Note: I plan on inserting a chapter in Part 2 on Academy logistics next week-there will also be a fouetté contest between Mare and Evangeline, as referenced in this chapter.

Enjoy! :)

I'm pissed.

If Kilorn were here, he'd tell me that I'm always pissed for one reason or another, but I'm especially pissed today.

Tonight, actually.

It's a Friday night, and I'm sitting in a tufted leather chair, high-backed and creamy white. The cushion beneath me might as well be stuffed with cardboard, and the chairback is no better. Though all of the furniture in this place is probably meant more for decorum than actual sitting. The chair even has clawed golden feet.

See, this particular chair I sit in is part of some designer store on Fifth Avenue, the name of which I've already forgotten. Luminous white lights shine above me, speckled ivory floor tiles are at my feet, and honestly, no walls are in sight. A second—and empty—leather chair is a few feet away from mine, and across from a beige rug rests a long grey futon. This would be a clinical, cold space if not for the racks and shelves of clothing and shoes that face me from every direction as far as the eye can see. Seriously—I can't see any walls from here.

I sit on my hands. I'm not sure what else I should be doing here aside from staring at beautiful dresses hung from oddly-shapen clothing racks or the lights suspended from fixtures that make them look like levitating bubbles. My eyes bugged out when Iris and I first walked in from the street and I was met with a bar that sold shoes instead of alcohol, and my heart nearly stopped beating when we passed through a hallway of purses.

A hallway.

After my third day of choreography for my new role as Giselle, Iris decided to invite me on an evening outing for dresses. Exhausted as I am, as much as I wanted to take the elevator upstairs and not come back down, I couldn't say no to her. Like I've said, aside from Maven, Iris is my only real friend at the Academy, and I have to at least try with her. Though I was unaware that trying would have me walking into a high-end department store on my least-favorite avenue in Manhattan.

Fifth Avenue. I hate it just as much as the Upper East Side, if not more. Everything's sparkling and gorgeous and it drives me insane. The worst part of it all is that a piece of me awakens at it now, just like how I couldn't contain myself when Maven and I went shopping for dance things. That's why I keep my hands under my legs.

"What are you thinking? You like either one?"

I glance up from a floor tile. I was counting its speckles.

Iris stands on the massive rug in front of me, holding two dresses. One's a flamboyant red, and the other's a muted grey. She raises her eyebrows and shakes the dresses on their hangers for emphasis.

I try to be nice. "The red one reminds me of that maid uniform, and the grey one is . . . boring." I give Iris a sympathetic, I'm sorry smile.

It's true that going to a store like this would piss me off. It does, but it's not the root of my anger tonight.

I was informed today by Lucas that I have to attend Tiberias Calore's gala next weekend. Lucas ran away before I could ask any questions or take out my rage on him, but what he told me was information enough. It'll be at Calore Industries' downtown building, not so far off from Wall Street, and all of the Academy's Principal and Soloist dancers are mandated to attend.

Though I'm still not sure what defines a gala, I thought they were about charity, but this sounds like anything but. It'll be a night all about publicity for Tiberias Calore when he invites Manhattan's most elite and famous, in spite of the fact that I haven't seen him step foot in the Manhattan Dance Academy since auditions. The newspapers will be there to cover it, and the rich people will be there to buy season tickets—and to return to their penthouses and tell their neighbors about it. Ex dancers of the Academy will fly in from their retirement homes on the coast to speak, the balcony seats of the Met will be auctioned off, and there's something about a live performance.

Apparently, it's all high-society's talking about these days. No doubt will it be grand. Far more opulent than anything I've seen from the Calores so far.

My only consolation is that Lucas has promised me no public speaking is involved on my part. I just have to attend in a pretty dress, smile for the cameras, and pretend that the people I'm surrounded by aren't sucking the life out of me. But with everything that's happened with Evangeline, those people will surely ask questions. They'll want to know about the newest Principal dancer of the Academy.

I have no interest in telling them.

Iris shakes her head in front of me. "Do you have a particular color in mind, then?"

We might not know one another well, but Iris has talked to me enough that she knows I have no clothing close to what's appropriate for a black-tie gala. Tuxes for men, floor-length dresses for women. That's why she wanted me to come out with her tonight.

Though she's only a Corps dancer, Iris will be at the gala too, as she's part of high-society and all. She knows what she's doing when it comes to dresses.

"Blue? Purple?" She's looking for an answer, but I give her a question instead.

Iris puts a hand to her hip. This is the first time I've seen her in anything other than a leotard, and today I've discovered that she and I wear not-so-different clothing. Though hers are black and mine are grey, we both wear Converse—a few weeks ago, I gave in and bought a new pair when mine started making weird sounds—along with plain jeans. I might even be outdressing her right now, with my bomber jacket to her lime-green hoodie.

Regardless, we both look sorely out of place in this store with our street clothes. All of the other women here either wear business attire, or as eloquently as I can put it, fancy clothes.

"Blue? Purple? Iris repeats back mockingly. She tries to sound annoyed, but it's fairly obvious that she's having fun going back and forth between the racks of dresses and me. She just about shoved me down into this chair before going off the first time in search of my dress.

This is, of course, the seventh time.

"Blue or purple," I try to say more confidently. "And no glitter."

"You've already said that, Mare," she returns, annoyance sprouting into a grin. Without another word, Iris disappears into the abyss that is this department store.

I'm more concerned about the price. I have the money, but I'm not interested in wasting three weeks' worth of my bank account in one fell swoop. But I already told Iris that, and I also told her that I'm good on the shoe-front. I plan on wearing the ones Elara got for me all those weeks ago.

So it's back to sitting on my hands for me.

Naturally, my mind wanders to Giselle. The ache in my legs is a constant reminder of that ballet.

I still don't think I've fully absorbed any of it. I've barely had time to.

It wasn't until Thursday that Blonos announced Evangeline wouldn't be returning for the season due to her broken ribs and torn meniscus, the result of a car crash on the Upper East Side. Nobody else was injured, I'm only finding out now, as Evangeline crashed her car into not another car, but a concrete light post. The whole thing sounds strange and out of control to me, but it was late at night and she was probably speeding. Though Blonos didn't say anything about what caused the crash, and she certainly didn't mention what Lucas told me about Evangeline not being able to brake her car.

She did, however, tell everybody that they'd be able to sign a "get well soon" card after class.

I didn't sign it. If I had, it probably would've looked like a slap to Evangeline's face more than actual concern for her.

The other girl in the car was Elane Haven, one of the Corps dancers at the Academy. I've seen her in passing before, and I remember she was the only girl in the room who didn't have a smile on her face after the fouetté between me and Evangeline. They must be close, the two of them. But while Elane's injuries weren't severe, the doctors didn't want her back dancing either.

The Academy was short two Corps de Ballet dancers for all of one day. It turns out there are dozens of girls from auditions just sitting by their phones, waiting for callbacks.

As for myself . . . I'm Giselle, and I'll keep saying that until it sinks in.

It was supposed to take longer. Years, in fact, or at least that's what I thought.

The last three days have been a whirlwind, even more so than usual. I've been tossed around between Blonos, Elara, and Carmadon—Rane Arven, thank goodness, is strictly in charge of the Corps—and as of now, I know the entire ballet of Giselle from start to finish. Granted, I trip over my own feet too much and completely go blank now and then, but Carmadon assured me that's what one gets when she learns an entire ballet in three days. He said that by the end of next week, I'll have the show perfectly memorized, and then it'll just be a matter of ironing everything out.

Though "ironing everything out" is a lot more difficult than it sounds. Producing an entire ballet performance of Metropolitan Opera House quality is a grueling, painstaking process that even people like Carmadon and Blonos struggle with. Interesting weeks are to come.

But sitting in this chair and thinking about it . . . I'm brought back to every time I've ever been on a stage. I think about the heat of the spotlights on my skin, along with the feeling of a scratchy costume, and find it oddly addictive. The euphoria of dancing on pointe and the idea of jumping and turning onstage is equally wonderful, and I can only dream what the Met will be like.

I've never been afraid of a crowd, and the crowd's silence . . . the crowd's applause . . . those things are my favorite. I'll be on that big stage all alone for some parts of the show. I'll have no Corps to rely on. My heart beats faster just thinking about it, though not in a bad way. I'll dance in front of thousands as Giselle, and somehow it doesn't scare me at all.

I look forward to them seeing me.

"Hey." Iris snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Blue or purple?"

I realize I'm staring at the floor again and look up.

Iris is back in her usual position, holding up two dresses.

The purple one has this beautiful halter neckline and a mermaid skirt. It's nice, but the skirt's too tight. I'd probably rip it open at some point during the gala.

The blue one, on the other hand, has me taking a second look.

It's a rich navy in color. The dress's skirt is billowing, and there's this layer of transparent-bluish fabric that extends a few inches past the regular part of the skirt's bottom. The neckline's a V-shape with wide straps coming from a tight bodice. The dress is soft to the touch when I reach out.

Straight to the tag at the dress's armpit.

Iris nearly rolls her eyes.

But it's not as bad as I was expecting. Still bad, but not as bad.

"You should get it." It's not Iris who says it.

I twist around in the chair and find Maven behind me, forearms balanced on top of the chair back. He grins down at me. "You'd look good in it."

Iris nods in agreement. "Absolutely. Your partner's right."

Although Maven has made a habit of sneaking up on me, I was half-expecting him this time. On the way out of the Academy, Iris and I ran into him in the lobby, and she told him where we were going. He said that he wanted to see what she came up with and would be there in half an hour. It makes sense now why he laughed and told me to have fun in that tone of his.

Iris's grin matches Maven's, and she shoves the navy blue dress into my lap. "I'll put the purple one back. And you better have that one on by the time I return," she says, nodding at the abyss of racks to the right. Without another word, she's gone.

"You're basically rich now. You can afford it," Maven says.

It's supposed to be a joke about my raise, but his voice has changed. He sounds worried.

Confused, I stand up and face Maven. His easy, natural grin is as gone as Iris, lips bent into a frown. His brows are raised.

Crap. That face means one thing and one thing alone. Something to do with the color red and fighting.

I can barely hear myself when I say, "What is it?" under my breath.

His response is an envelope. He stuffs it in the purse dangling at my side. "Try on that dress," Maven says. "Changing rooms are over there." He points left.

I can do nothing but walk to the changing rooms.

I close the dressing room door behind me a minute later.

They sent a note to Maven this time.

The envelope's already been opened, and it's just a matter of fishing inside and pulling out a red notecard.

My eyes run over it once, twice. A third time.

The Loeb Boathouse. Tomorrow, noon. Bring your partner and what you collected for us.

It takes a solid five minutes of staring at that note before I can stuff it away and try on my dress.