by Cate Holahan
Nia felt equal parts relief and guilt. She had helped keep an innocent kid from prison, but she’d also hurt a girl who had trusted her with a secret.
Marta pulled the sweatshirt tighter around her frame. The tugging only widened the neck hole, giving the chilly September wind access to her torso. She shivered.
It was too cold to be outside without a jacket. Nia saw an opening to undo some of the damage she’d caused—albeit for the right reasons. She could console Marta, give her a warm place to stay while her parents argued, prepare something to eat. The girl’s cheeks had become sunken. Shedding so many pounds so fast could not be healthy. Starvation would damage her muscles.
“Come in and talk for a minute. It’s better than sitting on the stairs.”
Marta nodded. She watched her feet as she walked beside Nia into the dorm.
The door opened before Nia could place her keycard on the pad. Aubrey stood in front of them, still dressed in ballet gear. Ms. V must have let her get in some extra practice.
“Marta? What’s wrong?” Aubrey’s concern had a theatrical quality.
Marta’s face pinched like a squeezed fruit. Fresh tears dripped down her cheeks.
Aubrey wrapped her arms around the girl. Her eyes accused Nia of something horrible. “Oh, honey. Come inside. We can talk in my room.”
“It’s really bad.” Marta gurgled the words.
“It’ll be okay.”
“No. It won’t. I had an abortion.” Marta dissolved into sobs. Her head fell onto Aubrey’s shoulder. “My parents hate me.”
Aubrey rubbed Marta’s back. She glared again at Nia. “Hey. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re a bad person. I had one, too. It’s okay.”
“Really?” Marta asked.
“Yeah. An older guy I was with for a while.” Aubrey rubbed one of her eyes, as if she too might cry. “I was totally in love, but he was married, said he’d get in big trouble if I had it. Then he broke up with me anyway.”
Aubrey put her arm around Marta’s shoulder. She opened the door with her free hand. “I know how you feel. We’ll talk about it.”
The girls entered the building. Nia reached for the door to follow them inside. Aubrey yanked the handle. The door slammed in her face.
27
Retombé, retombée [ruh-t awn-BAY].
Falling back. A term of the French School and the Cecchetti method. To fall back again to the original position.
Nia’s feet hit the cobblestone walkway without a wobble. She picked up the pace. The gel pad inside her sneakers made her feel capable of running without hurting herself. Pride made her want to sprint.
She had to tell Peter. He knew the strange glee of helping someone else do their best. Now, thanks to Lydia, she did too. Her student had finally nailed the standing split.
It had taken a week of practice. Nia’s sprained foot had prevented her from demonstrating her tips on balance and flexibility. But, fortunately, Lydia had been smart enough to follow along with Nia’s verbal pointers. Nia had also shared a stretching regimen from her time at SAB that had proved helpful.
Finally, today, Lydia had gotten to the finale and stretched her leg straight in the air. Her student’s arabesque penchée could now compete with Aubrey’s own. Lydia had a solid chance of winning the solo during auditions tomorrow.
Nia hurried onto the boys’ quad. A group of students burst from the door to Peter’s building. They wore blue-and-white soccer jerseys with the Wallace crest on their breast pockets.
Nia waved. “Hold the door?”
They shouldn’t have listened to her. Still, one of the boys grabbed the handle before the door shut. Knobby knees poked from beneath his dark athletic shorts.
She jogged up the steps. “Thanks.”
The boy held open the door until she could grab it from him before sprinting to catch his teammates, already across the courtyard. Nia speed-walked to Peter’s room. She knocked and entered. Peter always left it open and he didn’t seem to mind her barging in. He probably preferred it to her hanging around in the hallway, advertising their relationship.
“It doesn’t matter.”
A boy’s voice. Too young to be Peter.
The man she’d come to see sat on his couch across from a thin student. Dark hair hung beside the boy’s prominent cheekbones. A masculine, Greek nose overwhelmed his gaunt face.
Nia’s stomach clenched. She knew that face.
Theo looked like the undead version of the young man that she’d seen just a couple weeks ago. His dark eyes appeared sunken. His skin looked gray, as though it hadn’t seen sun in weeks. Veins protruded from his neck.
Peter brushed his hair back. Nia now recognized the move as a nervous habit. Whatever he and Theo were discussing wasn’t good.
“Of course it matters,” Peter said. “You have your life back. You will finish school and go on to college. Maybe, someday, you’ll even publish a book about what happened. This experience could make great fodder. Look at Cervantes or Dostoyevsky.”
Theo looked away from Peter and toward the door. Nia gave a slight wave. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’ll come back later.”
Peter motioned her inside. “No. Come in. The police realized that Theo had an alibi and the prosecutor dropped the charges. We’re brainstorming how to get the word out.”
Nia joined them on the couch, near Peter but far enough away for the distance to appear professional. She gave Theo a weak smile. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I’m glad the police realized they were wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter that the police let me go. People want someone to blame and there’s no one else.”
“It must have been some sicko that sneaked in during move-in. That’s what we’ll tell people,” Peter said.
Theo rubbed his palms over his gaunt face. He’d lost at least fifteen pounds since she’d first seen him, mostly muscle mass by the looks of him. He couldn’t have been eating.
“I can’t imagine how difficult it is to be falsely accused of something horrible,” Nia said. “But Peter’s right. You can put it behind you. Don’t let other people’s mistakes ruin your life.”
Theo’s head fell into his hands. “You don’t understand. People don’t think the police made a mistake. They think there’s just not enough evidence to charge me. Everyone wants to believe that I killed Lauren because I’m some sort of psycho who couldn’t handle rejection. They don’t care that I broke up with her last June or that some girl saw me in Claremont when Lauren disappeared.”
“Well, have you thought about switching schools?” Peter asked.
“The story’s everywhere. Another school won’t be any different.”
Theo wasn’t exaggerating. Nia hadn’t been able to turn on the news without hearing of an “update” on Lauren’s case.
“Maybe if students here understand why you went to Claremont, they’ll believe you,” she said.
Theo looked down into his lap. His head shook slowly back and forth. “That might make it worse.”
“Why?” Peter asked.
The boy exhaled. His shoulders dropped another inch, hunching his back so that Nia could see the ridge of his spine through his white T-shirt.
“It was stupid. I went to meet up with this girl who was mad at me because I did something dumb. She said she wanted to talk about it, and I needed to apologize. But then she didn’t even show.”
“Whatever you did, it can’t be that bad,” Peter said.
Theo looked up at the ceiling. “I made a tape of me and her being, I don’t know, intimate together. It was stupid. I’d been a virgin before so I sent it to my buddy to show him that, you know, I wasn’t anymore. But he was a douchebag and sent it to a bunch of people. Then they sent it out, too. Next thing I know, it’s on some website.”
The sex tape with Aubrey.
Theo looked into his lap as he continued his explanation. His cheeks reddened. “People were talking about it during move-in week. She confronted me about it on Saturday, but t
hen she asked to meet in Claremont to ‘really talk’ so people wouldn’t see us arguing in the hall.”
Peter rubbed away the wrinkles on his forehead. “Well, maybe you should talk about it. It’s pretty unlikely that someone who went out to see another girl would then come back to see his ex.”
“She won’t back up my story. The police already asked her. She hates me.” He fought back tears. “Everyone hates me. They all think that I agreed to meet Lauren because of some text I didn’t even send.” Theo’s head again dropped into his palms. “I wish I’d died instead of Lauren.”
Peter’s hands landed on Theo’s shoulders. He shook the boy. “You can’t believe that. You are a good person and people will see. You just have to let the dust settle.”
Theo continued crying. No amount of Peter’s support would change things for him. People thought he was a murderer who’d gotten away with it. They wouldn’t believe anything else until the police caught the real killer.
“Theo, how do you think that text message got sent from your phone?” Nia asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did anyone have access to your phone?”
“No. It was in my pocket. I brought it with me to Claremont.”
“Maybe someone had access to it before.”
His shoulders shuddered as he shrugged. “Maybe my roommate, but he didn’t do anything. He’s one of the only people sticking by me. I’m not going to go blame him—”
“Someone sent a text from your phone. That person might have something to do with Lauren’s death,” Nia said.
Peter draped an arm around Theo’s shoulders—inappropriate touching by school standards but a completely human reaction. If someone had ever needed a hug, it was Theo.
“The police don’t have to find the killer for people to change their mind,” Peter said. “I’ll talk to Stirk. We’ll get the cops to come and address the student body, explain that you had nothing to do with it.”
Theo picked up his head. He looked like he’d been in a fight and lost. His nose and cheeks appeared swollen. His eyes were puffy.
“Do you think you guys could do that?”
Nia couldn’t imagine Detective Kelly coming in to discuss an active investigation. But maybe, if the cops knew how poorly Theo was doing, they would release some kind of statement to the press. They wouldn’t want a kid hurting himself because of a wrongful accusation.
“I actually know the detective,” Nia said. “I’ll give him a call. Tomorrow, right after class.”
28
Battu [ba-TEW]
Beaten. Any step embellished with a beat is called a pas battu.
Nia read the score sheet with Lydia’s full name printed in the right-hand corner. A single word shone in the center of the page: “Criteria.” Beneath it, several bullet points were stacked atop one another: Movement skills. Articulation of body segments. Body integration and connectedness. Full-body involvement. Overall proficiency rating. An underlined space rested beside each line item, waiting for the judge to write a number between one and ten. The higher the number, the better the score.
She had memorized the judging criteria, but her eyes needed to focus on something besides her reflection in the mirrored wall. She didn’t dare look at Ms. V’s cinched face. The woman sat beside her, body language announcing annoyance like a loudspeaker. Her tense neck and shoulders reminded Nia of a corset. The woman’s thin skin stretched like hosiery over unyielding bones.
Ms. V directed her posture at Battle. He’d overridden his deputy’s request to see the dancers audition on the stage. Instead, he’d installed a folding table and chairs in the practice room. The mirrors, he’d insisted, would allow better evaluations of the students’ lines.
Nia fought the temptation to tip her plastic seat against the barre behind it and balance on the back legs, just to keep moving. In moments, Lydia would face off with Aubrey for the principal role of the fall show. Her student’s performance would not only reflect her teaching ability but also determine if Lydia received more of Battle’s attention. He would teach the soloist himself. Learning under such a master would help Lydia perfect her form and get into the kind of prestigious summer intensives that led to a real career in dance.
Part of Nia also wanted Lydia to win for revenge. Aubrey needed to be taken down a peg after trashing her to Ms. V. Lydia could do it.
Lydia entered in the school’s navy leotard and required white tights. She stood in the center of the room, all presence and poise. Nia followed her eyes as she acknowledged each teacher. When she looked at Nia, her mouth curved in a nervous smile.
Ms. V stiffened beside her, wearing a strict expression to which Aubrey would not be subjected. Nia smiled broadly. “You got this,” she mouthed.
The music stole into the room like a whisper, interrupted by the screech of a bow scraping against a guitar string. Lydia ignited with the sound. A sly smile spread across her face as she sprang onto her toes. She traveled across the room, feet punctuating every beat of the tribal drum. She whirled as if swept by the wind of the background vocals. Her head whipped around when the singer’s falsetto started. Her mouth parted with pretend fear, as if realizing a scary stranger watched from the sidelines. Then, just as practiced, her face softened as though she realized she might love this stranger. Finally, it hardened into something approaching aggression. She leapt across the stage, legs parted in a near split. Nia tried not to wince. Aubrey would, undoubtedly, have the height and full leg extension.
Lydia landed and spun into a beautiful series of fouetté turns. They weren’t perfect, but they possessed emotion. The turns seemed to beckon along with the singer’s call. Lydia carried the feeling throughout the dance, embodying the singer’s passion, angst, and adoration. When the final note rang out and Lydia extended into the arabesque penchée, Nia was so moved that she nearly didn’t care that her protégé’s foot pointed above her head, just as she had taught her.
Nia beamed, hoping the smile conveyed the applause her hands itched to give. Clapping was forbidden, lest the sound intimidate any of the students waiting outside the room. Nia examined the reflections in the mirror. Battle suppressed a smile as he filled out his scorecard. The girl had impressed him. Ms. V’s mouth seemed tighter.
Lydia held the door for Aubrey as she exited. “Good luck.”
If Aubrey had said the words, Nia would have assumed sarcasm. But from Lydia, the encouragement was genuine.
Aubrey flashed a winner’s smile. “Thanks.” The tone of her voice almost sounded pitying.
Aubrey strode into the room in flesh-colored tights and her navy leotard. Classical ballet companies preferred white tights because they advertised mistakes. An opaque white should have covered her legs.
Ms. V and Battle didn’t say anything. If the senior teachers didn’t object, Nia couldn’t bring it up.
Aubrey stood in the center of the room. She twisted her right leg behind her head and held it there as she zeroed in on each individual judge. The standing pose was not part of the planned choreography. It transformed Aubrey’s legs into a snake’s jaw, unhinged, awaiting prey.
The girl unfurled from the position as the music started. She performed like a predator, feet chasing unknown victims to the rhythm. Watching her, the vocal wind turned into a wail. Technically, Aubrey was perfect. Each turn possessed a feline grace and power that Nia could either admire or resent but not deny. The height of Aubrey’s grand jeté beat Nia’s own. Her legs extended in a full split in the air, creating a beautiful horizontal line.
Ms. V nearly moaned when the girl finished. She exhaled a satisfied murmur equivalent to a muffled burp after a good meal. Nia scrawled tens on the card above blank underlines. She wrote an eight under movement skills, docking Aubrey for failing to express the music’s softer side. Her score wouldn’t count much anyway. She and Ms. V would chime in, but, ultimately, Battle would make the decision.
Aubrey curtsied and thanked them before swaggering from the room.
/> The girl’s departure changed the air temperature. Nia’s skin tingled, as though sensation were returning to a frozen limb. Her breathing normalized as the door clicked shut.
Ms. V’s hand fluttered to her heart. “I’ve never seen finer form.”
Battle tilted his head. “She has a mastery of technique. It’s a credit to you.”
Ms. V beamed. “Well, she possesses such natural grace and flexibility.”
“And, of course, ABT’s summer intensives really polished the turns.” Battle gestured toward Nia. “American Ballet Theatre wanted to take her away from us this year, but Aubrey insisted on returning to graduate.”
The director would announce Aubrey’s selection momentarily. Nia swallowed her disappointment.
Battle tapped his pencil against his paper. His brow furrowed. “However, Ms. Carreño danced with real feeling.”
Nia’s stomach dropped. Did she dare hope?
“Yes, but she doesn’t have Aubrey’s abilities. The grand jeté wasn’t fully extended and the turns don’t have the precision. She wobbled one.”
“Even primas wobble one,” Battle said. “She recovered so well I doubt anyone would notice. But they will notice how her movements convey the nuances of the music. She shows real tenderness during the romantic parts, which contrasts nicely with the darker moments. It makes them shine. Light and dark—”
“Aubrey will amaze the audience.” Ms. V shot Nia a look. “There is no doubt that Lydia learned the choreography well. I notice she has recently acquired a one-hundred-eighty-degree angle on her arabesque, but she has not demonstrated in class that she can perform that consistently.”
Nia cleared her throat. “We worked on her flexibility. I believe she can.”
“Dancing isn’t just about flexibility,” Battle said. “I believe the parents and students will appreciate the new feeling Lydia brings to the solo.”
Ms. V turned her whole body to face Battle. In the mirror, Nia glimpsed the teacher’s lowered brow. “I should hope that parental response does not influence our decisions about ability. I am proud to say that parent interest, or lack thereof, has never influenced our decision before.”