by Yelana Black
Justin persisted. “If you have to know, I was injured during my freshman year, around the same time your sister ran away. I went to a party, drank too much, and somehow fell and broke my ankle.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Typical.”
Justin paused. “I left school and spent the last three years in physical therapy. In the meantime, I was homeschooled. I begged the school to take me back. Thankfully, they did, but they would only accept a few of my homeschooling courses for graduation credit. So in some classes, I had to start over. Which is why I’m here. With you.”
There was something about the way he said “with you,” his voice gentle and yearning, and for a moment, she turned, allowing her eyes to meet his. They were a deep, watery blue; they seemed to plead with her. Listen to what I’m trying to tell you, they begged. See me. Vanessa’s grip on her pen loosened, and she grabbed it just before it fell to the floor. Why should she sympathize with him?
She felt him watching her for the rest of class.
“For your first major assignment,” Mrs. Jasper said, just before the bell rang, “each of you will write a report on a mythological story, researching its origins, its meanings, and its echoes in other mythologies.” She glanced at the clock. “We have five minutes of class left. Do any of you have an idea of what you might write about?”
She waited for volunteers, but no one raised a hand.
“Anyone?” she probed.
Vanessa stared at the doodles she had drawn in the margins of her notebook. A pair of ballet slippers. Her sister’s name. A bird flying out a window into the open sky. Gone.
Without realizing what she was doing, she raised her hand.
Mrs. Jasper smiled. “Yes, Vanessa. What are you thinking of writing about?”
“The Firebird,” she said.
“What a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Jasper said, clasping her hands together. “I’m sure we’d all love to learn more about this year’s production. Perhaps when you’re finished, you might consider presenting to the class too?”
“Sure,” Vanessa said.
Behind her, Justin let out an obnoxious laugh. “You do realize that reading up on myths isn’t going to make you a better dancer,” he said under his breath.
Vanessa glared at him just as the bell rang. “And is peering over my shoulder every chance you get going to make you a better dancer?”
Justin stood up, towering over Vanessa, while everyone around them gathered their things and filed into the hallway. “No. See, that’s the difference between you and me. I’m not trying to be a better dancer.”
“You just told me that you spent three years in physical therapy, and then begged Josef and Hilda to take you back. And now you’re telling me that you’re not trying to be a better dancer?”
“I’m a complicated person,” Justin said with a glint in his eye. “Full of paradoxes.”
Vanessa let out a laugh. “Complicated? Oh, that’s right. Because you’re a sensitive recovering dancer and an insensitive jerk who’s too cool to come to class on time. Or button your shirt or cut your hair.” Her words came out sharper than she’d meant them to, and for the briefest moment, she thought she saw him flinch.
“That’s quite a magnifying glass you put me under,” he said quietly. “I just hope you use it on everyone else you encounter here too.”
Vanessa paused, not sure what he meant. “Are you making fun of me?”
His face was calm, impenetrable. “No.”
“So why are you here, if you’re not trying to be a better dancer?”
“You seem to think you know a lot about me already,” Justin said, backing toward the door. “So why don’t you figure it out?”
Vanessa pushed Justin’s words out of her head as she slid her iPad onto her lap to compose an e-mail to Elly. She stared at the blinking cursor, trying to figure out what to say. Finally, she typed out a brief note.
I know you don’t want to hear from us, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m glad you’re okay. If you ever want to talk, just let me know. I’m here.
Love, Vanessa
She tried to dismiss Justin from her thoughts in her afternoon dance class, but it was impossible to do so when every time she bent into a plié, she saw his head bobbing in front of her, far above all the other freshmen, and every time she extended her arms into an écarté, she saw his heavy eyes studying her in the mirror.
“And one-two-three, one-two-three,” Hilda said, walking down the line of dancers, using a slender stick to prod their legs, their backs, their arms into position. “And lift!” she said. “And hold!”
Vanessa extended her leg behind her. Up ahead, she could see Hilda snapping her stick against TJ’s thigh. “Too much shaking!” Hilda said. “You’re supposed to make it look easy, not hard.”
Hilda marched on past Blaine, who was trying not to let the pain show on his face as he held the position, his form perfect. It was easy to forget how strong a dancer he was when they were outside the studio, as he would do anything to mask how much effort he put into dancing. He never talked about practicing after hours or about how much time he spent going over his steps, though Vanessa knew that he had to be working just as hard as she was.
“Higher,” Hilda barked at one of the girls. “Suck in your belly. Point your toe. Try, for once, to look weightless!”
When she finally made it to Vanessa, she stopped. “Good,” she said, her gaze following the turn of Vanessa’s leg. “Now one-two-three, one-two-three. Fouetté.”
Vanessa spun on the barre, spotting, the room around her blurring until all she could see were Hilda’s beady eyes watching her intently.
“Good,” Hilda said. “And again.”
Vanessa followed her orders, feeling her weight on her toes as she spun. Wisps of hair clung to her temples as she bowed her body away from the barre, arching her neck into a dramatic dip.
In the mirror, she could see Justin sneering at her while Hilda stepped away to observe Steffie. Hilda grunted with distaste.
“Too stiff,” she remarked to Garret, Blaine’s lab partner. “Too artificial.”
Finally, she snapped her stick against the barre. “Stop! Everyone stop. You’re all dancing like stale strudels.”
Vanessa suppressed her urge to laugh when she saw that Hilda wasn’t trying to be funny.
Hilda narrowed her eyes. “Except one. I want you all to watch Vanessa, and see how a dancer can will her limbs into submission.”
Vanessa bit her lip, trying to hide the beginning of a smile, when she heard a groan from a girl in the corner of the room.
In the mirror, she could see TJ sigh. Even Steffie had stepped away from the barre and was wiping the sweat from her forehead, looking slightly impatient. The only one who didn’t seem upset was Blaine. He didn’t reciprocate when TJ rolled her eyes at him. Instead, he caught his breath and studied Vanessa, waiting to see how her form could help inform his.
“Now fourth position,” Hilda said to Vanessa.
Taking a breath, Vanessa looked straight ahead, trying to avoid the bored stares of her classmates, and began to dance.
“Don’t get me wrong—I love you, and I know you don’t want to be a teacher’s pet, but your technique is perfect,” TJ said between sips on her water bottle as they walked up the steps to their dormitory. Her black leotard was spotted with sweat. “It’s the rest of us who need help. So why isn’t Broomhilda giving us any attention?”
“I know,” Steffie said, pulling on a sweatshirt. “It’s like she didn’t even want to help us get better. She was just looking for an excuse to go back to you.”
Vanessa slung her bag over the opposite shoulder and pushed her hair behind one ear. She didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, she couldn’t help but feel giddy that Hilda thought she was the best, and a small part of Vanessa liked to think she deserved the praise. But on the other hand, she didn’t want people to think she was sucking up. “What do you want me to do?” Vanessa said, looking to Blaine for h
elp. “I’m not asking for it. I’m just dancing.”
“Don’t worry, girl, I’m on your side,” Blaine said, his face still flushed. “I never would have figured out that last combination of steps without watching you first. It’s all about that twist in the heel.” He turned to TJ and Steffie. “Maybe if you girls weren’t rolling your eyes so much, you’d learn something from Vanessa too.”
“We know, we know,” TJ said. “Maybe you could just mess up a little once in a while? Give the rest of us a chance.”
Vanessa stared at the grimy dorm hallway carpeting. “I guess I could …”
“I’m joking!” TJ said, poking her. “It’s Hilda we’re pissed at.”
“They’re obviously considering Vanessa for a role in The Firebird,” Blaine said to them. “Why else would they watch her so closely?”
“What?” Steffie shouted. “No way.”
“Ugh, I take it back,” TJ chimed in. “I do hate you.”
Vanessa raised an eyebrow, feeling strangely guilty. “Um, thanks, guys.”
“I just mean that it’s impossible. We’re freshmen. We’re way too young to be cast,” said TJ.
“Speak for yourself,” Blaine said. “I’m going to make sure I get cast as something better than corps, even if it means going down to Josef’s office and doing his laundry.”
“I’d do that and more,” TJ said, raising a seductive eyebrow.
Steffie grinned and dug around in her bag. “Oh, Vanessa. I meant to give you this.”
She held up a creased piece of paper. On the top, words were typed: CAST LIST.
The color drained from Blaine’s face. “That is not what I think it is.” He grabbed it from Steffie. “How did you get your hands on the cast list? I thought it wasn’t going to be posted till next week.”
“I didn’t,” Steffie said, grabbing it back. “It’s an old list, from when they did The Firebird three years ago. And it’s for Vanessa.”
Vanessa grew stiff.
“But it was never staged,” Steffie said softly, looking directly at Vanessa. “The lead dancer dropped out of school without giving any notice. Even though they had an understudy, Josef canceled the entire production in a rage. I heard some of the upperclassmen talking about it. It sounds like he really went off the rails.”
“How did you find the cast list?” Vanessa said.
“I’m doing a project for my journalism class, and I came across it. But I think it might help you for …” Steffie paused. “For your report on The Firebird. Maybe it’s worth talking to some of the older dancers?”
Vanessa took the paper from her and scanned the roster:
Adler, Margaret……………………………. The Firebird
She touched her finger to her sister’s name, but when she lifted it, her sweat had smudged the ink across the page. Vanessa let out a quiet gasp. The name Margaret was blurred, the letters barely visible. All that was left was Adler, as if the fates had already erased her sister, leaving an empty space just big enough for Vanessa to fill.
Chapter Ten
Vanessa rolled on a pair of stockings, squeezing her shoulders as she slipped on a dress, zipping it all the way up. Quickly, she ran a comb through her hair, taming it with a barrette. Her cheeks were flushed. She smoothed on a bit of makeup, a lick of gloss on her lips—smack—and she was ready. She inspected herself in the mirror, and, smoothing her hair one last time, she glanced at the clock.
A minute past eight. She was late.
Grabbing her purse, she ran out the door.
A part of her didn’t believe he would actually show up, that she had made the entire date up in her head or that somehow it would slip away from her, the same way his note had. But when she reached the fountain in the middle of Lincoln Center Plaza, there he was, his silhouette as real as the shimmering water that fell behind him in droplets, his lean frame packaged in a sleek black suit like a gift. He had his back turned to Vanessa, his hands resting casually in his pockets.
“Zep,” she said, and reached up to touch his shoulder.
He turned, the light catching his face with a glow of warmth. “Vanessa,” he said, taking her in. “You look …” His eyes fell over her as he searched for the right word. “Unearthly.”
She smiled, thankful for the darkness, that he couldn’t see her blush. She pushed a lock of hair away from her face. “Me?” she said with a laugh. “No. I’m just a normal girl who came to New York to become a ballerina.”
Zep laughed. “So that means you won’t mind having just a regular, low-key Friday night in New York with me?”
Vanessa smiled and shook her head, then she felt someone staring at her across the plaza. Justin.
“Good,” Zep said, and turned toward Broadway.
But Vanessa didn’t follow. Justin stood beneath the lights, his gaze steady and almost melancholy, as if seeing her with Zep had frozen him in place.
Zep gave her a questioning look. “Is everything okay?”
Vanessa felt a rush of guilt as Justin turned his back and walked away. But why? She didn’t owe him anything. She looked up at Zep and smiled. “So where are we going?”
“Oh,” Zep said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Just somewhere normal.”
He led Vanessa across the street, down the stairs, and into the subway, where they squeezed onto a crowded train. Music and chatter filled the car, along with lipstick, high heels, big earrings, backpacks, and high-top sneakers. People pushed in behind them, pressing Vanessa to Zep’s chest.
The car shuddered to a start, and suddenly Vanessa felt alive. She gripped the pole as they sped downtown, the wheels screeching against the rails, making everyone in the car sway back and forth in a slow, choreographed dance. The doors chimed open, and three men with guitars and sombreros boarded and began to croon in Spanish, their music slowing as the train threw everyone around a bend. Vanessa toppled into Zep, who caught her just before she fell, his hand firm around her waist as if they were paired in a duet.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his lips so close she could almost taste his words.
Vanessa was about to nod when a jolt from the train pulled them apart, pushing her into one of the guitar players. “Sorry!” she said. Zep closed his hand over hers on the pole, holding her steady until the train around her seemed to blur and the last vestiges of Justin slipped from her mind.
They got off in the West Village, where the winding, narrow streets were lined with restaurants and bars and food trucks, the sidewalks crammed with people. Everyone seemed happy.
“This is nothing like Lincoln Center,” Vanessa said.
“I know. There are as many different New Yorks as there are neighborhoods,” Zep said, and took her hand. “Come on!”
The warmth of his fingers closing around hers made her legs go weak. She willed them to move as he pulled her through the maze of streets. After the fourth turn she gave up keeping track of where they were going. He finally slowed when they reached a charming street that branched off from the main avenue, its quiet sidewalks dotted with streetlamps.
“This is it,” he said, leading her to a tiny pizzeria with a line of people out the door. “It’s the best in New York.”
Surprised, Vanessa gazed up at the neon sign and then through the windows at the red counters, the stacks of napkins, the shakers of oregano and red pepper, the men in aprons working dough in the air and manning the oven, sweat beading on their temples.
Zep looked at her nervously. “What do you think?”
The smell of tomatoes and cheese and rising dough wafted outside, making Vanessa swoon. “It’s perfect.”
They sat on a stoop by the corner and ate pizza, watching the city move past them. The subway vibrated beneath their feet; the cabs screeched as the traffic lights turned red. People rushed to cross the street, only to rush back when the light changed amid the sound of car horns. “Shut up!” someone yelled from a window, making Zep and Vanessa laugh. Beside them, queues of people waited outside the
bars and restaurants, music spilling into the night every time the door opened.
“I think I like New York,” Vanessa said.
Zep cast a satisfied eye over the crowded streets. “Me too.”
He turned to Vanessa, taking her in as if he were seeing her for the first time, and a smile spread across his face.
Vanessa blushed. “What?”
“You know, most girls wouldn’t be okay with this. Sitting on a dirty stoop with me in the West Village and eating a greasy slice of pizza from a paper plate. You’re different than all the other girls I’ve taken out.”
Vanessa shrank back at the mention of other girls. In her mind, Zep’s past was composed of a never-ending succession of tall, waifish beauties. In comparison, she was this inexperienced freshman who had barely even kissed a boy. What did he see in her?
Zep must have realized how she felt. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding nervous. “That was a compliment. What I meant to say is that I’ve never met a girl who I could sit with on a stoop and still enjoy myself as much as if we had gone to a show and an expensive restaurant. It sounds absurd, but I never feel comfortable at those places. I’m always waiting for them to escort me out.”
Vanessa let out a soft laugh. “I know what you mean.”
Zep touched her hand. “You’re real,” he said, pushing a lock of hair from her face.
Vanessa melted beneath his touch. She gazed up at him. “Are you?”
Zep clutched his chest as if her words had stabbed him. “Of course I am. How can I prove it to you?”
Vanessa bit her lip, pretending to be deep in thought. “You could get something caught in your teeth. Or say something embarrassing.”
“I can do those things,” he said, the smile fading from his face. “But first, I have a very serious question to ask you.”
Vanessa swallowed. “Okay.”
Zep leaned toward her, his face so grave it made her worry. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Do you have any soda left? Because I’m all out.”
Vanessa laughed and handed him her cup.