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“Yes, Mrs. Orlova,” the students chime in unison.
“Irina, Konstantin, step forward. You two will demonstrate.”
The two of them obey, and Mrs. Orlova steps to the side of the stage, where a smart speaker rests on top of a piano. Irina and Konstantin get into position, their shoulders square and spines straight.
When Mrs. Orlova presses the button, orchestral music begins to play through the speakers. The song is a Russian waltz with a hauntingly beautiful melody. Irina curtsies and Konstantin bows his head.
Konstantin doesn’t strike me as the type of guy to be a skilled dancer, but the graceful way he guides Irina through the turns and sweeps is impressive. I glance around at the other students, who are watching the dance with bored expressions.
They all know the steps already, and dread sets in. I’m sure these stupid rich kids grew up attending balls where people waltzed all night long. Their skills might need polishing, but at least they have a clue.
I, on the other hand, am totally fucked.
Konstantin lifts Irina by the waist into the air, and she spins before her feet float back to the floor. I’ll never be able to pull that off.
My stomach churns, and the song comes to an end. Konstantin dips Irina, who brings her arm up in a crescent shape, and they become still.
“Well done,” Mrs. Orlova says. She gives a single, satisfied nod, which is probably the highest compliment she knows how to give.
“You two will remain a pair,” she says. “I will read the list of the remaining partners, and then we will begin.”
Johanna is partnered with a guy named Dmitry, and I stifle a laugh when displeasure splashes across her face.
Mrs. Orlova continues down the list, and I’m praying to be partnered with someone who knows what he’s doing. It will be a miracle if I don’t fall flat on my face.
“Miss Baker, you are with Mr. Kurochkin.”
I get the feeling of being at the top of a roller coaster, inching toward a sharp drop. Everything stops for a moment, and then your stomach flips while you barrel down, down.
Of all the people to be paired with, of course it would be Alek. Because the universe hates me.
My eyes dart to where he’s standing, leaning against the piano with folded arms. He winks at me, and when his lips pull back into a wicked grin, I want to punch it right off his pretty face.
Alek holds up a finger and beckons me to him, and my feet betray me. They cross the stage to him, navigating around the other students arranging themselves into pairs.
“We will rehearse the first twenty bars today only. Into position!”
Wait, is she not going to slow down and give us the steps? I must have a deer-in-headlights look because Alek leans in to whisper in my ear.
“Surely you aren’t frightened of a little dance, malishka?”
“Stop calling me that.”
He wraps his arm around my waist, and I stiffen. Pulling me against his chest, he takes my other hand and lifts it into the air in our starting position.
“I can’t have you making a fool of me at the graduation ceremony. Try to keep up.”
I scoff. “I’ll figure it out.”
He holds my gaze steady but quirks a skeptical eyebrow at me.
Mrs. Orlova presses play. “Begin.”
The first note resonates in the auditorium, and Alek steps back to bow to me. With our hands still joined, I curtsy, imitating Irina.
And then we take off.
He guides me backward with ease, keeping the steps in a simple pattern to start. No twirling, just one, two, three… one, two, three… back and forth.
