“I don’t have one,” I remind her tonelessly, although the muscle in my chest twitches in protest, insisting that it does, in fact, exist.
“Of course not. You’re the only person in the world who doesn’t have one. Self-deception is dangerous, Jase.” She gets up and musses my hair.
I make a face involuntarily and refrain from answering, because I don’t know what to say.
“Will I see you at lunch? I want to talk to Francesca for a minute.” Skye raises her eyebrows questioningly as she walks backward toward our teacher. Francesca ended the lesson just a few minutes ago. Most of the class is still there getting their things together, though I notice the girl with the auburn hair who lives in the room next to Zoe has already left. Probably to find out if she’s okay.
“Sure.”
“Okay, see you soon. But then you have to tell me everything.” She grins with satisfaction and turns on her heel.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I grumble indignantly, but either she didn’t hear me or she’s ignoring me. More likely the latter.
I get up, pack my things, and leave the studio in a rush because I want to stop at my room and change before lunch. But I don’t get far. I’m almost to the stairs when I see a movement out of the corner of my eye.
A girl is alone in one of the ballet studios, practicing pirouettes in front of the mirror. Every movement is controlled perfection. She’s brilliant, and she knows it with every fiber of her tense, controlled body.
Little Miss Perfect.
Ophelia Winslow.
My sister.
My stomach tightens. I didn’t see her yesterday on the roof terrace, probably because I was busy dodging all the other people up there who I usually avoid like the plague. I should keep walking: The last few hours have been absolute shit, and watching Lia dance so well makes everything much worse. But suddenly, I can’t move. I’m not only good at self-deception; I also have a knack for torturing myself.
As if sensing my gaze, Lia stops mid-turn and looks at me. Her face is expressionless, her green eyes as familiar as my own. We looked alike as children, with our blond hair, green eyes, and full lips. My sister’s face is more finely formed than mine, but the resemblance is still uncanny.
Lia raises her eyebrows, a silent question.Is something wrong?
I imitate her expression because I know she hates it when I do that. Needless to say, we don’t have a particularly affectionate relationship.
She rolls her eyes and turns away. I do the same. It wasn’t always this way between us. It was never simple, sure, but it wasn’t like this. Cold. Angry. Full of jealousy and hatred.
I started dancing because of her. A little boy who fell in love with ballet because he saw his big sister dancing. It wasn’t even her grace that impressed me but her control over her body, over every tiny movement, coupled with the burning passion that it requires to captivate an audience.
That’s exactly what I wanted. That power. The absolute mastery, the passion.A dream.
There was a time when I hoped that dancing would bring us closer together.
That time is long past.
My heart twitches a warning, and I push any thoughts of Lia to the back of my mind, because every time I look at her, or even think about her, I can’t help but think of Sam.
And when I think of Sam, the indifference with which I suppress every other feeling cracks open, and that’s the last thing I need right now. Or ever.
I’ve just reached my room when someone calls my name.
“Jase!” At the sound of the stern voice, I turn and see Camille, Mr.Pearson’s assistant, walking toward me. As usual, her face is tense and pinched. She always looks like she’s disapproving of something.
“Mr.Pearson would like to talk to you.” She looks even more serious than usual, and my stomach sinks.
“Do you know what about?” I ask nervously.
She shakes her head. “Only that it’s urgent. Come with me.”
I hesitate, but I don’t really have another choice, so I follow her. In silence, Camille leads me to the administration building and up to Pearson’s office. With every minute that passes, my palms sweat and my stomach drops.
What the hell does Pearson want from me?
