He pulls a folded sheet of notes from between the pages of a book and offers it. “Want to help?”
“With what?”
He hands me an old book with a cracked spine and margins filled with handwriting notes.
“Sorry, Ivan, I have to practice. Auditions, remember?” I stand, realizing how late it’s gotten.
“That’s okay,” he says, but his voice dips in disappointment.
“We can… talk about it another time,” I say, softening. “You can tell me your theories, looks like you have a bunch of them.”
He folds the notes slowly. “Sure.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder.
“Can I watch you?”
I stop moving. “What?”
“Practice,” he clarifies quickly. “Dance.”
“Oh.”
“I won’t distract you.” He stacks the books into a neat tower. “I’ll bring my research.”
There’s a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth—not too shy this time.
“I… guess,” I say.
His smile grows and for some reason, it makes the hair on my arms stand up.
* * *
I can’t believe it’s almost audition day.Am I ready? Of course you’re ready.I tell myself that twice—once like a coach, once like an order—but the doubt still flutters under my ribs.
I daydream through the hallway anyway, letting the fantasy pull me along: me on stage, lights burning gold across my skin, music swelling, the panel whispering yes before I’m even done. A future where all of this—Tar City, the train rides, the fear—isn’t my whole world anymore. I cling to that for one more breath, then I open the door to the dance room. It's dark, empty, and silent, and relief washes over me—finally, a moment alone.
I can still feel how awkward it was a few days ago with Ivan sitting in the corner watching. I pretended it was fine, but it wasn’t. It was just… weird. I ended up saying I needed to rest before I got injured and cut practice short.
Lou—my closest friend, mostly because we spend half our time fighting over who gets what part in routines and the rest arguing over studio time—would’ve made a joke out of it in fiveseconds. He usually does. I even told him I needed to practice alone today. I’m purely not in the mood for people.
I flip the light switch.
“Sisk.”
I jump so violently I trip over a chair. Jax is sitting on the floor by the mirrors, one knee bent, like he’s been there for a while. “What are you doing here?” I gasp.
“Waiting for you.”
“In the dark?”
He shrugs. “Wanted to surprise you.”
I glare. “You mean give me a heart attack.”
He gets up and walks toward me, close enough that I instinctively step back, my shoulder hitting the mirror.
“What are you?—”
