“Oh sure!” he’d said quickly. “Of course I am!” I’d heard clanging and rattling in the background.
“You are not! You’re working on your invention.” Normally, I would’ve laughed it off. It was one of the things I’d found cute about him—the absentmindedness combined with intense focus. Last night, though, I’d found it annoying.
He’d sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry, but I think I finally had a breakthrough on the sensors in the wiring. If I don’t work on it now, I might forget—”
I’d swallowed, a stab of hurt streaking through me. Ethan was a sweet guy. Logic said I should remember that, but it was tough to be logical when I felt so out of sorts. Shouldn’t a girlfriend in distress trump schoolwork? “It’s okay,” I forced myself to say. “Go back to your work.”
“Thanks. We can talk tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I’d said. Then I’d tried to ignore my frustration, without success.
Now, I took some of it out on my locker, slamming it shut while Tilly’s eyes widened.
“Hold up. You’re mad at Ethan, too?” Tilly asked. “You two never fight.”
“We’re not fighting,” I said glumly. “Only, I needed him to listen last night, and he was … well, he was Ethan.”
“No surprise there.” Tilly snorted. “You wouldn’t be going out with him if he weren’t Ethan.”
I gave a small smile. “That’s true.”
“Malie! There you are.” Lanz’s voice called from behind me, and I turned to see him breezing down the hallway in cargo shorts and a rumpled white shirt. His hair was disheveled, like he’d rolled out of bed mere moments before, and he was eating a chocolate croissant. I wanted to look away but couldn’t.
“You must come to the conservatory after school,” Lanz said, stopping in front of me. “I talked to Mama, and she’s agreed to watch you dance.”
My heart leapt. “Really? Wow. I … didn’t expect you to ask so fast.”
“Of course. I didn’t want you to miss any more dance than you had to. And … I worried that you’d change your mind about me working at the parlor.” He winked. “I know it pains you.”
“Wha—no, it doesn’t!” I lied as Tilly’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“Don’t worry about Mal, Lanz.” Tilly patted his shoulder. “It’s just that she doesn’t enjoy anything about ice cream anymore. Maybe you can change her mind.”
The bell rang then.
“So I will meet you at the conservatory after school?” Lanz asked.
“I’ll have to grab my ballet stuff from home first, but I’ll be there,” I replied, my pulse a drum in my ears. Forget my confusion over Lanz. This was my shot, and I wasn’t about to blow it.
“Are you ready?” Lanz asked as we stood outside the conservatory.
I swallowed. “To meet your mom, who used to dance with Teatro alla Scala, one of the best dance companies in the world? Sure. Why not?” I choked out a laugh. “It’s not the least bit intimidating.”
The sidewalk was bustling with sunburned tourists. They all seemed so relaxed and happy, completely oblivious to the fact that my entire future was dependent on the next few minutes. (Or at least, that’s what it felt like.) I had my dance bag in a stranglehold, and I couldn’t seem to make my feet take another step.
“Don’t worry,” Lanz said earnestly. He put his hand on the door, then paused. “Only … if you are terrible, you may want to duck.”
“Duck? Why?”
“To avoid getting hit in the head with a pointe shoe.” He shrugged. “She throws them sometimes, but only in disgust.”
I felt my face pale, but then I caught the glint of amusement in his eyes. “No, no. I’m not falling for it this time.” I shook a finger at him. “You’re joking, right?” I was finally starting to figure him out.
He didn’t answer, but only held the door open for me, bowing slightly as he did. “After you.”
“You have to be joking,” I said as we stepped inside. We walked from the hallway into the familiar studio, with its long mirror and wooden barre.
“Miss Analu.” The silken but imperious voice belonged to a black-haired woman whose facial features resembled Lanz’s in everything but her smile. Whereas Lanz’s smile was so easily given and casual, Signora Benucci’s was like her movements, poised and exacting. She stood in front of the mirror, her hair piled on top of her head in a bun. She held a single pointe shoe in her right hand, which she tapped against the palm of her left. Was it for throwing? My heart tripled its pace. “We have only a few minutes before the afternoon classes begin,” she continued in her thick Italian accent. Her English was perfect. “Time is of the essence.”
“Yes! I’ll be quick.” I hurriedly slipped my yoga pants off and slid into my ballet shoes. I glanced at Lanz, who nodded toward the pointe shoe in his mother’s hand, then grinned.
“I’ll wait outside, yes?” Lanz said.
He’d asked me, but his mother was the one who answered with a clipped “Sì,” followed by a string of more Italian that I couldn’t make any sense of, but sounded like it might’ve been a scolding. Oh no, I thought. Maybe she’s already decided I’m a waste of her time.
If that was the case, Lanz showed no sign of it. He just nodded good-naturedly and gave me a thumbs-up before leaving.
“My son tells me you can dance.” Signora Benucci touched her phone’s screen, and the familiar overture to Swan Lake flowed from the room’s speakers. She swept her arm out as way of invitation. “Show me.”
For a second, every shred of confidence left me. Then, as the music swelled, my body quieted my mind, and I began to dance. This was the part I loved—when my limbs acted on their own, moving as an extension of the music. My spine seemed to stretch and lengthen as I moved from fourth position into a series of pirouettes, then segued into an arabesque.
I forgot Signora Benucci was watching. I forgot
