Eminent Silence

by Tristan Carey

  I paused, frowning, feeling a little sad. And guilty. I didn't even know when he left. 'Oh, he's gone. I meant to say thank you.'

  'Who? Oh, you mean Bruce?' Tony scratched his beard, pulling a face. 'Yeah, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else he's here. He's kinda got this whole wanted fugitive thing going on, having a tough time convincing the Mayor he's safe to have around. We're trying to keep it on the DL, if you catch my drift.'

  It took me a moment to comprehend what he said. 'Wait, what? Did you say fugitive?'

  'Uh, yeah,' Tony Stark snorted, like it was obvious. He had already turned his back to me, going back down the steps as he attended to a new task on his tablet. 'Bruce Banner, brilliant scientist, exposed to gamma radiation, became big giant scary green thing? Some people call him the Hulk but, eh, I think he could use something a little flashier, you know?'

  'Um,' I didn't know what to say to that. I was starting to accept that as the norm for being in the presence of Tony Stark. Maybe I was just star-struck (or Stark-struck…? Hahaha I'll show myself out) or maybe the panic attack had taken more out of me than I thought. Either way, I was left a little speechless.

  Because, the truth was, Bruce Banner — The Hulk, the same Hulk that destroyed Harlem and helped the Avengers against the Chitauri — just calmed me down from a panic attack.

  I was sure there was a joke about irony in there somewhere, but I was too dazed to think of one at the moment.

  Tony Stark stopped talking to me, having parked himself on the edge of the balcony, fully engrossed in whatever work he was doing now. Considering myself officially dismissed, I stepped back inside Stark Tower.

  I couldn't wait to tell Peter and Ned about this.

  You know, if I'd been anywhere near right in the head today, I would've been able to recognize the address the secretary had given me.

  70 Lincoln Center Plaza, New York, NY 10023

  For some reason, I thought it was a home address. It wasn't. It was the School of American Ballet. The entire plaza was dedicated to the arts. I knew this. I was a native New Yorker, I knew all the major locations by heart. I've been there before on field trips. But for some reason, the address didn't ring a bell until I finally saw the big square Metropolitan Opera House, with its rounded arches and walls of glass. The circular fountain in the center of the plaza, with the smaller theater and studio halls on either side of me.

  I don't know. Maybe it was because I wasn't expecting to be led to a ballet school — the best ballet school, I should say, because this was one of the fanciest places I've ever been to. Kids who went here learned to become dedicated ballerinas and dancers. It was their entire lives. Meanwhile regular high schoolers like me were stuck sitting in classrooms all day, trying not to pass out from boredom.

  It also could've been because I was still recovering from the panic attack, and maybe doing this now wasn't such a good idea. Maybe Bruce Banner (still trying to get over that) had a point. I shouldn't be working right now. I should be resting. Not giving myself more stress to worry about.

  But I told Tony Stark I was fine. He believed me, for better or worse, and I wanted the job. If this is what I had to do to keep it — and, more importantly, pass fall semester of Sophomore year — then so be it. I wasn't going to let one panic attack get in the way of my plans.

  Getting here took twenty minutes on the subway, which gave me enough time to recompose myself, put my blazer and coat back on, check my hair, and acquaint myself with my new StarkPhone. It was just like Peter's, only brand new and without the spiderweb of cracks all over its screen. It even had my name and basic info already programmed into it.

  I'd never owned a phone before. Not a flip phone, certainly not a smartphone. For a brief while, I was completely engrossed with using the touchscreen, tapping the apps, playing with the keyboard and camera. Just before my stop, I sent Peter a text message — guess who i met today — suppressing a smile as I let him stew on that for a while as I walked the rest of the way to the Plaza.

  According to the Antony Kasyanenko's contact info, most of his classes were held in the Rose building, along with the rest of the school, so that's where I headed first. I would later be redirected to the Koch Theater, when I ran into a teacher who said the mature students were already rehearsing on stage. So with a resolute sigh, I turned my heel and went back the way I came.

  My annoyance evaporated as soon as I stepped inside the great hall.

  It was massive. I vaguely remember coming here before for a school trip, but memory hardly served to capture the true majesty of the place. I gaped up as the vaulted ceiling, five stories high, bathed in dark red and gold light. A massive spherical chandelier with small circular lights hung in the center of the room, with a kaleidoscope of diamond tiles spinning away from it. The place was brightly lit, all lights turned on as the hustle and bustle of a main performance was put into construction.

  Sound echoed off the walls, a combination of a hundred voices, discordant clips of music, and the banging and sawing noises of props being built.

  On stage, crew were set-dressing and dancers were blocking their movements. I spotted the director almost immediately — he was the loudest in the hall, constantly shouting, holding three different conversations at once: with his clipboard-armed assistant, a girl who was holding a pair of worn-out slippers, and the invisible caller on his Bluetooth. He didn't even notice me walking in, and his voice was just another amongst a dozen, all talking over one another. The theater was abuzz, and I wondered how anyone could concentrate under the cacophony.

  I didn't know who or where Antony Kasyanenko could be. As fancy as Stark's system was, it failed to provide me with photo identification. I'd probably have to ask around, although I dreaded approaching the director — he'd probably know for sure, but I doubt he'd have the time to deal with me. Probably best I left him alone. Maybe I could ask someone else…

  Was he a student, a dancer? Or maybe he worked in production. All I knew was that he was sixteen, so at least he'd be easy to pick out from the adults. There were plenty of older dancers here that I could quickly cross off the list of potential Antonys, but there were at least two dozen if not more students milling about. Even worse, many were in costume, wearing matching outfits. God, this was going to be a nightmare.

  Smaller children, maybe 8 or 9 years old, were playing in the seats, apparently having nothing better to do as their director slowly lost his mind. A few ran past me, playing tag. I watched then, wincing when one tripped, but then popped right back up again with an ecstatic shriek.

  I passed a group of girls chattering in Russian. It took me a moment to actually tell it was a different language, because I was at first engrossed by the scandalous love life of a girl's mother. It made me pause, before moving on. How many students here were international? Did Tony Stark pair me with a Russian kid because his English wasn't so good? It seemed logical, but again, I wouldn't know until I met him. The uncertainty made me squirm a little. How difficult would it be to work with him?

  The air was warm, almost humid, with activity, and I pulled off my coat, folding it over my arm. As I drew nearer to the stage, one dancer in particular caught my eye. On the right hand side of the stage was a tall boy with golden-brown hair, slowly pirouetting on the spot with a simple grace.

  I didn't realize I was staring until he turned his head in my direction and smiled. 'Hello.'

  I started a little when I realized this was directed at me. Rocking back on my heels, I smiled awkwardly back and hoped he didn't think I was being creepy. 'Uh, h-hi.'

  Oh, good, with the stutter, now I sounded shy. I wasn't, at least I didn't think so. Good job, Mia.

  'Is something wrong?' He asked with a tilt of his head, pausing for a second. He had a slight accent, but its exact nature was muffled by chorus bouncing through the hall. It didn't help that his voice was a little soft, even though I stood only about ten feet away.

  'No, no,' I quickly shook m
y head, speaking louder so I could be heard over the noise, and maybe sound more confident in myself. I had to step closer to hear him, coming a stop at the edge of the stage, craning my head to look up at him. 'Just, um, just watching you. It's really...you're really good.'

  Mission: Sound Confident — failed.

  I wanted to kick myself for acting so stupid. Couldn't I put a single sentence together? God, I should've quit while I was ahead. Why didn't I tell Tony Stark I needed a short break before starting this? I couldn't function in normal society. I was a total wreck and I was only barely hiding it.

  Before I could mentally berate myself further, the boy laughed. 'Ah, thank you! They are just warm-ups, but it is good to know I am doing well.'

  He lifted his arms up in a stretch. Every part of him was elegant and sinewy, lean but not unmasculine. Standing on his toes, in matching black shoes and leotard, made his legs look extended, ethereal, even doll-like. The thin black shirt and leotard outlined every fine, powerful muscle in his shoulders, chest, back, legs…

  My eyes lingered a little too low, and I caught myself. Pulling my gaze away with a sharp jerk of my chin, I had to fight with the rising blush in my cheeks. God, control yourself, Mia, he's just another boy.

  'Do you dance?' He asked, still stretching, now to his arms and shoulders. I could hear it better now, the accent. Russian, too, like the girls. I guessed it made sense. As far as ballet schools went, America and Russia competed with the greatest.

  A chuckle rose up my chest before I could stop myself. Me? Dance? No way. 'Oh, ha, no, I don't dance. I'd be awful.'

  The boy had reached around to touch his hand between his shoulder blades, joints folding like rubber. I didn't know it was possible to be so limber, and absentmindedly started reaching behind my own back, to see if I could do it. (I could).

  'Have you tried?'

  I paused, shrugged. 'Uh, no. Not really.'

  He threw me a look, arching an eyebrow. 'Then how would you know if you're awful?' Then he smiled to show he wasn't being critical. 'I'm sure you'd be an excellent dancer.'

  'Oh, yeah?' I said, crossing my arms. While I was sure he wasn't being mean-spirited, I was still frustrated by his light-hearted challenging. Couldn't he just let me be? 'How do you know?'

  'Because you're an athlete,' He said, and at my look he quickly added, 'I can tell by the way you carry yourself. You have good balance, and you're steady on your feet. All you need is to know is how to use them.'

  I decided not to tell him how I used my body to render a human unconscious with a maximum of three blows. I was also a little disconcerted by how easy I had been to read, but hid it behind a scoff. 'Ha, okay, sure. I think I'm good, thanks.'

  The boy just shrugged, 'Well, suit yourself,' and returned to stretching his back, bending forward to reach the floor.

  I frowned, brow drawing together. While he didn't push the notion, it still felt like he won the argument — I had no savoir faire and I was pretty sure I just made a faux pas, being too defensive. And I sort of liked talking to this guy, despite my own wishes. And wandering eye. Dammit.

  But I just shook my head, looked away. What the hell was I doing? Wasting my time with this guy when I should be here looking for that Kasyanenko kid. I could always go to the director, who was right there, although I still had the distinct feeling I'd get kicked out just for approaching to him…

  'Are you here for something?' The boy's voice cut through my thoughts, effectively ending any chance I had at coming up with a comeback. I looked back at him; the boy was sitting on the floor now, bending one knee and reaching for the other foot. He craned his head around to look at me from over his shoulder.

  'I'm looking for someone. His name is Antony Kasyanenko. Do you know him?'

  'Yes.' The boy frowned, pulled up. 'Wait, you're Amelia, aren't you? Amelia Fletcher?'

  I did a double-take, my arms dropping. 'What? How did you know my name?'

  'God, how rude of me — I should've realized, said something sooner.' the boy muttered under his breath, shaking his head and standing up with a look of dawning comprehension on his face. I took a hesitant step back as he jumped off the stage and strode right up to me, holding out his hand with a smile. 'Because I'm Antony.'

  He looked even younger up close, now. A thin face, prominent cheekbones, freckles like mine. Only his mouth was too wide, his chin a little too small. He was...pretty, in a way. Not quite handsome, but certainly attractive; Maybe he took after his mother.

  'Oh. Oh.' My jaw dropped, and after a moment, I took his hand, feeling like a complete idiot. I was utterly flustered, both by my own actions and those bright hazel-green eyes, looking right into mine.

  Finally, his accent clicked in my head. Oh, so that's why they wanted someone who could speak Russian in the program. But after holding a conversation in perfect English with Antony, I wasn't sure why. He seemed just fine on his own.

  Once I recollected my thoughts, I said, 'Well, I m-must have given you a great first impression, then. Um, s-sorry a-about acting like that.'

  I felt like I blew already it, that nothing I said could fix this. Even worse, my stutter had made an encore, as it always did when I was nervous. Not even super soldier serum could save me from that.

  Of course it had to be him, Antony had to be the one guy I really noticed, the one that made me stare and blush, and then act like a bitch to. I had expected someone with a thicker accent, a shy personality — someone who needed a Russian speaker, to communicate better, open up with. Maybe it was a little stereotypical — but that was the impression I had gotten from Tony Stark.

  'No, no, I apologize,' Antony said with light chuckle, waving his hands in front of him. 'I should not have pressed you like that. I tend to ask too many questions. I should know by now that not many people appreciate that.'

  'What? No, asking too many questions is a good thing,' I replied almost immediately, now feeling guilty for an entirely different reason. The last thing I needed was a guy too afraid to ask me questions, especially if I was going to be teaching him. His success meant my success, after all.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets, added with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. 'Trust me, I do it all the time.'

  Antony looked surprised. 'You do? And you don't get in trouble for it?'

  'Ah,' I hesitated, then added with a duck of my head. '...Well, no. I still get in trouble. But that's only because most people are hiding things they shouldn't be having in the first place.'

  'Well, that's an interesting method,' Antony said after a moment of consideration, looking mildly impressed. Then he leaned in with a teasing smile, and whispered conspiratorially, 'In that case, I hope neither of us has any secrets they should have from each other.'

  Oh, boy. If he had winked, I probably would've died on the spot. The way Antony said it meant there were no barbs behind the words — he didn't really mean it, and yet I couldn't help but catch the irony; of all the people who had secrets to hide from someone who asked too many questions, it had to be me.

  It occurred to me I've never been in this position before. For a split second, I almost sympathized with those people, who hide from justice to get away with their own illicit activities.

  But only for a second. I, for one, hadn't actually broken any laws.

  (Not lately, anyways).

  'I just got the email an hour ago,' he told me, heading towards one of the front row seats, which had been taken hostage by hundreds of purses, backpacks, and duffle bags. He pulled a phone out of a green one before heading back to me. 'Telling I had been assigned a tutor? Amelia Fletcher, yes, that is you. I did not think I'd be meeting you so soon. Stark does not waste time, I suppose.'

  'No, he does not,' I said, having just met the man and nearly left in the dust by a single conversation. 'I didn't think it'd be so soon, either. But I guess better now than later. So, you need help with math and science, right?'

  'Ha-ha,' his laugh was ironic,
tired as he ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up oddly. 'Oh, yes. You may ask yourself, why does a dancer need to know math and science? But I need my general credits or whatever they are called, to stay here, yes? So I have to pass this season, and I can stay.' He made a face. 'I am certain that sounds pathetic to you.'

  'What? No, it's fine,' I let out a huff of amusement, unable to hide a smirk. 'Actually, I'm kind of in the same situation as you.'

  'Really?' Antony looked surprised. He frowned, then a shout from the director made him flinch, and he threw me an apologetic smile. 'Sorry, I have to go. Rehearsal is for another hour and a half. But I meet you afterwards, yes? There is a library nearby, we can meet there and discuss things further. Does that — does that sound okay?'