Watching Ann strip my bed of its sheets and pillowcases is still weird.
The maid works with brutal efficiency as she comes in and out of my room. Each time, she carries something new, from expensive bars of soap to a feather duster that I tell her not to waste her time with. Ann wipes down my bathroom sink, erases invisible smudges from my windows, and vacuums around me as I sit on my plush couch, watching some reality TV show that I don't pay attention to.
I'll never be used to living in this loft. Not only is it the same size as the entirety of my family's apartment, but it's equipped with a maid service of a five-star hotel caliber. Apparently Tiberias Calore makes it a priority to treat his dancers like princes and princesses, for those who are interested. In spite of the fact that any of us could afford a nice apartment in Manhattan with our dancer's salary, a good number of the younger, college-aged Academy dancers actually live here.
I don't blame them. It's free, and ballet exhausts us. I don't have time to clean or do laundry, not to mention I was never particularly good at either. Gee and Mom did most of the housework back at home when I was too busy with dance, and Mom never poked the subject as long as I was pickpocketing. The Academy maids save me from my incompetent self, and the more I think about it, I'm near-certain I would've gotten fired as a maid in a week's time.
"You actually watch that crap, Mare?" Ann calls. I can hear her shuffling the bottles of washes, bars of soap, and scented candles—the Academy doesn't provide the latter, but I've come to the conclusion that Bath and Body Works sales are my kryptonite, dammit—I've accumulated in my bathroom.
"No," I mutter, staring down at my hands. I was channel surfing when she knocked, and when she came in, I lost any motivation I had for finding a good show to watch.
However it happened, Ann's a member of the Scarlet Street Fighters. Not a week ago, she delivered me Shade's note with a cheery smile and a fake laugh, and I haven't seen her since.
We can't talk about it, though. My door's wide-open, and I wouldn't trust whispering Scarlet Street Fighters within a block-radius of this place anyway.
So I sit on my couch instead, waiting for her to be gone.
I'm not usually around when a maid comes, and I just leave my laundry in a heap by the door, along with a note saying what I need. With Ann shuffling back and forth, I feel frozen.
"Your laundry will be back in an hour and a half," Ann calls again, forgetting about my reality show. A moment later, the maid comes out of my bathroom with a faint smile. She glances around my room randomly, then to me. "You should put a little more of an effort into decorating your loft, you know," Ann says, as though she's only realizing this now.
She's only somewhat wrong. The first time I set foot in it, my loft already looked like a team of interior designers had swept through, with its beautiful furniture, tasteful paintings, and pretty kitchen and living room knick-knacks. It comes with a full dinnerware set and my own towels, and I really only have to buy a few things that the Academy doesn't provide itself.
But I know what she means, even as I have no idea what I'd buy that wouldn't be a waste of money. I came with nothing but the clothes on my back, a duffle bag, and a photograph of my family that I've since taped to my fridge. I've purchased some new clothes in the last weeks, but . . . aside from shoving my leotards and shirts and pants into my massive closet and buying some scented candles, I haven't made any effort to make this place my own. It's somewhere to sleep and recover from the horrors of ballet, and that's it.
I try not to think about all of the things that I left at home. I didn't think anything of them when I left, and I don't need them now, but . . . I wish I'd brought something or anything.
Ann, however, must know that her question doesn't appeal to me, because she doesn't wait for me to answer as she leaves the room again.
A plopping sound and a click of my door later, and Ann's gone.
Startled, I glance back up. She didn't even say goodbye. I guess we didn't have much to talk about, though.
But she left something in her wake.
As if it popped out of thin air, an iridescent grey bag with the Apple logo rests a pace from the door.
I raise my brows. Oh, God.
"Oh, Shade," I mutter, my reality show still playing in the background as I peek inside the bag.
Nobody would have Ann secretly deliver me a bag of Apple products, save for Shade Barrow. My brother's either doing a kind deed, needs me to have this stuff for some reason, or he's still guilty-as-hell and trying to buy his way back into my life. I'd imagine the latter, but I could never be sure.
Rolling my eyes to none other than myself, I sweep a hand through my hair. I thought I made it clear enough yesterday that I was just happy to have him back and that I didn't need a single thing more. But perhaps one conversation doesn't erase a year and a half's worth of guilt.
Pristine white packages rest within the bag, wrapped in plastic that makes for a glittering effect. Though it takes me a moment to convince myself that touching the boxes won't break them, I eventually pull out one after another, each a different size and weight and price.
The phone comes first, and I recognize it as the newest model that's advertised everywhere from my TV screen to right outside in Times Square. Not-so-ironically, once I open its box, I see that the phone's finished with red. Vivid, Street Fighter red. It's been opened before, and when I turn it on, the screen flashes to a picture of Shade and his phone number.
I put it aside, glad to see that Shade included a silicon case in the bag, periwinkle rather than red.
My hands pull out another two packages, smaller but still expensive. In one hand, I stare back at a fancy watch, its small screen encased in pale pink metal and attached to a seafoam-colored band. And in the other, I eye a set of AirPods. I almost snort.
Then comes the rectangle-shaped box. After a struggle with the packaging, I'm face-to-face with a slim silver laptop.
At last, I find a note at the bottom of the empty bag.
First of all, I have plenty of money, Mare.
Second of all, no, you're not paying me back. I owed you anyway, and I wanted to do this.
Stop being such a Boomer and learn how to use a phone.
But don't look up anything sketchy on the Academy's WiFi.
Shade doesn't sign the card, but it's been penned in his usual handwriting. For a while, I just gawk, open-mouthed, at what must have cost more than the entire shopping spree Maven once took me on. I don't need any of it, and I don't—
From beneath the note, a photograph falls out from between my fingers.
Gingerly, I pick it back up.
A little girl, no more than five years old and missing a few teeth, looks at me through a camera lens. She's wearing this great fairy princess dress with her ballet slippers, and her big brother of two years has his arm slung over the girl's shoulders. The siblings' mom crouches down to embrace both children, her arms encompassing both of their tiny bodies. She's younger, and no grey streaks her hair.
I remember this picture as the one Dad took in the lobby after my recital of that year. Shade and I are both wearing these huge, animated grins, and Mom's smiling the way she did before dance started costing too much.
You're almost eighteen. It's not too late to go back to school or get your GED. This pickpocketing and shoplifting . . . isn't safe or right.
Her words echo in my mind, reverberating until I'm sure they hurt. They were some of the last that she said to me, and they ring more than the others.
Deep down, I know that it's only a matter of time before I see Mom, whether she tracks me down or I break and go home, despite my position between the Calores and the Street Fighters.
It's not too late to go back to school or get your GED.
After she slaps me a few dozen times, Mom will be happy for me.
At least your partner has the right idea, dropping out of high school for ballet. And look how far she's come.
Evangeline's words join the echoes.
Mom only ever wanted for me to have a stable, safe life. In almost every way, I've done the exact opposite. I dropped out of school because of my rage, and I've joined a gang that's dangerous in more than one way. I have a career that could end in the blink of an eye, with one broken bone or one whispered secret.
I wish I could say that the idea comes from nowhere as I flip open my new laptop and wait for it to turn on.
Mom smiles at me through the photograph, with her worn jeans and mom sunglasses propped on her forehead. She looks . . . happy.
The computer turns on, and it has me enter my information. I enter the Academy's WiFi password, found on a slip of discarded paper at my dinner table.
I enter a search browser and type in how to get your GED.
Two hours later, I shut the screen of my laptop and plug it in along with my phone, Apple Watch, and AirPods. I'd laugh at the sight if I weren't so cranky over re-learning math.
I need a notebook to keep track of this stuff. Probably some books too for studying.
This is the kind of thing that Maven would love to know about. He'd love to help me study, and he'd be good at it. I have no doubt that with him at my side, I'd pass the GED with flying colors.
As of the moment, he's actually studying for an advanced physics test.
Or maybe it's calculus. I forget.
Either way, he spent half of last week complaining to me about it, only to ask me if I wanted to go see a movie today. I told him absolutely not and that he needed to study for his test.
The only explanation I can come up with for how Maven manages it all is that he's beyond-smart. GED content would be the easiest thing for him. He wouldn't think any less of me either.
But however hard it is, I've decided that I have to do this myself. It won't be any fun, but I'll do it.
For Mom, for Dad, and for myself.
I let loose a big sigh, and I absentmindedly gather up my hair into a ponytail as I walk from my bedroom to my living room, only to realize that I have nothing to do.
Most Sundays, Maven and I go out. I usually spend part of the day on ballet technique, but I already gave my morning to that. I don't need groceries, and I'm all stocked up on those meal kits that I've become so fond of. I'm burnt out of studying. I could go looking for something that would make Ann proud of my decorating skills, or I could go shopping for some new fall clothes. But neither of those things sounds like a good use of money or time.
I think that I'm bored.
It doesn't happen often to me, but I'm pretty sure that I'm bored.
Either that, or Shade's photo of Mom has gotten to my head and convinced me that I have nothing to do—nothing that matters, at least.
A glance to the clock on the wall, and I see that it's just about seven in the evening.
Without really considering what I'm doing or giving myself the chance to give into the fear of it, I open my door and close it behind me. I don't lock it, instead continuing down the hall and up a flight of ugly-carpeted stairs.
The top floor of the Academy is identical to my floor, winding around itself with apartment lofts. Like those of a hotel building, the hallways up here are much simpler than the opulent ones downstairs. Ugly carpet continues between two ordinary cream walls. Doors are spaced along them, identical to my own.
With only socks, my feet walk down the way, and I suddenly wonder if I should bother changing into something other than my racerback tank and sweats.
I've been invited plenty of times to the Academy girls' hangouts. From what I've heard, they mostly play board games and watch movies, and it's nothing glamorous or high-maintenance. But I've never been one for having big groups of girlfriends, Kilorn and Maven being the closest two friends I've ever had. Most Sundays, I'm peopled-out anyway, having spent the entire week around them. On the rare occasions I've considered coming upstairs and getting to know the other girls, the thought of Evangeline being there has sent those thoughts running.
Both Evangeline and Elane are gone from the Academy now, and I'm in need of a great distraction. From the Scarlet Street Fighters and the certain horrors I'll face next weekend at the gala; from Tiberias Calore; from Mom and Dad; and perhaps, from myself.
So pasting on a similar smile to the one I'd use on stage, I straighten out my shoulders and follow the voices that I hear down the hallway.
Soon enough, the door that I'm looking for approaches me. Finding it wide open, I step in front of it before I might regret it and rap my knuckles against its threshold.
Whichever of the dancers lives here, her cookie-cutter loft is only slightly better decorated than mine. Some fluffy pillows litter the couch, a multicolored standing lamp rests in a corner, and a soft ballad plays from the TV, anchored to the same spot in the wall as mine is.
Really, though, the dozen-or-so ballerinas sitting around the living room in two circles are what makes this place different from my own.
"Mare," one of them says, as though we've been friends forever.
To my eternal thanks, she grins at me. The others make similar, welcoming faces. Most of them are girls from the Corps, and two I recognize as Soloists. I doubt they all live here, but all of them are young.
"We're just starting a game of Monopoly," another chimes in. "You can join our group," she says, motioning at her circle.
They don't know me, and yet they're smiling like they do. Sure, I've talked to most of them on one occasion or another, asked them questions and answered theirs about how to do one ballet move or another, told them that I'd see if I could come to these game nights of theirs.
Their faces remind me of the faces I've seen on the Academy guys, watching Cal dance.
I wonder if that's what they think of me, Giselle and all. I wonder if they see me as something unreachable, something to model themselves after, their aspirations embodied within a person. For the record, I don't feel the part.
And I don't know if I love that they look at me that way or if I hate it.
"Sounds good," I say, my voice a little too high.
I keep my pretty stage smile pasted on.
"Cal's taught you well," Blonos remarks to me. "And you've learned well."
The following afternoon, Maven and I rehearse in Blonos's massively-sized studio. Too-bright lights have long since lost their effect on me, and as usual, sweat pools at my neck. In the corner, a silent pianist prods at piano keys to keep me and my partner on count. Two of the other Academy ballet teachers watch from near the mirrors. And barely two feet from me, Blonos stands with that posture of hers that makes me look like I'm slouching.
Blonos isn't scheduled for my rehearsals today, but she's popped into her own studio to observe me and Maven. It makes me nervous. Maven and I have never rehearsed together before.
"Thank you," I murmur. Out of the corner of my eye, Blonos doesn't look particularly pleased, but then again, she never does. Her expression is as severe as her posture, but it's as much approval as I'll ever wrest from the woman. I don't forget the words that she said to me a week ago, either, after my little contest with Evangeline.
Maven performs in the center of the room, smiling like a lovesick fool. We just went through our second pas de deux, where Count Albrecht lifts Giselle an unnecessary number of times.
But once I realized that Maven can lift me just as well as Cal can, in spite of Cal's buffed-out physique and Maven's leaner cut, I didn't feel so out of control with him. I felt perhaps even more in control with Maven than I feel with Cal.
Watching him perform now, a small smile lingers at my lips. If Cal's version of dance is ruggedly perfect, then Maven's version holds a subtle grace that I can't help but admire. Practiced, honed, the way mine is. The faces and masks he wears are one-of-a-kind, too, versatile in the way that he can come across as over the moon with joy one moment and in the depths of sorrow the next. It's the realest thing, so real I can't tell if his faces and masks are of his imagination or truly come from someplace.
"Cal has been a good teacher, I take it?" Blonos asks. In another moment, I'll be back dancing, as Albrecht finishes his dance for Giselle that's supposed to convince her that he's in love.
"I suppose so," I say, after a few breaths. Cal seems to know what he's doing, and there's nothing to complain about that has actual backing. He's spending time on me that he doesn't have to, and without him, I wouldn't be rehearsing a Giselle-Albrecht pas de deux right now.
"Does he challenge you?"
"Yes," I tell her automatically, not exactly sure where this is going but knowing that fact is true.
Blonos only nods to that, apparently pleased with my answers.
I turn my focus back to Maven just as the pianist cuts off, turning the room silent and breathless.
Last week, it was all about drilling choreography into me. I'll be onstage for almost the entirety of Giselle, and my mind continues to spin with every second of the rehearsals I've gone through, in futile attempts to recall everything. I even learned the pas de deux last week, marking the sections where Maven would lift me.
So knowing that we're just going to dive right into another duet, I cross the room to my partner. A fine layer of sweat graces his skin and stains the neck of his T-shirt, and his raven hair's practically glued back with it. He dons a smile, but it carries a hint of apprehension. Now that I'm standing beside him, his stage face isn't quite there.
"Now," Blonos says. Her stern eyes survey the both of us, and her pale throat bobs as though considering something.
My stomach sinks a little. Though I've marked all of the sections with Maven in the choreography, I know everything that's coming.
"We ought to address the elephant in the room," she continues. Blonos makes no move from where she stands. I suddenly feel as frozen as she is.
The studio's too bright again, too big for this moment. I force myself to keep my head up, though my eyes inevitably find the floor to stare at. For the first time in a very long time, I feel like the leotard and tights and skirt I have on to imitate Giselle's dress aren't enough and that I should cover up.
Thinking about it, hearing that Maven and I kissed twice in Giselle didn't seem like the biggest deal in the world. That was last week, mentioned in between orders by the choreographer I was working with that day. Honestly, I was too tired to think much of it in that moment.
"You're both seventeen," Blonos says. The Academy's choreographers don't seem especially intent on having this conversation, turning their gazes to one another to confer on something. Anything, probably, as long as it helps them ignore what's about to happen. "You've both kissed before, correct?"
Not correct. Not at all correct. False.
The air in my throat is heavy as I swallow. I've done a lot of crazy, ridiculous things this week, but somehow, none of them compare to this.
In the First Act, Giselle gives into her love for Count Albrecht and lets him know it with a kiss in their third dance together. It's brief, nothing compared to the full-fledged make-out session the two have in the Second Act. But . . . I'm getting butterflies.
"No," I mutter. My head starts to droop towards the floor.
"No," Maven says a beat later, and my head comes back up along with my eyes.
I've been . . . busy. Busy pickpocketing. Busy training to be a professional ballerina. And more recently, busy allying myself with terrorist organizations. I haven't had much time for boys.
Blonos, emotionless, serious Blonos, raises a plucked brow. At seventeen, the boys must've been all over her. I don't think about that.
"Well then," she says. But that's it. That's all she says, and seconds drag on as she says nothing more.
He might not be as tall as Cal, but Maven still towers over me. I've made the mistake of stopping too close to him, and I can see the rise and fall of his chest. I wonder how fast his heart beats within.
This isn't the same as our secret handholding.
I don't want it to mean nothing, either. I don't want us to just be ballet partners, performing and acting.
Maven's eyes implore my own, probably asking all of the same questions. He tries so very hard to look confident for the both of us, but uncertainty looms in his widened eyes. Maven blinks, as though trying to reset his face in neutrality, but it does nothing. His lips shift over and over again, either searching for words or preparing for whatever this is about to look like.
"You know the counts. You know what it looks like in the choreography. So why don't you just try it?"
I have no idea. What this is about to look like, I have no idea.
Neither of us makes a move. I won't move until Maven says something, but Maven won't say something until I do.
This is all out of order. The kiss isn't even until the end of the third pas de deux. Blonos is putting everything all out of order, making me learn things backwards and not explaining anything and—
"Okay," Maven says, surprising me.
Another breath, and my partner's taken the liberty of closing the distance between us. It happens fast, so fast that Maven must think doing it any slower would talk himself out of it.
My chest is inches from his, and as I gaze up at him, there's more certainty in his eyes. Not much more, but more.
Our kiss shouldn't be here. I would've preferred that this happen in the grungy subway station in Little Italy or over the table where Maven first held my hand.
I'm not prepared for this. If my partner were anybody else, it wouldn't matter so much and I'd forsake my pride and give up my first kiss in a ballet studio.
"It's just a kiss," Blonos reassures me. "Get it over with so that we can move on."
Her words are a contradiction to everything I believe as I rise up in my pointe shoes. The added height puts me six inches below Maven.
Maven's hand goes to my hip, just as the choreography goes. He tilts his head down, and I tilt mine up.
His lips are soft against mine, mouth cool and tasting of mint.
His lips move slowly, and I realize that I'm moving mine back.
There's an icy fire to his kiss, so similar to his eyes.
And I can't say that I hate it.