"Where are we going?" I ask Lucas, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him up yet another flight of stairs.
"Mister Calore's office," Lucas says simply. I bite my tongue when I could've told him that. But he continues, saying, "You're lucky I'm taking you up the back route instead of through the lobby. They're all gathered there, you know."
The entire audience? The stage lights dulled, and the auditorium doors opened, indicating another break. But for all of them to gather? Just for a closer look?
I steal a quelling breath. I won't have to pass through the lobby or the audience. It's fine. Everything's going to be fine.
"After everything you've done today, I'm surprised you're so nervous about this part," Lucas says, shaking his head. "Any of those dancers downstairs would kill to go to Tiberias Calore's office and discuss matters of dancing."
For everything said, I only pay attention to the name. "Tiberias?" I say in the most respectful manner I can.
Lucas doesn't bother with repressing his laugh, echoing off the stairs. "I have no idea why a father would name his child that. Cal's real name is Tiberias, by the way, like his dad. I dare you to call him that some time." Lucas's chuckling dies in his throat. "Who told him you could dance? He didn't take no for an answer when he suggested you audition."
Rather than conjure up a lie, I go for the truth. Or a partial truth, at least. Lies always come back to bite me in the butt. "I was cleaning one of the studios this morning, and he saw me messing around with my turns. I guess Cal thought it'd be a shame if I didn't audition, so when I ended up falling onstage . . . he pushed it." I don't tell Lucas about meeting him outside of a bar, or Cal's convincing words in the studio.
"Cal knows talent when he sees it. He's the best dancer under twenty years old at the Academy. Of course, his old man wouldn't let it be otherwise." Lucas shakes his head disbelievingly again. "My family's been working and practicing under the Calores for years, and I've always seen Cal at the top of his class. Yet he's humble, which is more refreshing than you'd believe."
"I believe it," I say, turning with Lucas as we reach the top of the staircase. "The people who dance here aren't very nice, are they?" Evangeline can't be the only one. "Your whole family has dealings with the Calores?"
"More or less. My parents and Evangeline's have business dealings with them dating far back, and Evangeline has basically been bred to dance for this company her whole life."
"Business dealings?"
Lucas eyes me sidelong. "Trust me. It's all more boring than you can possibly imagine."
Our conversation fades away as we walk down the hallway. Identical to the ones upstairs, with the sunset marble and cream walls. On the side closest to the stairs, there are classrooms, and on the left . . . offices, I'd guess., by the closed doors and nameplates.
Between the doors along the left wall rest framed paintings and photographs of men that are long passed away. The first half of the hallway contains the paintings, blooming with rich color and eyes that I swear watch me. Further down are the photographs, evolving from gritty black and white to technicolor to modern and regular. Some wear fashion hundreds of years outdated, the newer ones in simple suits. Caesar, Julias, Tiberias, Marcas, Tiberias, Tiberias . . .
If their stern, forboding expressions didn't have me jumping out of my skin, their names do.
What a family history.
I scuff my pointe shoes, cross my arms, and look at the marble. I wonder if I would've ended up mopping this floor later in the week. Even if I can see a dull reflection of myself in it.
The end of the hallway approaches, no stairs or fork in the corridor in sight. I didn't think we'd get here so quickly.
At least Lucas offered me some clothes, so I don't have to go into this meeting with what I auditioned in. Though I still wear my point shoes, a pair of black leggings and a slim warm-up jacket now rest atop my tights and leotard.
I don't feel vulnerable in the skin-tight clothing, not after wearing this stuff for years, but I'd prefer to have pants on for this.
"Mare?"
"Yes?"
"Do yourself, the world, a favor: Don't talk back to him."
I open my mouth but find myself facing a completely serious Lucas. Dull eyes, a tight smile, demanding my agreement.
I know nothing of Tiberias Calore. Only his voice and its hint of cruelty.
"Fine."
"Excellent." Coming to the final doors on the left, he knocks. It's a wide set of double doors, painted white and adorning a peephole. Fair enough.
A disembodied voice calls, "Come in," using a gruff tone. "You too, Lucas."
There's nobody else he's expecting, I tell myself, but it unnerves me anyway.
Lucas twists down on the gilded handle and opens the door. I slip through after him, and he closes it behind us.
The room is like a . . . bachelor pad. Half of it, anyway, with its TV, gaggle of chairs and sofas, and coffee tables of different sizes. A pool table stands further away from the setup, a cabinet that must hold all manner of alcohol next to it. With the brick walls and the manly colors . . . yes, bachelor pad is the best description for it.
Where there'd usually be a long window, curtains hang. Light-cancelling, thick black curtains. Instead, intricate chandeliers cast the room in a warm color.
Across the room, there's a colossal black desk and bookshelves against the wall to frame it. A computer monitor and keyboard, a stack of paper, knickknacks, and a glass of water decorate the top. Before it rests an oriental carpet, red and black and gold, patterns too advanced for my eyes to fully memorize. I avoid looking at the man behind the desk.
The woman who sat by Tiberias, presumably his wife, stands by the desk, resting a dainty, manicured hand on it. She wears a yellow sundress. Approaching, I decide she's too pretty, unnaturally pretty, with her long eyelashes seen from ten feet away, porcelain skin, and waved pale blonde hair. She doesn't look happy to be here, in this room, with me, and she's not hiding it. As if I'm interrupting her schedule. Though a bit of intrigue waits in her cold-as-ice blue eyes.
Cal and his unnamed brother lean against one of their father's bookshelves, on the other side of the desk from their mother. Cal's brother watches me carefully, assessing. Then there's Cal, with a neutral face, or trying to appear neutral, anyway. Because I've seen far better poker faces.
The other three judges are nowhere to be seen.
"Sit," Tiberias orders, and I'm startled when I realize I've traveled but a few feet from the desk. "You, too, Lucas."
Lucas pulls out one of the two chairs in front of the desk for me, and I sink into it, no longer able to avert my eyes at fancy chandeliers or foreign carpets. Lucas sits down beside me, and I'm glad for it, even if he's not actually on my side.
The man I face is Cal, but twenty-five years older. Age is the single difference as far as I can tell. The two have the same broad and muscled build, fiery eyes, and black hair, the former with grey streaks in his. He wears a white button-up shirt, and he picks me apart hair by hair prior to speaking.
"Where, girl, do you dance?" Present tense.
It's not rhetorical. I give him the name of my studio, which has probably changed since I've been there.
"Never heard of it. Have you?" Tiberias looks at Cal, who still leans impassively against the shelf.
Cal shakes his head.
"It's in East Harlem, and it never made a name for itself," I say, putting it simply. My voice comes out pleasantly clear, and I surprise myself. "No one's heard of it. For all I know, it could be closed."
The last part sparks another question, and I picture his voice asking it while they take in my explanation.
The woman's hand fists up, from the corner of my eye. It's she who asks it. "What do you mean, for all you know, it could be closed? You don't dance there anymore?" Even her voice is something else, syrupy, too sweet. I don't like her. But the feeling is mutual, based on her air; she isn't the kind of person who likes anybody.
Tiberias steeples his fingers, leaning forward on his elbows. Awaiting my response.
Past him are the bookshelves, five of them total, pushed together to create one whole unit. Each one is a good eight feet tall, five feet wide. The titles are small and too far to read, but I wonder what they're about. Dance, obviously, but Lucas also mentioned the Calores have business dealings. Yes, some must be business publications.
The Calores are filthy rich. And dance doesn't create billionaires, no matter how successfully they've run this company. What's their second business?
Enough. Stay focused. Look him in the eye.
"I quit six months ago," I start. This story isn't a pleasant one for me to tell, and I've already told it to Cal, against better judgment. Across the desk, he focuses on his father, as if trying to read him.
I begin, not giving Tiberias or his wife the chance to interject. "Like I said, I'm not from around here. Joining dance when I was little was probably a bad idea, considering my family's never been well off. But things have been getting worse for a while now." I don't mention my father.
"So last winter, my parents couldn't afford to pay for it anymore, and they pulled me out." I tell the tale simply and with no self-pity. It's gotten worse, since then. My brothers can't hold jobs, Shade left even before I quit, and tips are dry at Mom's hotel.
I haven't dared to come within a block of my studio since.
The Calore family could afford to pay for one-hundred girls' tuitions. I hope he doesn't register the simmering bitterness in my face.
"Yet your performance . . ." Tiberias says, "was good."
Not perfect. Needs improvement. I shift in my seat. But I was called up into his office. It must mean I did something right. "I've continued to practice on my own time, and so I've retained most of my skills. It's not ideal . . . but I can't afford to start taking classes again."
I'm only glad he doesn't put two and two together. I'm a teenager if I can still enroll at studios, and I'm working as a maid at his company. High school dropout. Or maybe he does and gives me the small kindness of not saying anything. A diploma doesn't do any good for a dancer, after all.
"Prodigy," Cal's brother says.
"That's not normal." Tiberias taps his fingers on the desk, evidently mulling his ideas over. "Do you dance other genres as well?."
I think back to all my years at the studio. Ballet was my great love, but I competed in jazz, tap, and hip hop, too. My teachers pushed me to be well-versed when it came to all dance forms, and I was hardly against putting in more hours. Though I never performed solos in those genres, whereas I had been competing with solos in ballet since age twelve.
"I trained in classical ballet ninety-percent of the time, I'd say. But it was a strange studio. Some weekends we'd do ballet competitions, others tap and jazz. I loved every minute of it." Though I don't recall placing in a single group dance during all the years I competed with the other girls. I was different. I cared more.
Tiberias clucks his tongue, bracing his elbows on his desk. Cal and his brother shift on their feet. Tiberias's wife stands motionless, and her eyes might as well be ice.
Mister Calore's gaze is calculating as he looks upon me again. He sighs."I'd have you audition for the other genres, but it wouldn't be time well spent. I don't know how much you know about the Manhattan Dance Academy, but ballet is our main genre, as it is yours. We train year-round in it, and host fall, winter, and spring shows.
"Fall is typically the off-season, and it's then our ballet dancers have time to focus on tap, contemporary, ballroom, and whatever else they please if they have experience in it while still keeping up with ballet. We find it's good for them, loosening up and experiencing new things. But during our performing months, there isn't time for extra genres, unless that's your major. And we are world-renowned for those programs."
I nod repeatedly at the information he's throwing at me.
"As you saw, Evangeline Samos is an incredible dancer. But for ballet particularly, our Principals, soloists, and higher-up Corps dancers are partnered off. It gives our ballets an intimacy we like to see. This year, Evangeline will be dancing with my son, Cal. I assume you've already met him."
"Yes," I say, not bothering with a glance towards him. Multiple times, in fact. "But I don't follow."
"Despite your . . . background," Tiberias begins, and I bite my tongue, nails digging into leather chair arms, "you are extraordinarily talented. I've never heard of your East Harlem studio, and honestly, a dancer like you shouldn't exist if you're from that part of town.
"But if you promise to not sue us for falling from the stage rafters and blame yourself in any media attention you might get . . . you'll have a role."
Is he bribing me? Not letting myself think about it, I nod at his demands. I wasn't planning on telling anybody anyway, but if my silence benefits me—
"I'd like for you to become my younger son's partner." Tiberias doesn't even turn around to look at his other son as he says it.
The boy standing next to Cal . . . his jaw drops. So does mine. He gives me a look over, unsure what to make of this. Neither do I.
This is insane.
This is insane.
This is insane.
"She doesn't even know my name," the boy says, displeased, and I'd be offended if I wasn't so shocked myself. If Cal's the best dancer at the Academy, then his brother must also be sought out as a partner.
"Mare Barrow, meet Maven Calore," Tiberias drawls.
He's a couple of inches shorter than Cal, hair thick and skimming his ears. And he doesn't have his father's eyes, but his mother's unforgiving icy blue. His skin is paler than his brother's, and his physique's leaner, though still muscled from years of dance.
And I see it: a shadow to his brother's flame.
Yet I see us as partners too, just because of our heights and frames that would pair well together. I've never danced with a partner before. All the boys in East Harlem thought dancing was for girls.
"I've never even talked to her," Maven pleads quietly. Timid. He stares at the back of his father's head, begging him to turn around. Tiberias continues his unwavering gaze towards me. "I've met the other girls in the running. None of us have spoken with her before today, and you're giving her an elite position?"
Tiberias deigns to turn around, meeting his son's gaze. Mighty fire against blundering ice.
"I am. You know better than to question my wisdom, Maven. You two will compliment each other as dancers. Unless you're not interested in having a partner this season at all. Elara?"
The woman's name. She purses her lips. "Your father's correct, Maven. She's a fine dancer, and she'll compliment you."
Cal elbows his brother not so gently.
"Yes, father," Maven says, yielding.
To be honest, I feel bad. Though he is younger than Cal, he seems too secondary. When Cal arrived from backstage, announcing his arrival to his father—dad is too peasant-like—Tiberias said your brother scored in your place. In Cal's place. Like they couldn't afford to have another judge.
Lucas told me to not rattle off my mouth, but if he hadn't, I'd suggest pairing me with another dancer, for Maven's sake. But I'm already walking a thin wire, and the last thing I want to do is get myself kicked out of this place for stepping out of line when I'm hardly on the line.
For my selfish sake, I swallow my comments, pushing further into the chair. It'll even itself out.
Right?
Tiberias says to Lucas, "We should resume auditions. Give her the papers. And a pamphlet. It has everything she'll need. And her day and a half's pay."
I was tempted, but I would've gone to Ann, not asked the owner himself for the money. Another way to for sure to get me kicked out of the building and put on a no entrance list for my attitude.
Maybe I'll buy myself a present. Just this once.
"Thank you." I push out of my chair.
I catch Maven's blank face again, staring ahead into nothing, before Lucas and I turn to leave.
I take the front entrance out, happy for the change of clothes I keep in my bag. My family would be confused and concerned if I came home in a new outfit or a uniform not too different from Mom's.
And I don't need more scrutiny from the dancers in the lobby with that red menace of a shirt.
There are a stack of papers and a hefty pamphlet in my bag, along with a hundred dollars, crumpled-up black pants—I returned the shirt to the Maids' Quarters—and the ballet uniform and new clothes they're letting me keep. I'm greeted with blowing humidity as I step outside. Shade's not wrong. We need a nice long downpour to wash out this heatwave.
Again, I swear if this heat keeps going on, the dawn's going to start sweating red.
The second-to-last line of his letter sticks with me, and I don't know why. It was a weird way to end a message, not entirely making sense. Did he mean the sky's going to sweat blood? I've heard of it happening in rare cases, but no, Shade isn't poetic like that. Unless he's changed since living at home, but . . .
Rise, Red as the Dawn.
Farley's last words from her terrorist-video come to mind. Following her "the rich are corrupt; we will destroy you," banter, she finished the broadcast with the Street Fighter's apparent motto, but it didn't make sense. An inside joke, but minus the joke, apparently.
I put the pieces together. Dawn. Red.
When Mom asked if he had gotten involved with a gang last year, Shade paused. As though Shade, even tough Shade, struggled to lie to his own mother.
The Scarlet Street Fighters are indeed a gang.