. “I never stopped you from doing anything you wanted to do.”
“But you lied to me.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe I didn’t tell you everything about my past, but—”
“Stop!”
“No! I’m not stopping. I want you to succeed, Mia. I want you to get picked by the ABT director, even if it means I’ll never see you again.” He seems on edge himself, vulnerable even, but I don’t trust anything coming from him anymore. His words just glide over me, my anger stripping them of any meaning.
“You’re right about something, Louis. You don’t understand how hard I’ve worked to get here, because you don’t care about anything. I’m done throwing my future away for someone who thinks this is just a game.”
Louis swallows. For a moment, I’m certain that he’s about to yell at me just like I did at him. Instead, he just looks on bitterly, shakes his head, and walks away. A moment later he straddles his Vespa, snaps his helmet shut, and drives off without looking back.
That night, to keep my mind busy, I decide to break in yet another new pair of pointe shoes. It feels good to bend the wooden shank relentlessly. I bang the toe box against the floor repeatedly, probably harder than I need to. After I burn the ends of the ribbon and sew on the elastic just the way I like, I put them in my dance bag, satisfied. Now I’m ready for my next rehearsals.
There, at the bottom of my bag, are the pictures of Élise Mercier, my ancestor. I sit on my bed, and, as I stare at them, it dawns on me that Louis isn’t the only mistake I’ve made since I arrived in Paris. Something else knocked me off my path: I let this family legend get to me. I somehow believed that my future was out of my hands, that it had been decided for me centuries ago.
But Mom was right: it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Whether Élise Mercier was painted by Degas, or whether she was even an important ballet dancer in her time, my past does not define me. Only I can shape who I’m going to become, by doing exactly what I had been doing until now: working hard, keeping my focus solely on what I really want, and then working harder. I place the pictures at the bottom of the drawer in my nightstand and turn off the light. From now on, and until the moment I’m on a plane heading back home, I will think of nothing else but ballet.
OF COURSE, IT’Snot that easy. I wake up several times throughout the night all weekend, wondering where I am. Then I lie there, replaying our conversation in my head. I don’t regret what I said. I just regret…everything. On Monday, I’m already awake when my alarm rings, exhausted but restless. I turn it off and drag myself out of bed. Today cannot be over soon enough.
At breakfast, Audrey is even quieter than usual. In fact, she’s barely said anything to me since my date with Louis. It’s not like we used to stay up and chat for hours before, but sometimes we’d talk about what part of the ballet we were working on and which sequences were giving us trouble. She’s avoiding me. And I want to know why.
“Do you want to rehearse together today?” I ask, surprising myself.
“I’m leaving now,” she says. Then she looks from me to my half-eaten breakfast. The message is clear: it’s now or never. I gulp down the rest of my raspberry-topped yogurt, clear my plate, and run after her, kind of surprised that she tolerated the few seconds it took me to do this.
Once we’re in the studio, she looks on absentmindedly as I practice my solo. When I fudge arelevé,she says nothing. Halfway through, I feel a sharp cramp in my calf and grimace, but she doesn’t tell me off for losing my composure. The Audrey I know would click her tongue or shake her head in disapproval. But that Audrey is not here today.
After I finish, it’s her turn to take position in the middle of the room. She nods at me, and I press “Play” on my phone. Her music filters in through the speakers, but I turn it off before she takes her first step. I need to get something off my chest.
“Do you have something to say to me?” To my surprise, she doesn’t protest the interruption, but she doesn’t respond, either. “Because I’m going to find out at some point, and I’d rather hear it from you.”
It’s been nagging me since my conversation with Monsieur Dabrowski. How did he find out? “You told Monsieur Dabrowski on me,” I say, feeling my face grow hot.
Audrey rolls her eyes. “Play the music, Mia.”
But I don’t move, so she makes her way to me. She tries to grab my phone, but I pull it away.
“You told him!” I say.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she spits. “Are we going to practice or what?”
“We’re not,” I say, making the decision as the words come out of my mouth. I’ve played this in my head over and over, and the only person who could have told our instructor about me and Louis is right in front of me. I don’t know how she found out—maybe on the boat, maybe she overheard me talk about him with Vivienne and Madeleine. But one thing is certain: she never believed my story about hanging out with my aunts all those other times. The night of the party, I thought the girls were just joking about me and the mysterious cute French boy. But what if they knew all along? In any case, it’s obvious why Audrey ratted me out: she wanted both roles all to herself, the Whiteandthe Black Swan. She must have been so miffed when I took Odile away from her. “You betrayed me,” I continue, my voice shaking. “And I’m not like you. I can’t pretend that everything is fine.”
Audrey sighs again. She walks over to the bench and sits down. She shakes her head a few times, then looks up at me. “I know you can’t pretend. You’re terrible at it.”
I grunt. “I’m sorry if I have feelings.”
“You have so many of them,” Audrey says, rolling her eyes, “there’s not enough space for me in our room. You’re justfeelings, feelings, feelings! Look, I told you before: I’m here to dance, not to share gossip or wander around the city. I don’t want to know what happened with your boyfriend, or whatever. I’m not here to deal with your drama.”
“I can’t believe you told his dad, Audrey. That’s low, even for you.”
Audrey lets out a sharp laugh. “How would I know his dad?” Then it hits her. “Wait, you’re going out with Monsieur Dabrowski’s son?” The disbelief in her eyes is apparent, even from across the room.
“Not anymore.”
“You have to be kidding me. Of all the boys in Paris, you decide to go out with our instructor’s son, and when it goes badly, you blame me for it? Do you really think I would have gone to Monsieur Dabrowski? I’m scared to even talk to him.”
