“You were really dating Monsieur Dabrowski’s son?” she asks, incredulous, after a few minutes have passed.
I nod slowly. Tears have wanted to roll down my cheeks since the beginning of this conversation, and I finally let them. “I made a terrible mess.”
Audrey sighs. “Do you think you can clean it up?”
I laugh. And I cry some more. I didn’t just create a mess. Iama mess. “I don’t know.”
“I have an idea,” Audrey says, getting up.
I check the clock above the door. It’s almost time for class.
“We could help each other,” she continues, sounding a bit unsure. “You help me learn to have fun orfeelthings….” She says this last part with a sort of disgusted shrug.
I can’t help but smile. “That’s not a good start.”
“Fine, let’s put it this way: you teach me how to be more like you. The good, dancing part of you, not the messy part, I mean,” she adds. “And I’ll help you be more like me.”
I frown. Is Audrey really suggesting what I think she’s suggesting? “Like a team?” I ask.
She seems to consider it for a moment. “Like a team.” And then of course, she adds matter-of-factly, “It doesn’t mean that we have to like each other.”
I laugh, but she’s right. “No. We just have to respect each other.”
“Exactly,” she says as she extends her hand. I hesitate, and not just because mine are still covered with tears and streaks of mascara. But Audrey’s hand is still stretched out to me, so I shake it. We have a deal.
“But for what it’s worth, Audrey?” I look her in the eye. “I think I do like you.”
“YOU KNOW THErule,” Audrey tells me as we begin what feels like our hundredth practice session together. We’ve been at it every morning and evening. Often it’s just the two of us, but Fernando sometimes joins in as well so we can practice our duets. Audrey glances at the phone in my hand, which I’m gripping hard.
“I’m turning it off!” I say, showing her the dark screen.
For days, my heart has skipped a beat every time my phone has chimed, but it was never Louis. No texts, no sign of life. It’s like I made up our time together in my head.
Audrey nods. “Good. Let’s get to it.”
A picture flashes in my mind: Audrey Chapman, twenty years from now, wearing all black in this exact studio, badgering students who haven’t yet mastered the flick of a foot or the rounding of an arm. They’ll be terrified of her, and she’ll love every minute of it.
We warm up for a few minutes, from our necks down to our toes, and finish off with a round ofpliés.I peel back my layers—my cozy cardigan, my leg warmers, and my puffy slippers—until I’m only wearing my white leotard, skirt, and tights.
“Let’s start with thefouettés,” I say, quickly putting on my pointe shoes.
Audrey’s face lights up. Even though she’d never swap roles with me, I bet she’d welcome the challenge of the Black Swan solo, those thirty-twofouettés.But it’s mine to tackle alone.
I get into position, and without music or further ado, I begin spinning over and over again.
“That leg!” Audrey snaps, a little too loud. “It should be whipping through butter, not concrete!”
“I’m whipping!” I yelp. “Whip, whip, whip!” I say with every turn.
I stop and attempt to laugh while catching my breath. That, too, is quite technically challenging.
Audrey rolls her eyes. “Come on, Mia, focus!”
“I’m here to bring the fun, remember?”
Audrey pretends she didn’t hear me. “What did I tell you?” she asks, seriously.
I sigh. “That I can’t think, even for one second, that I might not be able to do them.”
