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“You should at least talk to her about it,” Bianka persists gently as she rises from her chair. Approaching my desk, she rounds the corner and takes my hand. Pulling me up onto my feet, she gives me a fierce hug, her cheek pressing against my chest as her tiny frame wraps around my waist.
The show of affection somehow eases my tension, giving me a small sense of hope, and I pull my little sister in close, kissing the top of her reddish curls. “Thank you, Bianka,” I murmur. I don’t know what I did to deserve a sister like her, but I feel inordinately blessed to have her in my life.
She squeezes me a little tighter in response. “Come on. Let’s go have some dinner. Then you’re going to call Whitney after and tell her you need to talk.”
A chuckle rumbles up in my chest. “Yes, ma’am.”
33
WHITNEY
Fortified after my conversation with my mom over the weekend, I find I’m able to go to class on Monday despite my still-tenuous relationship with Ilya. Though he called me Saturday evening and said we needed to talk, he didn’t seem inclined to discuss it over the phone, and I haven’t seen him since. Supposedly we have a date planned for next weekend, but at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if he canceled that before the day arrives.
I can’t keep dwelling on it. Knowing my mom has found happiness and might, in fact, even be getting engaged within the next week, gives me a sliver of hope that I can make it through Ilya and me going our separate ways. Just maybe. And as I enter my upper division choreographic production class with Trent, I force Ilya from my mind.
“Hey,” I say as I meet Trent at the cubbies. I sound falsely bright, and it makes me cringe.
“Hey,” he says more tentatively. “Everything all good?” he adds after an awkward pause. “I mean, are we all good? Because I know your boyfriend is a… well, you know. And I didn’t mean to piss him off or anything. I just got caught up in the moment, and then he was there, and…” Trent trails off, his expression pained as he scratches the back of his neck.
I take pity on my poor partner and give him a smile. “We’re fine. Everything’s good. You have nothing to worry about,” I assure him.
Visible relief washes through him as the tension eases from his shoulders and his face brightens. “Okay, good. Cuz, you know, for a minute there, I thought I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
He laughs nervously, and I don’t have it in me to say I thought I might have seen his life flash before my eyes too. Ilya had definitely looked pissed, though from what happened after, I would wager he was more pissed with me than Trent because he thought I was just out sleeping around whenever he wasn’t keeping a close eye on me.
Stop it,I scold myself. I can’t keep letting it hurt me.How should Ilya know it would bother me that he thinks me capable of being unfaithful?This is a contract to him–no emotions involved, just ownership–so of course he might suspect me of being willing to sleep with other men.I sold my body to him, why not someone else?The thought makes me nauseous, and I push it down along with my bile. I need to get ahold of myself.
“Ready for another perfect run-through?” Trent asks as I pull on my dance shoes.
“You betcha.”
We take a circuitous route around the room, where several dance partners are already warming up together, Anya and Robbie included. My flaxen-haired friend looks as elegant and stunning as ever in the capable hands of her tall and almost gangly partner. Robbie’s come a long way in the last year as his muscles are starting to fill out his frame. And despite his borderline awkwardly tall height, he and Anya have found a level of stability and natural finesse that I find quite impressive. I wonder what he’s going to do next year when she’s gone.
Trent and I find an open space to start stretching as we discuss the different points in our dance that we can still strengthen. While we managed to get through the entire piece without a mishap, I think we can still improve upon the timing.
“I know it’s really fast, but if we don’t hit each beat, it’s going to lose some of the impact,” I insist when Trent groans at my observation.
“I seriously don’t know how you expect me to spin faster, but I’ll give it a go,” he says, his expression doubtful.
“You can do it. I need to improve mysaut de chattiming in the middle.”
“Alright.” Trent shakes his arms loose. “Let’s do this.”
“Start with the third phase?” I suggest.
Trent doesn’t even ask which move that begins with as we take our positions, and pride wells up inside me at how far my partner has come. I count us in just as the eagle-eyed Professor Moriari approaches to watch us. After a year and a half of his classes, I’ve finally learned to get past the butterflies that erupt in my stomach every time he turns his attention on my performance. And as we begin our first run-through of the day, I tune out my professor’s watchful gaze.
Perfection is more challenging with the four other pairs of dancers moving in our class simultaneously, but thankfully, with it being an upper division and one of the hardest ballet classes available, it’s not nearly as many bodies to contend with as last year’s roster.
I know I’m not moving my feet nearly quickly enough without the driving beat demanding more from me, but I push myself to go faster, harder as Trent lets loose in apirouette a la secondethat makesmedizzy, his right leg whipping out again and again as he rotates with incredible speed. And his perseverance drives me harder as I fly across the floor. When we reach our final lift, I feel ready for it, and I don’t hesitate as I reach him. Using our combined strength, we launch me into the air, and once again, Trent catches me, balancing me over his head.
I can feel him wobble ever so slightly this time, but before I can topple over his shoulder, he regains his composure and then slowly transfers my weight into one hand. He doesn’t bother with the carrying walk this time. Our balance is too tenuous, and I’m glad he doesn’t risk it. Instead, he brings me down, catching me with both hands before setting me onto the floor. The applause that follows startles me.
Trent and I turn to find that not only is Professor Moriari clapping with approval, our other classmates had stopped to watch us and now join in. A rare blush warms my cheeks at the unexpected attention, and I give a quick curtsy, excusing them to go back to their own practice. But it feels incredible to have that level of recognition from my peers.
And after class, Anya’s by my side in a flash.
“That lift was stunning!” she says as she changes out of her dance shoes beside me. “I haven’t seen you try that before.”
