Impulsive.
The word has clung to me since the moment I woke up in my hotel-like room, and clings to me still, over the bellowing music of the auditorium.
Lucas and I stopped at an office in charge of room management to get my key before heading up further to the tenth story. Then, my escort unlocked one of its cookie-cutter doors after walking down a hallway and turning. Handing me the key, he said a "good night," pulled the door shut after him, and left me to my own devices.
The room, which I cleaned somewhere along the line, was of little interest to me last night. I chose sleep, rather than exploring and unpacking, slumping into a generously-sized queen bed as soon as I got my shoes off. Its white sheets and pillows were too soft and its comforter too thick, even with the air conditioning.
This morning I bothered with unpacking, setting out my small collection of pharmacy-store toiletries on the bathroom counter and folding my clothes in a dresser. Even then, I didn't look at the appliances in the kitchen, which I'll have to buy food for; or out the window; or what channels were on the television in the living room.
Instead of watching TV, I went through my pointe exercises in the living room, pushing a chair out of my way. I showered and dragged myself out in search of breakfast. As much as I didn't want to, I had to eat.
After, I came here. To the auditorium.
Up several rows down the center are Cal, his father, and four hip hop teachers, heads tilted to decide the dancers' fates. I wouldn't know who they were if not for the lack of people surrounding the five, none ahead and none behind for several rows. The black hair of Cal and Tiberias blend right into the air.
The back doors are open, light pouring in. The theatre itself is less crowded than it was on Sunday, the hype of the auditions having died off. At best, a third of the seats are filled, and I'm glad I was able to find a spot without many around me. I still wear my cap as a precaution.
Today they're testing the hip hop dancers, each of their outfits straying wildly from the standard ballet uniform I wore to my performance. The girl currently onstage is all colors, wearing a pair of orange shoes, forest-green leggings, and a baggy violet jacket. They play music for the hip hop auditions, which I don't find particularly fair, though her dance is syncopated and fast compared to mine.
The beat is psychedelic and fun, and she has the audience—including me—clapping along. The girl sells her performance, flipping and jumping and twisting, bending her arms and legs in ways ballerinas never do. Her merry grin and ease of motion stir jealousy in me, and I promise myself I'll review some more modern dance this afternoon.
Auditions at the Academy are . . . unusual. There were all sorts of dancers out in the lobby when Ann and I walked past them on our way backstage, but this morning's auditions are strictly hip hop. I snatched a program from a stand by the doors to decipher their schedule, and it seems Sunday was reserved for hopeful newbies—who, turns out, have to be invited here to audition by the Academy's scouts—every two hours shifting from one genre to the next. Monday through Friday has been for veterans of the Academy, for teachers to review their students' progress and decide if they should be moved up—or in a rare case, demoted.
Monday was ballet, Tuesday was tap, Wednesday was contemporary with aerial silks at the end, Thursday was a mix of ballroom, and Friday is hip hop and jazz.
How much of the week have Cal and his family spent in here? Though I could never be sure, I doubt Cal knows anything about ballroom dancing or aerial silks. I stifle a laugh at the thought of seeing that. And though he's the Academy's owner, Tiberias can't be an expert in everything either. Elara's gone, and for all I know, Tiberias and his son are just sitting up there and watching with the actual hip hop teachers. As much as everything about this place intrigues me, I can't imagine spending six days straight trapped in an auditorium. The dances surely blur together.
The track ends, and the girl bows and exits to the left-wing.
I was impulsive.
Viewing the performances helps, but not enough for me to stop wondering about my family. I should've told them, screamed it in their faces that I finally made it, that I had won for once, but I left them a measly note instead. A note. I was too poisoned with anger to be sensible, to do my best to explain it to them, use every bit of evidence in my possession to make them believe me. If only to see the surprise on their faces, to prove them all wrong.
But at the same time, the idea was too good to ignore in the moment. When I was in the living room, doing my best not to cry while I felt so ganged up upon, I recalled what I read in the pamphlet.
Corps de Ballet, soloist, and Principal dancers have first claim to our complimentary suites, situated on the tenth and eleventh stories of our property.
Technically, my family might file a missing person's report, have the police track me down and return me home. I'm four months from eighteen. But deep down, I don't think they will; it was fear holding me back, another excuse like Cal said. My family likes the police about as much as I do, and they won't go to them, not anymore. I might've left in a way no better than Shade, but they have no reason to think I left for drugs or a gang.
It's the most selfish thing I've ever done. I snapped and broke at my parents' words, and there was nothing more inviting than the open air—humid as it was—pulling at me from outside my bedroom window.
I'll go back, as soon as my new life has settled down at the Academy and my family's had time to cool off. I'll take the subway to my apartment, walk up its stairs, and knock on the door. I'll give my family five tickets to my first show, making it—
Maven Calore takes a seat next to me with stiff posture.
Almost jumping out of my seat and certainly jumping from my daydreaming, I blink at him, wordless.
I didn't see him walk in, though in my defense, there was hardly time to. I sit in the middle section of the theatre, three seats in from the aisle so I don't block a couple's view a few rows behind me. Maven came from my blind spot, probably from the back doors.
Even if he had walked down an entire row, I wouldn't have noticed him. Lost because of my thoughts and problems, as is the usual.
I can't imagine how stupid I look, staring at Maven like I'm expecting him to spit at me. "Hi?" I say, my voice buckling.
He doesn't say anything at first, his eyes flickering from me to the stage. Maven taps a finger on his knee and takes a breath. "Hi," he returns.
The air in my throat goes heavy. Why is he here? To inform me of the bad news, of him successfully convincing his father to wash his hands of me. I tell myself no; Maven wouldn't be here if they were getting rid of me, he'd have somebody else do it.
Then why is he here? To get to know me? I can hardly believe it, after his reaction in Tiberias's office. I wouldn't call him outright-disgusted, but he wasn't pleased with the idea of dancing with me. Maybe to persuade me into leaving, or getting a different partner, or—
"I wanted to apologize," Maven states quietly.
The way he says it makes my heart beat faster. "You did?" I ask, sounding too surprised.
In the background, a dancer comes onto the stage. I pay her no heed, my attention pinned to the ice in Maven's eyes.
He nods slowly. "Will you walk with me?"
I nod, only because saying no would be outright-rude. "Sure."
My legs refuse to straighten, but Maven takes the lead. I push from my chair with great effort, shimmying out of the row.
We head up the aisle, music blasting from the speakers the only sound. I refuse to walk behind Maven, so I match his pace, taking extra strides.
He's a wraith in the darkened theatre, black hair and shirt, but his shorts are tan. I've spent little time around Maven, but he seems better suited in the clothes I met him in, very similar to Cal's workout pants and plain shirt. I always find it weird for dancers to wear street clothes, though I do it myself, having worn a leotard just once this summer.
An attendant at the door eyes me so quickly I almost miss it and gives Maven a curt smile, and my partner and I step out into the sunlight.
Maven stops us in the middle of the room, holding a hand out for me to shake. "Maven Calore. I'd like to introduce myself properly, instead of having my father do it for me. I'm sorry about what happened in the office, I was just . . . surprised, that's all."
A dozen or so dancers loiter in the lobby, chatting and gossiping amongst themselves. None of them pay Maven or I any attention, and I'm glad for it. Otherwise, the space is uncharacteristically empty.
I search his face for a moment, looking for the lie and the scheme. But his blue eyes are nothing but honest and transparent, and his face is too . . . young for me to think he's plotting something here. If I look quick enough, I could mistake him for Cal, though when I really look at him, I see the differences, aside from the obvious: a sharply angled jaw; hair with the slightest curl to it; icy, yet kind eyes.
His hand stays held out the entire time, and I finally crack and take it. Could it really be that simple?
His hand is smoother, stronger than I would've guessed. "Mare Barrow. Don't worry about it. I was as shocked as you were." It's said with humor and humor alone, not infected with anything negative.
Since Maven is playing nice, which I wasn't exactly expecting, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.
He huffs a laugh, eyes going wide. As though to say, yeah, quite the shock. "I just thought I'd have somewhat of a say in who became my partner for the season, and when my father threw it in my face, I didn't react the way I should've." I almost expect him to start apologizing again.
I smile at him. "I get that. You've probably been spending all summer with some of those girls, and I just . . . fell into the mix." Since we've come this far, asking him if he'd like me to talk to someone about getting a new partner seems unwise, if even possible.
He makes a face at my awful pun, probably thinking of the Sunday's blur. "Your fall was the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. If it makes you feel better, they're adding a beam up there this weekend."
That damned gap in the rafters has to be about the stupidest design flaw in this entire building. It has no purpose, nor could you see it from half of the beams up there. I stiffen as I relive the moment that felt like an eternity, as my foot found thin air and the other snagged on the lights and I saw the brand of Calore Dance Academy thirty feet below, vivid and dark.
My face heats, and I look at the floor to mask a blush. "Wonderful," I mutter, mostly to myself. "It was embarrassing, more than physically painful. But the dance was worth it."
When I manage to bring my eyes up again from the marble, Maven's looking at me thoughtfully.
That look makes me think that being his partner won't be bad at all.
"What?" I ask lightheartedly when he doesn't say anything, tilting his head.
Chuckling, shaking his head now, Maven says, "You should've seen my mother's face while she watched your dance."
Elara Merandus. From the one time I've met her, which seems like more than enough, I've decided she's a stone-cold bitch. Hearing Maven talk about her though, I decide to say nothing.
"It was so obvious, once you came out, with the way you held yourself. My mom's one of the leading ballet mistresses, and she knew what was coming, along with me and the others. Cal apparently foresaw it, but even he was moved by your insufferable little head jerk. As for the rest of the crowd . . . yeah." Another laugh.
The silence and the applause. Yeah, I remember that too. Part of me still wonders why clapped; if they were genuinely impressed or felt obligated to.
"And?" I ask, folding my arms. Maven isn't as tall as Cal is, but he doesn't fail in towering over me. "Are they scared of me or something?"
"Of the girl who could sue this place if she tried hard enough?" Maven raises a brow. "Not scared, but intimidated, I'd say. I don't know if anybody's told you, but you're pretty good."
I roll my eyes, even as I tuck the compliment away.
"My parents, on the other hand, might be scared. It turns out it's rather hard to cover up a maid's fall from faulty stage rafters in front of an entire theatre."
His words strike me, and I might take them the wrong way. "So they gave me this part to shut me up," I muse, biting my lip.
But Maven quickly corrects himself. "Not at all," he says, his words like a thousand pounds. His stare's heavy too. "They'd be fools to turn you away, legal liability or no. If you had auditioned like all the other girls, you'd still be here." He points to the floor for emphasis. "They threw in the not pressing charges or taking it to the press part as frosting on the cake, in addition to gaining one of the best teen dancers they've ever taught. What are you, seventeen?
I relax a little. It's nice to hear it from another person's mouth when my parents shaved off a decent amount of my confidence last night. "Yeah," I admit, rolling my eyes at what I have to say next. "I dropped out of school last semester, otherwise I'd be entering my senior year."
Maven's brows knit together, but there's no judgment in the action. I glance around the lobby, but still, nobody pays attention to us.
"I'm seventeen, too," he says, stuffing hands in his pockets. For everything the two of us are, Maven's found a similarity. He heads to the revolving door, walking backward to face me. "Anyway. I thought we'd redo our first meeting and forget what happened in my father's office. Unless you're busy today, I could take you to buy some new dance clothes."
"Shopping?" I blurt, my turn to crunch my eyebrows. So much for Maven being an inhospitable partner, with this new side of him emerging from the near-silent boy I met not a week ago.
Maven shrugs. "That's what girls like, right?" He's almost to the door now.
Bold of him to assume I like shopping. Though I haven't actually been shopping in a long time, sticking to thrift stores and stealing Gee's clothes from her once in a while. "I already have dance supplies, and there's nothing else I'm in desperate urge of. Thank you, but—"
Maven cuts me off with a disbelieving tilt of his head. He speaks louder with the distance separating us. "Really? Your shoes fit perfectly? None of your tights have holes? We wreck dance supplies like wildfire, and if your supplies are in perfect shape, they won't be by the end of the first month. Let's go. I'm buying."
If I needed new clothes, I'd just use some of my Wall Street funds I brought with me. Not his money.
I huff a breath and make to plant my feet, but Maven's starting through the door, and I follow after him. He's hit right on the mark about my shoes, a tad smaller than comfortable. Every single pair of my tights is fraying or else has rips tearing up the thighs.
I push past the revolving doors, Maven waiting for me.
We're two rocks in a stream on the street, people flowing around us in a volley of color and voices. Somebody bumps me in the shoulder as I stare at Maven, his eyes matching the blue of skyscrapers. God, why are his eyes so blue?
Speaking first, I say, "You're right. My stock of dance clothes and shoes is pathetic, but I can buy those things for myself. I don't know if you've heard, but I have a job now, better pay than maids receive." I wink to mask my seriousness. I don't want to rely on Maven or anybody else to spend money on me when I have a salary in my future. It's a matter of pride, and it would kill me for Maven, of the Calore variety, to take me shopping.
"You would've died if not for a rope, and nobody's acknowledging it," Maven says gently, stepping under the marquee to escape the torrent of pedestrians. It's nearly lunch hour, making the streets extra-awful.
"My family gave you a job, but you would've deserved it had you auditioned normally. You're my partner, now, and I don't mind. I can get to know you, and you can get to know me. I'm well-off, so it's no problem, Mare."
I swallow against my instincts. "Where are we going?"
Maven grins, showing off his teeth. "I have a few places in mind."
"Really?" I ask, dodging Maven as he tries to shove leotards into my hands for me to try on. "I need ten? I have three back in my room."
I pass between two racks brimming with leotards, Maven close behind. "It's up to you. Depends how often you want to wash your clothes."
Turning to him, I use both of my hands to grab the hangers he's begun putting on his wrists, having run out of space on his elbows, leggings slung on them. "You look ridiculous. Don't they have baskets here?"
Here. Our first stop of the day, according to Maven. We walked uptown half a mile for what has to be the largest dance shop in New York: warmly illuminated by beams of lights—comparable to the ones in the rafters of a stage, but less harsh—with windows flaunting the theatre district outside. The walls are creamy, and the floor's a light brown color. Pop music plays quietly in the background.
The clothes . . . oh, the clothes. I've never penned myself for a girly-girl, content with my thrifted outfits and barren closet. But something awakened in me the second Maven and I walked in, having come up a flight of stairs and down a hallway.
I'm holding onto my sense, for the sake of Maven's credit card.
There's a wall of shoes, types of dance shoes I've never seen before. The white and grey racks and tables are endless, stuffed with leotards, others with leggings, or shorts, or ballet skirts . . . I won't go on. Mannequins decorate the store throughout, wearing all manner of dancing clothes. Packages of tights are on another wall, about every color you could want somewhere along it.
"I think a cart would be preferable," Maven says, looking at a sign posted on a nearby table. "Look. Twenty-percent off."
"Wow," I say sarcastically, shaking my head at Maven. I scuff my foot against the floor, a ceiling light reflecting off it, and I let a laugh loose. "Do you want to find a cart? I'm going to try this stuff on."
Maven dumps the pairs of leggings onto the growing heap between my arms and brushes his hands together, heading to the front of the store. "I'd go with ten," he calls over his shoulder.
I roll my eyes for the dozenth time, but I weave in and out of the displays for the opposite way of Maven, to the dressing rooms near the checkout. The soft, fresh material of the leotards presses into my skin, and the scent of new clothes overwhelms my nose. Maven and I have accumulated somewhere around twenty items for me to try on—I'll likely be lying to my shopping partner about how many I actually try on.
The last hour has led me to believe that I have nothing to fear from being Maven's partner. In fact, based on our interactions, I think I should be looking forward to it. He told me about himself on our walk, how he takes summer classes at Columbia University and does online during the school year to manage dance. He and his brother apprentice at their father's business on Sundays; in a decade or two, Cal will inherit the company.
Lastly, Maven is a fan of classic literature, and baseball, I learned when he poked at my ball cap and asked what the hell a Mets' logo was doing on it. Out of my two caps, I wore the interesting one today. He's a Yankees fan, to my dismay.
I enter an ample-sized dressing room, dropping my heap of neutral-colored clothing onto the bench. Before I take my current clothes off, I sort the heap, removing an off-brown leotard with a red tint to it. There's a half-chance Maven's found all these things walking around blind.
The leotard goes to the back-on-the-rack hook, and I remove my shoes, athletic shorts, and shirt to slip into the first of many leotards.
Once in it, the price tag literally itches against my skin. I resist the temptation of sneaking a glance at it.
Without tights, it's passable for a black swimsuit, a scooped neckline and a low back. I swivel around myself, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric. Simple. I like it.
Slinking out of it, I return the leotard to its hanger and place it on the bench.
So begins a very long process.
"Let's do five leotards and three pairs of leggings," I tell Maven, who loiters near the checkout, typing into his phone. A metal basket is set next to his feet, as promised.
"Your loss." He tucks his phone into a pocket, gesturing at the basket. "They don't have carts. Sorry."
"No, your loss." I kneel to put a significantly smaller pile of clothes in the basket. "You're going to have to carry another one soon." I pick up the basket at my feet, moving towards the wall of shoes I can't help but ogle at. "Shoes?"
"That's the spirit."
We cut between tables, my fingers brushing up against athletic shirts and tank tops along the way. I'll have to come back and look at those . . .
My shoe collection is depressing, to say the least. My feet haven't grown in the last year, but I swear my pointe shoes have shrunk, and I managed to put a hole through a pair of jazz shoes. My taps, the same model Cal's worn, are scuffed beyond recognition, having been at the end of their lifespan amidst my final weeks at the studio.
Pants and leotards are one thing, but I find dance shoes . . . empowering. Pointe shoes allow you to stand on the tips of your toes and tapping makes sounds your feet could never manage alone. It'll be nice to have new things, things I don't associate with my room where my clothes were hidden for months.
I stop in front of the wall. "What do I need?" I ask Maven, who scans it. Each model of shoe is positioned on top of a transparent plastic strip, clipped onto paneling. And there must be seventy different types, between the ballet—pointe and flat—jazz, tap, sneakers, and heeled shoes. Most are black or pink, but one of the sneakers is pink, blue, and yellow, and a pair of golden heels sparkles to the right.
"It depends on what classes you're in. Some of our teachers have specific dress codes, but . . ." He reaches past me for the tap shoe Cal's been misusing, with a chunky silver heel and a black body. "Go with this for tap."
Maven offers it to me, though it's several sizes too big. "I have these ones, but you're right. They're kind of beat up." By beat up, I mean they're wrecked, screws holding the metal ready to fall off. "Tell me." I hit the heel against my hand, metal on skin. "Does your brother wear tap shoes everywhere he goes? Because it's annoying."
I swear, no sound is worse than the sound of metal on marble, though Cal seems to enjoy it while it grates on my very being.
"You saw him up in the rafters," Maven acknowledges. "Not usually, no. He was in a rush, I guess, trying to cram in a tap practice, and didn't want to walk around in socks."
Maven smiles to himself, but he catches me looking. "I slightly outmatch Cal in tap," he explains. "He knows it too and spends a lot of his free time trying to fix it."
"That's funny," I say, not meaning it. I haven't gotten over the you haven't missed much, and your brother scored in your place line. He might be younger, not quite as skillful, but I still . . ."What are you, two years younger than him? He can dance all day, and you still have to do school."
"Yup." Maven shifts, picking up a black jazz shoe. Just by the way he turns his shoulders ever-so-slightly, I know I've hit a fragile nerve. He goes on anyway. "I'm good, but Cal's great. The curse of being the younger sibling: I'll always be in my big brother's shadow."
Ouch. Cal's little brother, his shadow, just admitted a truth I can't admit to myself half the time. I take a few steps towards the column of ballet shoes, where Maven turns a ballet slipper over in his hand.
"We'll have someone help us find the right size," he says, pointing a thumb at the three aisles of shoe boxes behind me. He opens his mouth to say more about the shoes, probably, but I interrupt him.
"Believe me. I get it, feeling you don't compare to your brother. My sister . . ." I trail off, swallowing. I inspect the tap shoe's laces, but not seeing them. "She's younger than me, but it's no secret at home my parents favor her." The words fall out of my mouth, fast and fluent. They remind me of my family and Gisa's red hair. Gisa, who has a room all to herself now. "She's a seamstress and I'm a dancer, and according to my parents, sewing's realistic and dance isn't."
It doesn't sound valid when I'm Maven Calore's partner at the Manhattan Dance Academy, but it's the whole and utter truth.
Maven's thoughts are similar, his lips twisting into a scowl. "How could they not support you? You're a professional dancer . . . they don't support you?" He says it softer the second time.
"Because they don't know," I say simply, no more dramatic than telling him his shirt is black or the sky is blue. Maven becomes concerned very quickly, his brows raising an inch up his forehead and eyes widening. I go on, pacing to help my anxiety. "They never even knew I got a job. They've never been supportive, and yesterday, dance came up in a conversation, things were said . . . at that point, I had no interest in telling them about the Academy."
On our walk here, I mentioned that I had moved in last night, having decided my apartment was too far away. But Maven's also told me things, and I know he's smart enough to put two and two together.
"So you . . ."
"Ran away?" I nod and drift to the end of the shoe display. I'll be forging a lot of signatures in the coming days, between the papers releasing me to live at the Academy to my employment contract. I have to keep on hoping my parents won't get the police involved in this.
For the first time all day, Maven's at a loss for words. I doubt he could ever imagine such a thing happening to himself, rich boy and all—no offense to Maven; I've decided he's not that bad for who his parents are. If he or his brother went missing, no doubt the NYPD would be all over it in an instant, considering what happened with the company the Street Fighters attacked.
I continue when his silence lasts, though he never fails to listen. "I couldn't," I whisper, our arms almost touching now. "Couldn't stay there for a second longer, but I didn't know how I could tell them either." I nearly mention Shade to him, how my family will be fine since this isn't the first time a member has left.
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's not fair. Not at all."
No. It's not. A lot of things in life aren't at all fair.
"It's okay. I left a note, and I'll go back soon enough. I just need . . . just need the space to get used to this. This is good for me. Thank you," I say, sweeping a hand at the racks around the store. I feel so privileged, so special compared to my life a week ago. I've continued to refrain from sneaking glances at the price tags, and I honestly don't want to know what the grand total will be.
Maven doesn't care about the money, has no reason to, yet he's proven thus far to be a decent guy. I don't mind spending the day with him, getting to know somebody I'll be dancing with for who knows how long.
"Do you want to try on shoes now?" he asks, and I nearly hug him for changing the subject so gracefully. "They have more somewhere, too, if you care."
I settle down on a bench off to the side of the wall, the tiniest smile inching onto my face. "I didn't think I had a choice."