“Someone who teaches by the book. Someone who cares about form over substance.” He tilts his head. “You do care about form, obviously. Obsessively. But there’s something else there. Something you’re not showing your students.”
“That’s quite an analysis from someone who still can’t count to three.”
He laughs and heads for the door. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I make no promises.”
The door swings shut behind him, and the studio falls silent. I stand in the middle of the floor for a moment, collecting myself and cataloging everything that needs to happen before tomorrow. Clean the mirrors. Check the registration for Saturday’s children’s class. Email the Showcase committee about performance requirements.
I turn toward the mirrors to start wiping them down. And freeze.
There’s something in the reflection, hovering at about knee height near the basket of practice shoes. Two spots of luminous yellow that look almost like?—
Eyes.
I spin around to check the basket, my heart hammering. Nothing. I spin back to the mirror but there’s nothing there now. I scan the studio, searching for any explanation, any source of reflected light that could account for what I saw. The windows. The overhead fluorescents. Nothing.
I’m tired. I’m stressed. I imagined it.
I take a breath, then another, and force my shoulders down from where they’ve crept up around my ears. This is ridiculous. I’m seeing things because I spent two hours trying to teach an infuriating man how to put one foot in front of the other.
I head for the practice shoe basket to tidy up—and stop.
I count. I count again.
There should be twelve pairs of practice shoes. It’s a number I know intimately, because I’m the one who orders replacements when they wear out and budgets for new ones each quarter. Twelve pairs, various sizes, a rainbow of worn leather and scuffed canvas.
Now there are eleven pairs and a single left shoe, size ten. The other shoe is missing. I search the studio. I check under the piano, behind the barre, in the corners where dust collects despite my best efforts. I even check the bathroom, though why a practice shoe would end up there defies explanation. Nothing.
Where the hell?—
My phone buzzes. A text from my part-time assistant Bianca. I’d discussed the showcase with her since it would require more time and effort from her, and she’d immediately jumped on the idea with her usual optimism.
Bianca: Have you registered yet? The deadline is tomorrow.
I stare at the message, then at the basket of mismatched shoes, then at the mirror where I’m almost certain I saw something that shouldn’t exist.
The showcase. The studio. The bills piling up on my desk. The strange man who paid me five thousand dollars to teach him skills he seems determined not to learn. And now, apparently, a missing shoe and possible hallucinations.
Just another Thursday.
I grab my phone and text back.
Me: Yes. We’re doing this.
Bianca: Yay! It’s going to be great!
I can’t help smiling at her enthusiasm as I put my phone away. Then I head to the stereo to pull up the salsa playlist and try very hard not to think about glowing yellow eyes in the mirror, or the way Malachi’s skin felt too warm against mine.
I don’t succeed.
CHAPTER FOUR
“He’s hot.”
Bianca’s assessment comes from somewhere behind the front desk, where she’s supposed to be organizing registration forms for the showcase. I don’t look up from the competition requirements I’m annotating. If I ignore her, maybe she’ll focus on her actual job.
