When I return to my apartment the following afternoon, I realize that I've made a mistake.
Staring at my fridge, I take in the colors and lines of an incredibly damning family photograph. It was taken with Gee's self-timer on Christmas day two or three years ago, and all of my family members are featured in it. Mom convinced Dad to wear matching ugly sweaters, my brothers and I are wearing flannel pants, and Gee sports a homemade robe. Beneath our sparsely-decorated Christmas tree wait the Christmas presents that have yet to be opened.
If there's one thing that Mom always takes seriously, it was Christmas.
But that's not the point.
The pajama-clad boy in the photograph between me and Shade is undoubtedly, damningly Kilorn Warren, though nowadays, he's better known as the nameless terrorist who tried to assassinate Ptolemus Samos two nights ago.
Better known as the strange waiter who gave me the strange look.
Somebody destroyed the mugshots the NYPD got of Farley and Kilorn. The only maid that every steps foot in my apartment is Ann. I have nothing to worry about.
Still, I gingerly peel the photo off my fridge.
Swallowing, I head up the stairs of my apartment, deciding it's time I hide it along with the red envelope from my brother.
Blonos, deciding that a day and a half is enough rest for the ballet company, hosts an evening technique class.
Upon entering, I notice that for once, the studio's clinical lights are dimmed to a warmer shade. The rows of barres are already out, and half of the company is already here, murmuring quietly amongst themselves and otherwise warming up. Nothing looks especially different. If not for the lights, it could be an ordinary morning at the Calore Dance Academy.
I made my bun too tight before coming here, sticking in it too many bobby pins and attacking it with too much hairspray. I threw on the first leotard I reached for in my closet, along with a pair of tights. Then came my navy-blue warm-up pants and a fleece, along with my beloved moon boots.
And now I'm here, feeling too well-rested, acting like everything's okay, and inwardly complaining about my too-tight bun.
"Miss Barrow."
After Saturday evening, I'm plenty used to hearing my name from lips that I don't recognize, and I have no trouble turning around myself.
Cal's bronze eyes regard mine, but I don't have to tilt my head up to find them. In fact, the grey-haired woman that I face might be a half an inch shorter than me.
"Missus Lerolan," I say, remembering Cal and Maven's grandmother's last name as I offer the woman a small smile and a nod of my head. But beneath my eyelashes, I can't help but gaze up and survey those bronze eyes. I find nothing sad or angry in them, and they don't look tired, either.
One of the Scarlet Street Fighters shot and killed her brother at the gala. She must've not been close to Belicos, though, if she's here this evening, wearing the attire of a ballet mistress. But her expression isn't the stern one of Blonos or Elara, and Anabel's mouth softens as she begins to speak.
"It's a terrible thing that I called you upstairs on Saturday evening," she says by way of apology. "You would've been much safer where you were further into the ballroom, downstairs. I'm sorry."
I shake my head, grimacing a little. "You hardly knew any of that was going to happen." I might've, but she didn't, and now her brother's dead because of it. Because of something that I knew.
I force myself to remember what Tyton said. Belicos Lerolan couldn't have been a good man if he was one of the Scarlet Street Fighters' targets.
"I'm sorry," I still say in a whisper, careful to not draw any attention from the other dancers or Blonos or Elara, who talk about something across the room. I don't know her, but it's what any decent person would say. "About your brother."
Anabel only shakes her head, having no interest in discussing her corpse of a brother with me. "But I suppose after all of the things that Cal told me about you, reminding me so much of myself, I could hardly wait to meet you, Miss Barrow," she says, swerving away from any talk of Belicos Lerolan. If she didn't come across as so impartial, I might question it. Her eyes, not carrying a particular emotion, stay intently trained on mine. " Do you have experience in ballroom dance as well? You certainly looked like you did when you were dancing with my grandson."
I have the nerve to chuckle before shaking my head. "Not at all. But the steps aren't very hard compared to the stuff we do here, and I just sort of . . . figured it out."
The ex-ballet dancer returns the warm smile that I paint on my face. "You had a good partner to follow along with as well. You match one another as few can," she explains, eyes blooming with a little light. "Like my husband and I did when we danced together. Some said that he was a little tall for me—over the years, I've realized that Calore genes tend to be like that—but we made up for that in other ways."
I can only crinkle my eyebrows at her comparison, somewhat unsure of where she's going with what she says. Choosing to ignore it, I half-change the subject. "You sound like you were a very talented ballerina yourself," I tell her, giving the woman another nod. "I can't imagine what it was like to have such a long, great career like you did."
"It was long, and it was great," Anabel agrees, revealing a bit of perfectly-healthy arrogance. "But one day, Miss Barrow, you will be able to imagine it. Because from what I have heard, you are just as great as I was at seventeen."
Not that she's ever particular happy with anyone, but tonight, Blonos seems especially displeased as she weaves between the barres.
One of the Academy's pianists strikes at the chords of the grand piano in the studio's corner, and my right foot flies from the ground up into the air again. The combination isn't enough to make me sweat, even in my extra layer of clothes, and more than anything, it's mind-numbing with its repetitive rond de james and développés. Blonos doesn't seem willing to put us through anything more difficult, and she hasn't once scolded somebody or another for an instance of poor technique.
"Stop, stop, stop," Blonos drones, ordering us and the pianist to a halt. I give Iris, who occupies a space on my barre's other side, a puzzled look as my foot drops to the ground, and I catch Maven giving me a similar look from his place down the barre.
"Do we need to talk about what happened on Saturday evening?" Blonos asks, her voice, tight as my bun, filtering through the air.
Not even half of the company was at the gala. It was only the Principals, the Soloists, and a couple of rising members of the Corps.
"Because it seems," Blonos continues, edging on what is probably the most emotion the lady can muster, "none of you want to talk about it, in spite of the fact that it's hanging in the air like a very heavy, invisible weight."
"Technique's a good distraction, Blonos. We'll be back to normal by the end of the week."
Blonos looks at Ptolemus Samos skeptically. "Perhaps I'd believe you if there wasn't a gauze pad sticking out from the sleeve of your shirt, Ptolemus," she says, looking at the Soloist with a bit of concern written on her severe face.
"I'm fine. You all know that." Ptolemus brushes it off with a wave of his hand.
I was surprised to see Evangeline's brother saunter into the studio this evening, looking for all the world like somebody hadn't tried to kill him. But it turns out that Kilorn's first-ever assassination attempt went even more poorly that it looked like it had. The bullet only grazed his shoulder.
Blonos sighs, glancing towards Elara and Anabel, who passively watch us from the balcony above. When they offer nothing, Blonos tilts her head from side to side. She's contemplating something.
All of us ballet dancers stare on towards our ballet mistress. Some of us start shifting on our feet, waiting for whatever she's about to say.
"Very well then. Let's do something fun instead of all of this silly barre work."
She must mean some combinations. I'm not sure what else Blonos is familiar with that constitutes as fun. I can't help but raise my brows, when what she says seems to contradict everything that the woman stands for. I'm not the only one with parted lips in the studio.
"Let's see some dancing. Any ideas from any of you?" Hands on her hips, Blonos surveys the room. "And please, nothing from Giselle. We spend enough time with that ballet, don't we?"
Silence. Nobody from the company knows where the hell Blonos's mind is. And with the last two weeks at the Academy consisting of hours and hours of Giselle choreography, none of the dancers—in spite of their statuses as world-class—have any great ideas for what Blonos asks.
None of them—
"I have an idea, Blonos," Maven announces from his place a few spaces down from me, resting a hand on the barre.
"Do tell, Mister Calore." Blonos raises her plucked brows. So do I, wondering what my partner's come up with.
"Well my partner, here," Maven starts, and my raised brows go halfway up my forehead, "was telling me last week about how, using the powers of extensive searching on YouTube, she had finally managed to find the song that her audition went along with."
If it were anybody else, what Maven says might be cruel, considering all that surrounded my audition. But I can't help but pinch my lips together in a strange, childlike anticipation.
"Mare remembers the whole dance as well as she did the day she performed it. And she was kind of excited talking to me about it. She said that she would kill to dance it again in front of people."
He's referring to a conversation he and I had earlier this week, just after I had finished up the most intense YouTube searching of my life—the laptop that Shade bought me had to be good for something other than GED studying. And besides. I've been meaning to find that song for ages.
I admit that I was too excited talking about it when we were on our way out of the Academy, still trying to decide what Mare and Maven would do for fun that day. I was practically jumping up and down, caught up in the ecstasy of knowing that I at last had a complete dance. It was what got me here, and it was also the last dance that my studio owner choreographed for me. I've been attached to it for a very long time, and no amount of Giselle choreography will ever make me forget it.
"And nothing makes Mare Barrow happier than ballet dancing."
My partner knows me too well.
The rest of the ballet dancers look between me and Maven expectantly with small smiles on their faces. Not all of them were there for my audition, but they all heard about it. And now they're all looking at me as though they want to see me dance. Their eyes egg me on, heads tilting to the side with curiosity.
I already ran through it a couple of times in Julian's studio one morning, unable to resist the powerful chords of the song.
"I would like to see it," Anabel announces from the balcony.
"It was technical perfection," Elara murmurs from her spot next to Anabel.
"I was in Paris," Blonos mentions. "But I heard that it was beautiful. Let's give Miss Barrow the audition that she so deserves."
My lips, despite myself, curve upward into a smile. Dancing my audition again would be like a sort of redemption. Not that I have anything to redeem myself from, but to dance with the music . . . Maven's right. I would kill for it, so that everybody could finally see my dance as it really was.
"She's thinking about it," Iris comments from my side.
"Mmm-hmm," another Corps girl agrees next to me.
And if not for my own sake, I think that everybody in this room is in desperate need of something new to focus on.
I bob my head up and down in acquiescence. "Yes. Of course I'll do it."
"Seven and a half minutes?" Blonos echoes as I hand her my phone. She continues staring at me as she plugs it into the balcony wall to connect my song to the surround sound.
I nod, hands on my hips. I've already stripped down to my black tights and leotard. Like I said, it was the first one in the closet that I saw, and only after taking off my fleece have I realized that it's the one that shows off half of my back in a V-shape, the one that's such a deep shade of red I mistake it for black more often than not. Feeling almost self-conscious, I threw on the black ballet skirt I keep in my bag before tying on my pointe shoes.
"Yes," I tell her. "I cut it for my audition."
I remember those panicked forty minutes, where I butchered my choreography and took out the best parts before sewing what I needed together.
Behind Blonos, Elara raises an impressed brow. Carmadon, Rane Arven, and Julian Jacos—the latter of whom I'm having trouble making eye-contact with—look on interestedly. With nothing else to do, I guess that they were all planning on attending Blonos's technique class this evening, though I'm not entirely sure why Julian's here. Perhaps he needs a distraction as much as the rest of us.
"It's a very powerful song, Miss Barrow," Blonos adds, apparently recognizing what she reads on the screen of my phone. "Though I have no doubt that you handle it well. Who choreographed this for you?"
The floor below me cleared of barres, the rest of the dancers are arranged just as they were for my little turning contest with Evangeline, sprawled out along the margins of the room. Most of them chatter, happy for the impending distraction, and a few of them try to listen in on the conversation I'm having on the overseer balcony.
"One of my old instructors," I tell Blonos vaguely, not planning on going there with her when I already did with Cal last night. "The choreography's supposed to be tailored to me and what I'm good at."
Elara offers up an emotionless chuckle. "I'm not exactly sure of what you're bad at, Miss Barrow."
Blonos nods in agreement. "I'm sure it was tedious to hear at the gala, Miss Barrow, but you should be very proud of yourself for what you are. It's been a pleasure to watch you dust off that minute layer of rust and become the ballet dancer that you were always meant to be."
When it's coming from Bess Blonos, I can't help but smile. She continues. "You are the picture of perfect technique, excellent stamina, honed grace—"
Until her attention shifts down. "Mister Calore. You're late."
I turn my head over my shoulder to see Cal walking through the door in his ballet clothing, glancing around the room as though his eyes alone can figure out what's going on.
I can only imagine why he's late, though it undoubtedly had something to do with Calore Industries.
"Another ten minutes, and you would have missed Miss Barrow's dance."
Cal's eyes flicker to mine. "Oh?" He sheds whatever confusion he wears. "Something from Giselle?"
I shake my head. "They want to see my audition. The full dance, with music."
I feel power.
The song, still that song of loss, ruins me in ways that few other things could. I hit every note, every beat with precision, even as I begin to feel something other than power, something other than being alive.
It happened the first time, too. There's something about this dance that makes me want scream or cry, and I can never decide which.
Even without seeing them, I know that everyone's attention is fixed upon me. It's been minutes, and sweat gathers at my brow from the exertion of turning and leaping. Somebody dimmed the lights even further, making for another of those romantic dance settings. My feet have grown numb to any pain that might otherwise haunt them.
The day I auditioned, I cut into this dance and extracted its best parts. I took the turns and the footwork and anything else that resembled classical ballet.
But the full, unabridged dance is almost a contemporary ballet.
Not to be confused with contemporary, contemporary ballet has its roots in classical ballet but involves more freedom and less rules. There are . . . new movements to it, motions that have me flinging my arms and feet in directions that I shouldn't and skidding my pointe shoes across the floor. It's what I originally hated about this dance, what provoked me so much, when it took classical ballet and distorted it into something modern. I never understood the movements, even though I've since perfected them and convinced myself that I understand them.
The music, deafening and quiet all at once, continues on.
My audience continues to watch. I know that I have their attention.
And I continue to dance.
The track ends, and instead of falling out of my fouettés, I land in a kneeling position.
It was beautiful. My heart beats, and not just from exhaustion. Shivers ricochet down my body, my bones remembering how I turned across the floor with such grace, how I kicked with a bit of Cal's ruggedness.
As they always do, the other dancers applaud, the palms of their hands smacking together over and over again. A few murmur claims of disbelief, and another few let out whoops.
"To the audition that Mare Barrow always deserved," my partner's voice calls from the corner.
My head's directed at the grey vinyl floor, my eyes watching one quivering thigh. I breathe hard, and my eyes flutter open and closed. I discard the customs of a ballerina, allowing my back to slouch and my face to drop.
"To the audition that Mare Barrow always deserved," the rest of company calls, everyone slightly off from one another.
I've always had their respect, but I think that tonight, I have their love.
Evangeline never had that.
I can't help but smile as I take in the very sound of everything that I've ever wanted.
In time, I force myself up.
The first two people I notice in the mirror happen to be Cal and his grandmother. They stand near the back of the studio, and Anabel's murmuring something to Cal quietly into his ear. I imagine that the two of them are talking about me.
Crossing his arms, he listens to her, but he's also already locked eyes with me. He smiles one of his crooked grins, seeing better than anybody else how there was a bit of contemporary to my dance.
He probably knows that it's all synthetic too, that I've only perfected it but don't understand it. It's something that he'll undoubtedly use later in some attempt to teach me actual, genuine contemporary dancing.
He smiles like he's already won our little contest.