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“Yes. And it would be really unfortunate if it came out that one of my teachers had fallen in love with one of the students.”

“Then you’ll have to fire me,” I say tonelessly, trying to ignore the painful knot in my stomach. The thought of having to leave doesn’t scare me. It’s actually okay, as I already assured Lia. But it would still hurt.

“If Lia weren’t an adult, I would have to. But she’s twenty-one and in her final year, and you haven’t been solely responsible for her over the last few months, especially not for her grades. You had no chance to favor her in any way, and it was my decision, not yours, to have you rehearse with her alone. Besides, you came to me to tell me the truth. It doesn’t seem fair to me to fire you for your honesty, Phoenix.”

I hold my breath involuntarily. I feel hope growing inside. But no, he just said himself that it wouldn’t be good if the truth came out during the filming of the documentary.

“But?” I ask anyway, because it all still sounds too much like a but to me. Maybe I’m just imagining it.

“But, as I said, I would really hate to do that. Because if the truth comes out—and it will eventually, because it always does—we will no longer have control over the situation. I think we all know how it works. Producers are always looking for drama, and with us, they’ll apparently be able to find more of it than I expected. However, I can’t break off the talks with them, because the board also has a say in the matter, and I don’t want to throw away this opportunity because of you.”

“So . . .” Lia begins, giving me an uncertain look before turning back to Pearson.

“So we have to make sure we stay in control somehow,” Pearson continues. “And that will probably work best if you’re both here and can tell the truth instead of the story they’ll make up about you otherwise.”

“So you’re not firing me?”

“No. But there will be conditions for you to stay.”

“Of course.” My voice fails me, and relief washes over me.

“You will be transferred to another grade immediately. You will no longer see Lia in class. You will behave yourselves on campus, and that means no visits to her room, no rehearsals together. You will limit your contact here to the bare minimum. There will be no special treatment for you, Lia.”

She immediately shakes her head. “Of course, I understand.”

“I’m not doing you any favors,” he clarifies, and my stomach sinks, the relief fading. “It may seem that way to you right now, but I’m not. Until you graduate, all eyes will be on you, Lia. I’ve already informed Francesca and the others, and you should be aware that sooner or later, the students will find out that you’re together as well. Something like this can’t be kept secret. Someone could always happen to see you together off campus, and I don’t want that to lead to problems of any kind. That’s why honesty is most important to me at this point.”

“All right,” I say, both because it really is all right and because we don’t have any other choice.

“For you too?” he asks Lia.

She looks at me, her gaze heavy but warm and bright. A faint smile flickers across her face, and my heart skips a beat. “Yes,” she says.

“Good.” Pearson nods, his expression still serious. Too serious for someone who just saved my ass. “Because there’s something else we need to talk about. The Christmas performance.”

Chapter 60

Ophelia

I fell in love with ballet because of its beauty and aesthetics. Because of the way it looks so easy, even though nothing about it is even remotely easy. You see what you are supposed to see, but everything behind it—the pressure, the effort, the pain, and the constant fear of failure—remains hidden from the audience in the end.

Ballet is magic and, in equal measure, often toxic because we are too focused on perfection and control, on our bodies, on being more beautiful, thinner, and better than everyone else. We strive for more, all the time.

I go into the next spin, find myself in the mirror just for a few seconds, then it continues.

Sometimes you can’t expect anymore. Sometimes there is no more. Sometimes there is only what you can give, and it’s not enough.

Another spin, my heart beating wildly, my muscles tensing to the point of bursting. Everything hurts, but everything is also right.

I can do this. I am as good as I always wanted to be. It’s strange, but I notice how different dancing feels when I don’t try to hide from myself. I can feel it. My steps are nearly weightless. It’s almost like flying when I push off the floor and stretch my legs into a grand jeté. I never liked the split jump, even though it’s beautiful. But there’s always that long moment when you completely lose contact with the ground, unlike with other leaps. I can’t explain it; it doesn’t make sense.

Today, however, I need that weightlessness. The freedom of it, because that’s how I feel. Free.

My body follows the music all by itself. I’m not thinking anymore, I’m just me. The dancer I always wanted to be.

With tension all the way to my fingertips, I turn my head, stretch my arms, every muscle working. My breathing is rapid, but if someone were to look at me now, they wouldn’t be able to tell.

There’s a smile on my face, and it’s a real one. Despite everything. Because of everything.