Second Position

by Melody Grace

  “Maybe...” Raphael shakes his head, as if dismissing the subject. “I’m sorry, I’ve been boring you.”

  “It’s not boring,” I insist. “This is important. It’s your career, and… I want to know you.”

  We’ve spent the whole afternoon talking about nothing but dance, but somehow, this one conversation has taught me more about him than any amount of small talk ever could. I know his secret passions, his dreams. I know the conflict holding him back.

  Not many dancers would even think twice about leaving their friends behind to grab hold of a new opportunity. The fact that it’s keeping him up at night tells me everything I need to know.

  Raphael looks at me with a curious intensity. “You understand everything, don’t you?” he murmurs, reaching to cup my cheek. Something passes between us, shimmering and bright here in the wide-open park.

  My heart skips.

  “Thank you, for listening.” He presses a kiss on my lips. It’s a whisper of a kiss, delicate and chaste. But even as his mouth moves over mine, I already feel the rush of desire returning to me, my body aching to be pressed into the grass again, covered with his delicious weight. I reach for him, wanting to pull him down hard against me, but Raphael breaks away and gives me a sheepish look. “We should get back. I don’t want to get you in trouble again.”

  I fight my disappointment. He’s being a gentleman, I remind myself. I’m the one ready to roll around in the dirt just for a taste of his body on mine.

  “Sure,” I say, and let him help me to my feet. But I know now, this fever isn’t fading. Every moment with him it shines brighter, calls sharper.

  I want more.

  Raphael takes me the long way back to the dorms. I ride, clinging on behind him on the tiny Vespa. Now that I’m used to it, I don’t panic at the speed and motion; instead, it’s a thrill like nothing I’ve ever known. Hanging onto him, pressed up against the heat of his back, cradling his taut body between my thighs, I feel every nerve-ending slowly uncoil and scream to life, with a new awareness of what my body is made to do. It’s all I can manage to keep up casual conversation with him, chatting about the old buildings and architectural wonders of the city as we fly down the winding roads, by-passing the tourists and their sight-seeing buses all stuck in traffic as we weave like daredevils through the fray. And all the while, the only thing consuming my mind is him.

  Him.

  The feel of his body, the skittering of my pulse. How dangerous and reckless I am, to even be with him today – instead of resting up, going over my audition piece in my mind, mentally preparing for everything that lies ahead of me this week.

  But I don’t care.

  The realization is just as shocking to me as these new feelings being awakened, but as we speed through the traffic, it becomes clear to me: I don’t care how reckless it is to see him, because it feels right. As right as breathing, as knowing my own name.

  As right as dancing.

  What does that mean? I push back the question, trying not to let myself ruin this moment with questions and insecurities. I don’t know what it means. All I know is that I wouldn’t trade this afternoon with him for a hundred perfect grand jetés.

  For the first time in my life, I have something I want just as much as ballet.

  Maybe even more.

  6.

  Raphael

  I leave Annalise at her dorms and rise back across the city to work my shift at the restaurant. It’s been home to me ever since I moved to Rome. Luca grew up in the ivy-covered building, learning recipes from his nona in the cluttered kitchen, and chasing his sister through the busy rooms. He would be happy to take his father’s place one day, welcoming guests every night and providing the best spaghetti puttanesca in the city. But for me, this could never be enough.

  Dancing is not a choice to me. It’s everything, every part of who I am. The very blood pumping in my veins.

  Annalise understands.

  Again, I think of her beautiful face, and it takes my breath away. I never thought I could find someone who felt the same as I do about my dance. Even with my group here, the other performers, I’ve never connected to anyone the way I have to her. Just one dance, in that chaotic courtyard party, and I felt like we’d been partnered for years. Intuitive. Instinctive.

  Perfection.

  I arrive at the restaurant and park the Vespa out front. Francesca is waitressing today, ignoring tables of dirty plates while she flirts with a handsome, middle-aged man. He offers her a cigarette and she smokes it like an actress in a black-and-white movie, blowing a long plume of smoke from her red glossed lips.

  Everything about her is practiced, posed. A show designed to seduce and enthrall. There was a time, I believed it, too. When I first met her, I thought she was the most beautiful, sophisticated woman I’d ever seen. I cringe to think of it now, how I followed her around like a dog in heat. I wasn’t her usual type – not rich enough, not powerful or connected – but she toyed with me all the same. But the moment she agreed to be my partner, it all came crashing down.

  There’s no hiding who you are, not on the dance floor. Dance can strip away every charm and every lie. It shows who someone really is, deep down in their soul. Francesca may be polished, technically stunning, but she dances for the audience, not herself. She moves her body to be seen and admired, but not because it means anything to her.

  She’s nothing but show.

  Francesca notices me watching, and flutters a wave. I turn away, and head inside.

  “Jealous?” She follows, catching up with me inside the restaurant. The lunch rush is over, just a tourist family lingering in the corner.

  “Of who?” I reply in Italian. “You know he’s married.”

  Francesca shrugs, “They all are.”

  I roll my eyes. She steps closer, resting a hand on my arm with a suggestive smile. “Don’t worry, Raphael,” she murmurs, “You’ll always be my partner.”

  I wrench away. I’ve never minded her flirtations much before, and we have an uneasy peace between us, for the sake of our dance partnership, but coming so soon after Annalise’s open smile and genuine spirit, just the touch of her hand feels wrong.

  “Where’s your brother?” I change the subject abruptly.

  She shrugs. “Why should I care?”

  “I forgot, you only notice men who drive Mazeratis.”

  Francesca smirks. “Actually, it was a Lamborghini.”

  I ignore her, and go unpack deliveries in the back. It’s hard, physical work, but I need the distraction.

  Every part of my body is calling for Annalise, raging to touch her again.

  This afternoon was sweet torture. I don’t know how I managed to keep myself in check, out there in the park and then feeling her wrapped tight around me on the Vespa. One day, I’ll peel her jeans off, and teach her what it really means to ride: face to face, buried deep inside her, watching her moan and break under my touch.

  Lunch was even worse. I loved listening to her, seeing her open up, but I couldn’t look at her mouth without picturing those sweet lips wrapped around my cock; couldn’t watch her absently brush her hair back from her cheek without imagining it tangled in my grip, tugging her body taut as I feast on those perfect nipples again.

  A dancer is a model of control. We train our bodies, learning how to master every breath. But just an hour with her, and I’m reduced to sheer lust. A primal, animal desire that shakes me to my core.

  My phone sounds, breaking through my fevered visions. I find a message from the Company, directing me to information about their next set of auditions.

  It’s soon, a couple of weeks away.

  I take a breath, my restless ambitions suddenly crystallizing into a single date and time. I’ve been considering my next move for months, and now, there’s no escaping it. This is the only time they’ll be in Italy all year.

  My one shot to take my dance career to the next level.

  I feel a new kinship with Annalise. She’s used to audi
tioning, the constant competition, but it’s still new to me. Dancing with my friends for tourists on street corners and piazza squares is nothing compared with the fiercely competitive world of professional dance.

  I know, deep down, I’m good enough to compete with the very best. But still, something holds me back. Guilt. Luca is a brother to me now. He was the one who introduced me to the group here, welcomed me into his family when my own cast me out.

  “Is that your new girlfriend?” Luca’s voice comes behind me.

  I spin around, still gripping my phone. He’s back from the market with boxes of produce, dressed in his usual soccer shirt and jeans.

  “The American girl,” he adds, dropping the box on the table. He gives me a knowing smirk. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were smitten.”

  “We’ll see,” I say. “I only just met her.”

  “Sure.” Luca grins. “She’s a good dancer,” he adds. “She matches you well.”

  “You saw?” I frown. I hadn’t realized anyone was watching us at the party. It felt like we were the only people in the world.

  Luca chuckles. “We all saw. You looked like you were about to fuck her right there in the middle of the crowd.”

  “Hey,” I bark a warning without even thinking.

  He looks up, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “So it is true,” he smirks. “The great Raphael Gibraldi, fallen at last.”

  I laugh and shrug off his comment. After all, he’s wrong. I haven’t fallen, I’m flying. Soaring on a rush like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

  The feeling makes me bold.

  “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” I start, taking out my phone again. I show him the audition details.

  Luca looks up at me, his face darkening. “You want to leave?”

  “Not like that,” I try to explain. “But my dance… I can’t grow here, I can’t learn. I want to be the best I can be, and a group like this, they would help me.”

  He looks at me, and I can see it in his eyes, the betrayal he feels. “What about the restaurant? We always said we would run it together.”

  “This place is your dream, not mine,” I start, but he backs away, shaking his head. “Luca—” But he’s already stormed out, slamming the door behind him as he goes.

  I sink back against the counter. Guilt hits me, hard. He thinks I’m betraying him, and in a way, I am.

  I want more than this life. I want greatness. But what does that say about me?

  Another text sounds. I check my phone.

  Annalise.

  ‘Thank you for lunch,’ the message reads. In an instant, I can see her. The innocent blush to her cheeks, the dazed look in her eyes when I kiss her.

  ‘Good luck with your audition tomorrow,’ I write back. ‘You’ll be perfect.’

  I tuck my phone away and get to work, restocking the bar and preparing for the evening crowd. As I work, I think about Annalise, and everything she’s sacrificed for her ballet. There are moments when we’re talking that she looks so lonely, and I realize, it’s because she has to be. Her friends are her competitors, all of them vying for the same leading roles.

  A dancer must be made of steel to survive. We can try to form bonds, and live a happy life, but the only person we can ever depend on is our partner. I’ve been denying it for too long. Pretending like this is just a game. But if I’m going to succeed, I must be like her. Strong. Single-minded.

  I have to choose.

  Luca finds me during a lull in the dinner rush. “I know you’re better than this,” he says gruffly.

  I turn to find him there, with the same bashful look on his face that he wore when he sent a soccer ball flying into the most expensive bottle of wine in the house. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I argue.

  He shakes his head. “If you want to dance, for real, you should do it. I mean it. But you’ll always be welcome here.”

  I clasp him in a hug and slap his back. He doesn’t realize how much his words mean to me, that they are the blessing I need to take the next step on this difficult path.

  “I’ll partner for your audition, of course.” Francesca appears at his side.

  I narrow my eyes, waiting for the catch, but she just smiles. “You can’t find anyone better than me.”

  “See?” Luca slings his arms around both our shoulders. “You’re family, my friend. Just don’t forget us when you’re rich and famous.”

  “Especially when you’re rich,” Francesca smirks, reaching over to adjust my collar.

  But even as her hands smooth suggestively over my chest, I’m thinking of another woman.

  The only girl in the world.

  I’ve only known Annalise for a few days, but already, she’s inspired me to reach beyond my small, safe world. She fills my imagination, consumes my mind.

  Torments my body.

  I’ll repay her for it all, I swear. Those lessons I promised her will come soon.

  And so will she, over and over again.

  7.

  Annalise

  Monday brings rain, beating on the windows of the dance studio where we’re all gathered, nervously awaiting our turn to audition.

  “Miss Taylor...” Gilbert looks up from his notes, a surprised expression on his face. “You’ve changed your selection?”

  “Yes.” I try to breathe evenly. My nerves are twisted up in a tight ball of fear, but I force myself to give him a confident smile. “I’m dancing the Act Two solo from Swan Lake.”

  Gilbert quirks his eyebrow and gestures to the floor. “Go right ahead.”

  I walk out into the middle of the rehearsal studio, and take my opening position: kneeling on the ground, my body swooped low and parallel to the floor. I can hear whispers from the other dancers, sitting on the edge of the room to watch, but I try to block them out. Block everything out, except the first lilting notes from the piano, and my own voice¸ strong and determined like a mantra in my mind.

  You’ve got this, Annalise. Forget everything, and just dance.

  I hear the somber sequence that marks my cue. Unfolding, I rise onto the point of my toes, stretching my leg behind me in a perfect arabesque. The music falls around me, swirls through me, and I force myself out of this world – far from the echoing studio, and into another reality.

  A frozen lake, a winter’s night, and me: the reluctant queen, falling in love for the first time.

  Swan Lake is one of the most famous ballets in the world, a masterpiece. It’s a magical, tragic story: Odette, transformed by an evil sorcerer into a swan, can only regain her human form at night. The one way to break the curse is a vow of eternal love from a man who will remain faithful to her. But the prince, Siegfried, is tricked by another woman into betraying Odette, and heartbroken, she throws herself into the lake and drowns.

  The solo I’ve chosen comes at the start of the ballet, when Odette and Siegfried meet and fall in love. It’s a demanding piece, one of the most challenging I’ve ever performed, and even in my peak condition I struggled with the steps: technically intricate, and needing complete commitment from the dancer. Now, I can only pray my ankle holds up to the test.

  It will hold, it has to hold; after another day of rest and ice, the swelling has gone down completely, but the damage is deeper than that. I should be resting it another week, I know, but that isn’t an option, not with Gilbert casting the solos at the end of today.

  I launch into a series of delicate leaps, and feel my ankle ache with each landing. I clench my jaw, and dance on, ignoring the pain. I know that in the audience, every dancer is secretly wishing for me to fail. We can’t help it. I sat there all morning, watching the other dancers take their turn: trying to judge if their leaps were higher, their turns tighter, their lines more perfect than mine. Petra and Kathryn were flawless, of course. They have two of the lead solos locked up. That leaves just three between the rest of us, and every dancer would kill to make one theirs.

  No! I stop my mind short. You’re doing
it again, thinking, when you need to be dancing. The steps are only half the battle; what sets a dancer truly apart from the rest is the emotion behind their movements, the intangible feeling they pour into every leap and spin, to transport the audience out of their lives, and into the meaning behind the story.

  I clear my mind, trying to fall back into the dance. To feel what Odette feels, dancing with her prince, tasting the promise of love and freedom for the first time. Falling for Siegfried.

  Falling for Raphael...

  I see his face in my mind, those dark eyes, the handsome line of his jaw, and then I feel it: the hope, the possibility, the pure energy that crackles through my veins every time we’re together. It’s a rush of excitement that lifts the crisp, precise steps, and makes them something joyful and wild as I float across the floor, caught up in the whirl of music and movement, giddy with the sense of him.

  It’s almost a shock when the music fades away, and I’m left in the middle of the rehearsal room, panting for breath, my ankle feeling like it’s been slammed with white-hot pain.

  There’s a pause, and then I hear the sound of applause.

  Applause!

  I look around, shocked. The other dancers are clapping for me, and Karla lets out a fierce wolf-whistle. I blush, quickly leaving the floor and heading to the corner, trying my hardest not to limp.

  “That was freaking amazing!” Karla tells me, not even trying to keep her voice down. “I’ve never seen you dance like that!”

  “Thanks.” I slide to the floor, my ankle throbbing like crazy. I wrap my hand around it tight, trying to hold back the tears. “I hope it’s enough.”

  “Please,” Karla snorts. “Gilbert would have to be crazy not to cast you after that. Even Petra looks scared.”

  I glance over at the rest of the company and find an array of nervous, green expressions. Lucia is glaring at me with undisguised loathing, but I can see the flicker of fear in her eyes.

  Good.

  If she’s scared, it means I’m in with a fighting chance.