Page 16 of With You

“Charlotte,” she huffs, shaking her head.

“Charlotte?” I question, making sure I heard her right. That girl dances as if she has two left feet. It’s impossible that she performed better than Amelie, impossible that anyone did.

“Her family is related to Madame’s. She all but admitted to me that was the reason,” Amelie confesses, looking up at me, and of course it’s that. “I need to perform this year. Scouts will be at the show, and this is my one chance to show them I have what it takes.”

“Of course you do,” I reassure her, but a slow anger is starting to build within me. I push it down for now, but this is something that we need to talk about more later.

Amelie drops her gaze again, and I take a step closer without thinking, my hand reaching out to tip her chin up so she looks at me again. She does it before I touch her, and I pull my hand back before she can realise what I was about to do. Seeing this other side of Amelie is making me act strange, that’s all. There’s no number of platitudes I can give her that will fix this. If she wants comfort, I’m the wrong person to turn to.

“Will you dance with me?”

I must be hearing things.

“What?”

I glance down at what she’s wearing, not her dancing attire, but a plain white T-shirt and dark jeans. It’s the simplest outfit, but she makes it look like she just stepped off a runway. It’s a purely objective thought, of course. My parents attended a lot of fashion shows, as both models and spectators, and I went along with them. I’ve known from a young age what it takes to be on a runway, and unfortunately, Amelie ticks all the boxes.

“Dance with you?” I ask her, because surely that’s not the case, given what she’s wearing.

“Yes. I need you to dance with me.”

“You’re not exactly dressed for it,” I say, trying to make some sense of this situation.

“Auditions are in a few days for pair pieces. That’s my only shot,” she says, pausing for a moment as she wrestles with what to say next. “You’re the only dancer that’s good enough.”

She bites out the words, as if it physically hurts her to say them out loud.

“How kind of you to think I’m good enough.” My words drip with sarcasm. Even when she’s asking for help, she still can’t be all the way nice to me.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rolls her eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” I can’t hide the smirk on my face as I wait for her to actually compliment me.

“You’re the best male dancer in our school, probably in the whole of Paris,” she says, and it knocks me out of my senses for a split second. “And you’re the only person I trust to do this with. I don’t like you, River, and you don’t like me, but we’ve never lacked respect for each other.”

She’s right. I’ve admitted to myself plenty of times that Amelie is the best dancer I’ve ever seen. She’s on the level of principal ballerinas that I see performing on professional stages. And I know that, as much as she pretends to hate me, part of her must think the same of me, too. She just confirmed that. But I don’t know if we can dance together. One of the main reasons I enjoyed ballet so much was because I was only responsible for myself. If I dance with Amelie, then I’ll have to take her into consideration, too.

“How would this even work? You expect us to learn how to dance with each other in, what, two days?”

It’s not completely impossible. If anyone’s capable of it, it’s us. But I’m still trying to process what exactly she’s asking of me.

“I wouldn’t ask you if I thought we couldn’t do it.”

“That almost sounded like another compliment,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. This conversation is more serious than I want it to be. Amelie’s future rests on it.

She steps closer, glaring up at me as her finger prods into my chest.

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll shove my next compliment right⁠—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” I step back from her, holding both of my hands up in surrender.

She crosses her arms across her chest, a crease between her brows and her jaw clenched. Her fingertips dig into her biceps, and for the first time, I don’t like how I’ve been talking to her.

I give some serious thought to what she’s suggesting. Dancing with Amelie in front of an audience. Dancing with Amelie alone during practice. Dancing with Amelie.

“I’ll do it,” I tell her before I can think better of it. “I’ll dance with you.”

“You will?” she asks, her hands dropping to her side, and her whole body relaxing.