“It won’t be the same without you!” Violet cried dramatically.
“You’ll be fine, my dear.” Ms. Faraday patted Violet’s hand, then extended her other hand toward me, clasping my fingers with her own knotted ones. “You both will. You two have such talent, my swans. Keep sculpting it.” She smiled. “And I’ll be speaking to your new instructor, to advise that she put you both on pointe.”
Every cell in my body shrieked with excitement. Pointe! It was the news I’d been hoping for since my twelfth birthday, when my pediatrician said my bones were strong enough for it. Going on pointe meant moving to another level of difficulty, a level where you were taken more seriously, where your dancing matured into something more complex. Now it was going to happen at last!
“Thank you, Ms. Faraday. That’s amazing.” I beamed.
“It is, Malie,” Ms. Faraday said, smiling at me fondly.
“Mother will be so happy,” Violet chimed in. “She was having a hard time understanding what was taking so long.”
I stifled my urge to roll my eyes. I knew it was Violet herself, not just her mom, who was antsy about Violet going on pointe.
But if Ms. Faraday saw through Violet’s ruse, she didn’t point it out. Instead, she said, “Remember, you dance for yourselves first, for the love of it. Your audience comes second.”
We both hugged her, and I got choked up as she pressed her hand to my cheek, whispering, “I know you’ll make me proud.” She turned away quickly, dabbing her eyes with a dainty handkerchief, and I knew it was time to go.
Violet and I left the studio and headed into the changing room together. It was empty now, our other classmates having left already.
“That’s so sad about Ms. Faraday leaving,” I said, unzipping my dance bag. I used my towel to wipe the sweat off my forehead.
“Yeah,” Violet said with a shrug. “But I’m so glad the ballet is Cinderella this year. I’ve wanted to dance that part since forever. It’s like Ms. Faraday chose that ballet with me in mind.”
I sat down on the bench. “Or … maybe she chose it because it has a large cast, so there are more opportunities for everyone.”
“Mm-hmm,” Violet said, as if she couldn’t care less about opportunities for anyone else. She slid a pair of yoga pants over her tights, then shouldered her dance bag. “We all know that the auditions for the principal are just a formality.” Her practiced smile never wavered. “Don’t we?”
I returned her smile, not wanting to give off as much as a hint of uncertainty. “Who knows what will happen?” I replied breezily. “Cinderella was the underdog, and look how that turned out.”
“True.” She laughed and headed for the door. “See you in school.”
I gritted my teeth. Maybe she didn’t mean to be snarky. Maybe she was just oblivious? Or … not.
I took off my worn ballet slippers, instantly missing the welcome hug of their elastic and leather around my feet. I frowned, examining the hole in the toe. I needed a new pair, but when I’d brought it up to Mom, she’d responded with a harried, “We’ll see, keiki.”
Even though we’d moved to Florida from Hawaii when I was a toddler, Hawaiian still peppered Mom’s speech and, by default, mine. Mom said it was a way of honoring our Polynesian ancestry. Plus, she hoped it would stay fresh in my mind. After my parents’ divorce three years ago, Dad had moved back to Oahu, and I visited him there each summer. Mom thought keeping up with my Hawaiian would make me feel less like a tourist when I stayed with him. She was happy to help me keep a healthy relationship with Dad. And there wasn’t much that made her happy these days.
New ballet shoes, I knew, would be on the very bottom of Mom’s list of things we needed to buy. I’d probably have to keep living with these for as long as I could. I slid them into my bag, then changed back into my street clothes. I left the dressing room, dance bag in hand, and walked through the hallway past the row of studios toward the exit.
After so many years, the conservatory felt like a second home to me. I took classes here five times a week: four weekdays after school, and once on Saturday mornings—today.
Before I left the building, I paused, setting down my dance bag. I remembered the fouettés I had done earlier, and was itching to try them again. Just one more time, before I had to leave and rejoin the real world. I couldn’t help it; if it were up to me, I’d be dancing every second.
Even though I was in my street clothes and sneakers, I rose up on my toes, held my arms out in a circle, and began spinning. One, two, three—
Wham!
Suddenly, something smacked into me. I tumbled back to the floor, stunned.
“Pardon me!” a boy’s voice said, and before I could catch my breath, strong hands were lifting me to my feet. My eyes focused on the boy before me. He had obviously just come in from outside, and he looked to be about my age. His tan skin and walnut-brown eyes were set in a square-jawed face framed by tousled black curls. “You are not hurt?” he asked.
Italian? I thought, guessing at his thick accent.
“N-no,” I stammered, realizing his hands were still cupping my elbows. I stepped back.
“I am glad of this.” He smiled. His teeth were slightly crooked in a cute, adds-character kind of way. “Mama would be very upset with me if I troddened on a dancer.”
Troddened? “Do you mean trampled?” I asked.
“Trampled.” He mulled over the word. “But this is what stampeding elephants do?” He laughed. “I’m Alonzo Benucci.” So I’d been right. Italian. “Lanz for short.”
“Malie Analu,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Mole-y,” Lanz said.
I smiled. “Not ‘mole.’ It’s pronounced like ‘shopping mall.’ Like ‘Molly.’ ”
“Malie,” he tried again, this
