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“Of course you will.”

Susannah clicks her tongue and gives me a look of feigned reproach. “You could show a little more sympathy.”

“I’m too tired to sympathize. Maybe later,” I say, giving them an apologetic smile.

“Sure,” Katie says with a dramatic sigh, making clear she knows what I know: I probably won’t.

I watch the newcomers, who are easy to spot on their way to the theater not only because they’re clearly younger than us but also because many of them are walking alone. Just like every year, some are moving from the small dorm to the big one and have already found their friends, but most of them are entirely new to the New England School of Ballet.

I smile as I see a few of them slow down and come to a stop as soon as they enter the theater. They look around with wide eyes, fascinated. I can’t blame them; I felt the same way on my first day.

The theater is breathtaking, both inside and out, with white walls and stucco moldings that shimmer golden in the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Velvet upholstered chairs are placed around small gold tables, color-coordinated with the thick, burgundy carpet.

“We need to hurry a little,” Katie says. Then she takes our hands and guides us through the crowd to the wide double doors that lead into the theater. There are spiral staircases on either side of the doors leading to the upper tiers. During a ballet performance, every seat is usually occupied, but today, the tiers will be empty.

My heart leaps with excitement when I see the stage. Just three months, and I’ll be up there. Only three more months.

“Come on, Lia.” Katie pulls me firmly by the hand, her grip strong, her skin soft. I hadn’t even noticed that I’d stopped walking.

“Sorry,” I murmur and follow the two of them to the front. There are still seats available in the front row on the left. The auditorium is gradually filling up, yet it’s completely silent apart from some nervous whispering. The theater has that effect—it doesn’t feel right to talk here, as if loud chatter would disrupt the magic that fills the space.

“I don’t think he’s here yet.” Susannah leans forward and peeks past us toward the center of the hall, where the teaching staff is sitting in the front row. I can’t help but follow her gaze, suddenly curious. I spot Mr. Conrad, Ms. Chelsea, Francesca, and Mrs. Prince, along with the teachers of the younger students, but no new faces.

“Maybe he’s late,” Katie whispers, leaning forward now too, peering more closely at the row of faculty.

“Maybe he changed his mind and doesn’t want to teach here after all.” Susannah sinks deeper into her seat and brushes a long strand of hair behind her ear.

“I hope not. A little change would be nice.” Katie crosses her legs.

“Just because there’s a new teacher doesn’t mean we’ll have anything to do with him,” I say quietly. “I don’t think Pearson would start a newcomer on the senior class.”

“Probably not,” Susannah admits. “But who knows. Either way, it’s exciting—” She falls silent as our principal steps onto the stage, a warm smile on his handsome face. You can still see his years as a dancer, even though he hasn’t been on stage himself for the ten years he’s been running this school. Still, he moves with the same suppleness as everyone else who has dedicated their lives to ballet. His dark hair, now streaked with silver, is smoothed back, and he wears a white shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows and gray slacks.

“It’s hard to believe that summer vacation is already over. I hope you enjoyed it.” His gaze wanders around the room, and it feels like he’s speaking to each of us individually. “On behalf of the entire faculty, I’d like to welcome you all to a new school year at the New England School of Ballet. Most of you have heard the beginning of the speech I’m about to give at least one or two times before, but I’d still be delighted if you’d listen. It’s become a tradition for us to start the school year this way.”

His smile widens, and a few girls behind us giggle. I have to smile too, and a warm feeling fills me because I know what’s coming next. This part, at the beginning of his speech, is always similar but never exactly the same. He talks about how we came here because we wanted the best dance education. Because we wanted to be on stage. Because ballet is our life. I’m not the only one hanging on his every word as he speaks. Everyone is listening. Everyone feels what he’s saying. We know what he means and what he’s trying to tell us.

“I hope you all find your place in the world of ballet, and I’m very happy that we can accompany you on your journey. Enjoy your time at our beautiful school,” Pearson says, wrapping up his speech. “Before I send you off to our welcome dinner, however, I would like to introduce someone to you. Some of you may have already heard that we are expanding our teaching staff this year. Not so long ago, our newest teacher was a student himself. Now he’s back to help us bring out the best in you. Please give a warm welcome to Phoenix Sutherland.”

My heart skips a beat. No . . . no, it can’t be. It must be a coincidence, just someone with the same first name. Nothing more. Please. Nothing more.

Pearson steps aside and extends an arm toward the stage entrance. A tall, slender figure steps onto the stage. The first thing I notice is his dark jeans and black hoodie, both of which are completely inappropriate for the occasion. Not only because of today’s summer temperatures, but especially because they’re too casual for this event. Only then do I look at his face.

And the world stops.

Just for a second.

A second that I need in order to process what’s happening here.

Not only do I know his name, I know his face. The sharply defined cheekbones, the full lips, the straight nose. I know those dark eyes that saw right into my soul. My hand closes around the pendant hanging from the chain around my neck. A necklace that doesn’t belong to me.

“Thanks for having me here, Mr. Pearson,” he says with a brief nod. The sound of his voice makes my skin tingle.

I feel hot and cold at the same time, and my vision blurs. I can’t think, I can’t breathe. I can’t comprehend the fact that he’s actually here. I feel dizzy.

He should be anywhere but here. Not on this stage, not in my school theater. Not as a damn teacher. My ears are ringing, my pulse is racing. This can’t be real.

He still looks just as good as he did three months ago, maybe even better. His dark hair is a little shorter than it was then.