My heart pounds as Manhattan blurs before me.

Familiar glass, grey pavement, dying sunlight, and electric signs circle back around me with every turn. Those things come and go without fail, again and again until they might as well all be the same, however hard I spot my head. Though it's nothing more than a distant understanding, people walk on the sidewalks below, across the streets. They look like little ants from here. They always do.

A pianist carries on behind me, fingers perhaps as nimble as my feet are right about now. Numbers echo in my mind, and it's only those counts that remind me to come out of my strange turn combination to run.

Straight into a leap.

My legs burn, and my lungs feel about ready to collapse.

When I turn around for the mirror, pleading with my memories to recall what comes next, I look nothing short of insane. But it is the Mad Scene, after all.

It goes on to finish.

Sweat glues my skin to the long-sleeve shirt that I made the mistake of throwing over my leotard this afternoon, but I keep in time with the music. It's a difficult thing to do when time seems to be ebbing and flowing.

Piqué, piqué, piqué. Arabesque.

The notes of the piano reach a crescendo, sad and aching.

Chassé. Tour jeté.

I fall into a deep curtsey, arching my back.

Giselle never comes up, crumbling out of her curtsy to the floor.

I behold the city through the glass, and while I'm not turning anymore, Times Square is still that mess of lights and signs.

If this were an actual show, whatever woman that plays Giselle's mother would have me in her arms and weep over me. Today, though, I just lie limp on the floor.

The final note of Act One—where Giselle has danced her heart to death, quite literally—rings, and I force myself to sit up. My hands go straight to my pointe shoes the moment the ring's echo fades out.

There might be an entire city in front of me, but as soon as I've undone the ribbons and yanked each of my pointe shoes off, I look to the ceiling. Forearms balanced on my head in an attempt to get more air into my dying lungs, I focus on that ceiling. Tiny black spots join the cream paint.

I wiggle my toes, waiting for feeling to return to them.

Throw in another thousand details and you have yourself a two-minute-thirty-second piece.

Giselle never should've fallen in love with that stupid Count Albrecht.

"Lovely job today, Miss Barrow."

What comes from my throat is meant to be a laugh, but it sounds more like a breathless groan once it's out.

Still, I manage to say, "Thanks, Carmadon."

When I've regained enough sense to look away from the ceiling, I find the ballet master leaning against the barre at the studio's side. With his charming smile, Carmadon Green is far less threatening than Rane Arven, though the man knows his ballet just as well. Along with Blonos, Elara, and Arven, he's the fourth and final ballet master of the Academy.

I only met him this morning, barely given the chance to shake his hand before he was spouting out counts and instructions and dancing to his own choreography. In fact, I know very little about my newest ballet instructor, other than that he has the darkest eyes, skin the color of chocolate, and is about fifty years old. And that while Carmadon might smile and has a quietness about him, he's a killer teacher who almost killed me today by shoving the entire First Act in my face.

"Thank you," he returns, emphasizing the 'you' part. "Don't go forgetting all my choreography now, Miss Barrow."

I laugh, and this time it sounds like it. "I wouldn't dream of it."

It's Wednesday.

Which happens to be a rather unfortunate thing for me.

The stage. Eight o'clock.

Those were the four words he said to me today in passing, and I had to clench my jaw to avoid rolling my eyes.

But after enduring six hours of Giselle choreography, seeing the passion of Giselle as I danced the part, and going through scenes that will soon be joined by Maven . . . I realized that I really don't know how to dance with a guy. And I'm Giselle.

I've never danced with a guy. I know nothing about how to be lifted or held—or touched, for that matter—by a guy. I've said it before, but the thought rings more heavily now. It's a problem, in light of the choreography I witnessed today, full of all sorts of things my dance studio never taught me, never could teach me when not a single boy ever stepped through its door. And with each passing second, that shortcoming of mine becomes more and more of an issue.

With Maven still in school, he doesn't have the time to teach me how to dance pas de deux.

And he seems to be the one person in this entire building who can fix that.

So in a clean pair of dance joggers; a new, non-sweaty long-sleeved shirt; and a set of non-slip black socks, I fasten my hair into a ponytail at the door to the stage's left-wing. With dinner in my stomach and a thirty-minute nap under my belt, I feel about as good as a ballerina can feel at eight o'clock at night.

Shaking my head and muttering a curse, I turn down on the handle, push the door open, and slip through. It clicks softly behind me.

I haven't been here since my audition.

The wing is a disarray of shadows, bloodred curtains slashing lines into the golden light that filters over from onstage. Even then, the slats of light barely lift off the wood floor, and the air that surrounds me is mostly dark, with that scent about it that all theatres have. A scent that I'll always fail to describe.

The curtains fall to the ground from far above, vanishing into the pitch-black of the rafters along with rigging ropes. Towering over me and six times my height, they make me feel small as I walk deeper into the wing, stepping into the first rectangle of light along the way.

"You're on time."

"Surprised?" I ask, passing another curtain before turning onstage.

The lights are dimmed enough so that the stage is cool, though plenty bright enough to dance on. With a quick—and not entirely subtle—glance upward, I see that a second plank has indeed been added to the stage rafters, framing the row of yellow lights that shine down.

The wood beneath my feet is sturdy as ever, enduring as it was when I fell on it. The Calore Dance Academy logo branded into the floor has gone nowhere. Ahead and behind me stand ebony stage wings, still more shadow than anything else. To my right is the stage wall, nothing more than tan bricks.

During my audition, I pretended that not a single person sat in the auditorium. Now no one does, and I feel the urge to dream up people that I can half-see in the shadows. To my left stand eight-hundred empty chairs, the same shade as the curtains and just as threatening as they are with people in them. A packed audience is one terrifying thing, but an empty theatre is worse in its own way. It's like I'm on this wooden island that's surrounded by nothing. The doors at the back are closed, shutting out the chandeliers of the lobby that would otherwise greet me. An odd exit sign here or there shines, but that's it.

Without people, the auditorium will echo more. I can't decide if that's good or bad.

This space, stretching far and wide, makes me feel even smaller than the curtains do.

"Yeah. I expected you to be five minutes late, at least."

Of course, there's one other person here. With a notebook in his lap, Cal sits near the right-wing in a metal folding chair. His hair is tousled and almost curling, and he wears a grey shirt and black training pants. Our socks match. He's the last thing in this entire auditorium I look at, and when I do, fiery, amused eyes collide with my own.

The way he has his ankle balanced on his knee and his arms crossed incites something in me, but I return his smug gaze with a sweet smile. "I wouldn't waste your time, Cal."

It takes a great amount of will to say that. Cal knows it too.

He lets out a one-noted laugh, leaning forward a little. "You'd love to waste my time."

I shrug, finally stopping in the middle of the stage. A little closer to Cal, and I'd be standing where I fell on and bruised my ass.

I raise my brows, daring Cal to read me. It's the one time I won't get mad at him for it.

"But you realized you need my help, Giselle."

I've always needed the help. Evangeline's decision to get herself into a car crash just precipitated that need. I cross my arms behind me back, just for somewhere to hide my fidgeting hands. "Mm-hmm." It sounds strangled coming from me, and I won't say any more.

That crooked grin stays pasted on Cal's face . He's enjoying this. I can't exactly blame him. I've tried to pickpocket him, and since I've gotten this job, our interactions have mostly consisted of me insulting him. I laughed when Cal told me his motorcycle got stolen, called him stupid for leaving it alone in East Harlem. Though that was a good one.

I sigh, certain to make it exasperated and loud. It might even echo through the theatre. "Should I sit and wait until you're ready to start, then?" Or are you planning on wasting my time?

Cal must see those words in my eyes because a bit of that smugness melts off the planes of his face. His jaw softens, and it reminds me of when we first met. "I'm ready. Are you?" He uncrosses his arms, closes his notebook, and tosses it to the floor.

It smacks the wood as Cal gets up from his chair and heads for centerstage.

I'm tempted to say yes, say it along with a joke. I could tell him how I took a contemporary class as a tween, or how my best friend and I once did the lift from Dirty Dancing—though Kilorn and I were ten at the time and I fell on top of him in a matter of a second. That would be the easy thing to say and the easy thing to do. It's what I would usually do. But . . . "Probably not," I say, shaking my head at Cal.

He was a stranger once. I had no problem telling him my entire life story the night I met him, but it wasn't just because I was broken and angry that I talked to him like I did. It was because he was a stranger, and telling somebody you're never going to see again shouldn't have consequences. I try to pretend he's that same stranger now and give him something real out of me.

Cal stops a comfortable number of feet away. His height over me bothers me more than ever, adding to the hate I have for the auditorium and three-story curtains. "I promise I'll try not to drop you."

Of all the things he could think to say. "Not I won't drop you?"

He looks me up and down, smiling to himself. Cal must bench double my weight, and that's a conservative guess. "The chances of me dropping you are very low."

Then he puts out his hands, palm side up.

His eyes speak plainly, openly. I'm reminded of his brother, though I shove yesterday's memories down until I can't feel them. This isn't the time or place to worry about the events of yesterday. I can only worry about Giselle here.

This is as awkward as you make it, Mare Barrow.

Tentatively, I put my hands in his own, far bigger than mine and enveloping. They're warm, strong from what I can tell. My fingers wrap around his loosely, finding calluses from what must be his motorcycle handles. I'm careful to keep my eyes on him.

"I thought I'd have more time to teach you." Cal says, shaking his head. "But it doesn't matter how much time I have if you don't trust me."

I don't bother telling Cal that I do trust him enough for this. He'd see right through that lie. "How are you going to get me to trust you, then?" I ask.

Trust doesn't come easily to me. When I think about it, trust isn't something I give out at all. Maven's a special circumstance, and I never intended to have to trust him the way I am now. I trust my family, but only because I grew up with them and relied on them until recently. Shade and Kilorn are another story, but they'd no doubt take a bullet for me.

But this trust between me and Cal . . . it's different and the same. More physical, more dancer-to-dancer, yet underneath all of that, there has to be something more.

He lets go of my hands, circles around me so that he's behind me. I now stare towards his chair, his notebook, and a stage wing that's all-too dark. The curtains and rigging make shadows and shapes that loom above the both of us.

"We'll start with some trust falls," Cal says simply. I can almost feel him shrugging his shoulders behind me. "And go from there."

There's something about having my back to him that makes me nervous, though I suppose that's what he's trying to fix.

I take a deep breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth. I choose my next words carefully.

"It's eight o'clock, so plenty of studios are open. Studios have mirrors, and mirrors are nice for dancing. Though that's just my opinion," I say. I speak a little louder, testing the acoustics of the theatre, and yes, the slightest echo of my voice returns to my ears. "But you think that being here, in this big and quiet theatre, is going to evoke some sort of emotion out of me." The perfect setting for this contemporary dancing bullshit.

Cal doesn't respond at first, and I close my eyes. I see a faint red color, the product of closed eyelids and stage lights.

I can't see any of it. Not the shadows, not the rows of seats, not the exit signs.

"I don't like mirrors, though that's just my opinion," he says after a few beats. He doesn't acknowledge what I said.

I huff a breath. "How do you fix your mistakes if you can't see them?"

Though at this point, the answer's clear enough. "You don't."

This. This is the contemporary bullshit I'm talking about.

"Whatever." I say it, but it doesn't mean anything.

One final breath.

I put my arms out, pinching my eyes shut tight.

Without asking Cal if he's there, if his arms are there to catch me, I tip back on my heels.

I lose my balance, but I don't stumble to catch myself. My head and back sail for the floor.

When I'm halfway there, Cal's arms are around mine, solid and unyielding, pushing me back up.

"Again," he says.

I haven't complained. I haven't told him that this is getting tedious. I didn't even complain when Cal first dragged over his chair, had me stand on it, and had me fall right off it.

This time, his arms don't come around mine until my head's nearly level with my feet, but he's there when I need him to be.

I don't even flinch, and it's too late to catch myself with my body eighteen inches from the ground.

I flinched the first few times when Cal started going lower and then again when we started using the chair.

Cal lifts me upward enough so that I regain my footing. I turn to face him, and while the chair wobbles, it's hardly something I notice at this point. "Are we good?"

Six inches below me, Cal actually has to tilt his head up to look me in the eye. "I don't know. Do you trust me yet?"

"I trust you when it comes to falling off a chair."

Until I got onto the chair, Cal's stomach would be at my back every time I'd fall, and his arms always catch mine. It's one thing to see him at the barre, but an entirely other to fall into him. I could feel the rigid outline of his abs each time I'd go crashing into them, and his biceps aren't hidden at all. I swear he's pure muscle, and it's only that reason I can handle falling off a chair into his arms.

That sounds like the most ridiculous thing I've ever said, but it's true.

For a moment, Cal and I just stare at one another. I enjoy looking down on him and put my hands on my hips to make a point.

He narrows his eyes before sighing."If you're sure," he concedes.

I make to hop down from the chair, but Cal puts up a hand.

"You're getting off easy today," he says, hand stuck in midair. "With you starting choreography with my brother next week, I have to prioritize and forget about contemporary for a day. We're starting with lifts."

I know what he means, contemporary dance and all, but lifts . . . I wouldn't call them getting off easy. While the chances of Cal dropping me might be low, or very low, as he says, I'm bound to . . . well, drop myself sooner or later. And I'm not looking forward to it.

He sees the look in my eyes. "You'll call this easy when I start kicking you in the shins every time I see a turnout I don't like."

The look in my eyes darkens.

Cal only gives me one of his crooked grins as he lowers his hand. "Turn around."

I can't bring myself to argue with him, so I do as he says and shuffle my feet around. In the next moment, his hands settle at the top of my hips. I force myself to relax my shoulders at his touch.

This is as awkward as you make it, Mare Barrow.

"Push off the chair on the count of three and jump up, but at a little bit of an angle towards me. I'm going to lift you, not above me, but up. Arch your back. Balance your weight. You can worry about making it look balletic later."

My heartbeat only picks up a little.

Cal's grip on my waist tightens, though it's almost soothing in a way. As if his touch is supposed to tell me that he's got me. I tell myself that what he's describing isn't actually that difficult of a lift compared to others. The fact remains that Maven and I begin our rehearsals together next week.

This isn't the deep end. I'm not jumping into anything dangerous.

I'm jumping into Cal, after I told him to stop with the trust falls.

"Okay," I say quietly.

"One, two."

We're wasting no time tonight. Good.

Jump up and in. You've done in a thousand times before, just not . . . aimed at a person.

I don't close my eyes this time as I bend my knees.

"Three."