Read Unwrapped Online

Authors: Melody Grace

Tags: #romance, #christmas, #unbroken, #melody grace, #beachwood bay

Unwrapped (13 page)

BOOK: Unwrapped
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I stared at her, gaping. “I don’t
understand.”

“I was dancing solos at your age.” Mom paused to
give me a look, the familiar mix of disappointment and impatience
that makes my heart clench with guilt in my chest. “
The Black Swan
,
Coppelia
… But
you’re still in the
corps de ballet
,” she
said, referring to the lowest rung of the company, the nameless,
faceless group who dance behind the major stars, out of the
spotlight.

There’s no shame to the position, it’s where all
dancers start. I remember being thrilled the day the letter
arrived: I’d been accepted into the American Ballet Company, the
most prestigious dance company in New York—and the world. All of my
hard work, the years of training and sacrifice, had paid off. I
could finally make Mom proud.

But the shimmer of membership quickly faded.
Soon, just being one of the company wasn’t enough. It was about
moving up, getting noticed, winning solos and larger roles. The
training got harder, the competition more fierce. For the past
year, I’d felt like I was running on a treadmill that only went
faster: pushing myself harder and harder, just to stay in the same
place.

“I’m trying, Mom,” I explained quietly. “You’ve
seen how hard I’ve worked.”

“I know.” She gave a brusque nod. “It’s the
director. He’ll never give you a break, not as long as you’re my
daughter.”

I shifted uncomfortably. My mother’s legacy is
inescapable. As one of the best
prima
ballerinas
of her age, she has a legion of fans—and a long
list of people she trampled on her way to the top. “He’s not
holding that against me,” I murmur.

“He is, which is why you’re going to Rome. All
the top dancers are staying here for the fall season,” Mom added.
“This is your chance to win a solo, get noticed. The other girls
will be out partying, messing around. You can beat them. That is,
if you’re ready.” She paused, giving me a searching look. “Are you
ready, Annalise?”

I paused. The truth is, I wasn’t so certain
anymore, but I knew only one answer would do. “I’m ready,” I said
quietly, and went to start packing.

But now, one week and a thousand miles later, I
wish I’d been strong enough to tell the truth. Because here, away
from my usual routine filling every hour of every day, I can’t help
but hear the whispers of doubt I’ve fought so hard to keep at
bay.

What if it’s not the director’s vendetta against
Mom that’s been holding me back? What if I can’t even win a solo
here, in the touring company, without the best dancers to beat?

What if you’re just not good enough?

“Make a wish.”

A voice interrupts my thoughts and I snap my
head up. An old Italian woman is hawking souvenirs around the
crowd, carrying racks of keychains and cheap jewelry.

I stare at her, confused. She nods at the
fountain, already sparkling with coins through the clear waters.
“You make a wish in the Trevi Fountain, it always comes true.”

I dig a Euro coin from my pocket.

“Wish for happiness and love.” The old woman
winks at me, then moves off into the crowd.

I pause, turning the coin over in my hand,
feeling the smooth metal and unfamiliar ridges. Wishing for
happiness … I give a wry smile. The women has clearly never met a
ballerina. We could never waste a wish on that, not with a lifetime
of hard sacrifice behind us, training for hours every day, dancing
until our toes bleed and our limbs ache.

We don’t dance to be happy. We dance because we
must.

I flip the coin into the air, watching as the
sunlight reflects on metal: a dazzling beam in the bright
afternoon.

Please let me win the solo. Please let me be
good enough. Please let me make her proud.

The coin slips into the water with a ripple,
lost in the bed of other coins, other hopeful wishes.

I just pray that mine comes true.

 

 

“Is it just me, or are these ancient Roman
guys kind of on the small side?” My roommate, Karla, scrolls
through her photos as we wait in line to board the tour bus. She’s
the closest thing I have to a friend in the company, a street-smart
girl from Chicago who danced her way into a full scholarship for
school, and then straight into the Company.

“You can’t say that!” I protest, laughing.
“Those things are religious relics.”

“So?” Karla grins, unconcerned. “Look at him.”
She zooms in on a statue from the Trevi Fountain, a gorgeous
sculpture of a man wrestling with a wild horse. “You would have
thought he’d slip the sculptor a fifty to make sure he was, you
know, immortalized the way he’d want.”

“Maybe he slept with the artist’s wife or
something, and this is his revenge,” I suggest, giggling.

Karla smirks. “Or maybe the ancient Romans were
growers, not showers—”

“Ladies.” She’s interrupted by someone clearing
her throat. Our chaperone, Mademoiselle Ninette, appears behind us,
so fast I jump. “Everything good, ladies?” she demands, her French
accent thick.

“Yes, Mademoiselle.” Karla gives her best
innocent smile. “We were admiring the statue. The work is
magnificent.”

Mademoiselle doesn’t look like she believes us.
“Don’t hold up the line,” she barks. “We have a tight schedule.”
She moves to herd up some stragglers, her trademark silk scarf
fluttering in the air behind her.

“Karla!” I break down in giggles the moment
she’s gone. “You know she heard everything.”

“Oh relax.” Karla grins, climbing on board.
“I’ve seen her, perving over the male dancers in their tights.”

“Eww!” I cry, following her down the aisle. “I
do not need that image in my head.”

“And you know what they say about dancers, even
the old ones. That flexibility never goes away!” Karla gives me a
wicked grin. “Just ask your mother.”

“Double eww!” I cry, pushing her down into a
spare seat and sliding in next to her. “Never talk about my mother
and …
that
. Just, never!”

Karla laughs, settling in her seat and pulling
out her tour guide to Rome. “What’s next?” she asks, flipping
through the book.

“The Colosseum,” another voice speaks up.
Rosalie, our third roommate, pops her head over from the seat
behind. She’s clutching a clipboard and map, her long copper braid
already unravelling in the autumn heat. “Then the Spanish Steps,
the Forum, and St. Peter’s.”

“In one day?” I exclaim. Rosalie just named
every major tourist spot in the whole city. “I thought we’d get
some time to wander, you know, really explore.”

Rosalie shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, I just
wrestle with the copy machine until I’ve got ink permanently
tattooed on my hands.” She shows us the marks, smudged halfway up
her arms. Although she’s nineteen, like us, and part of the group,
Rosalie hasn’t danced an
arabesque
in her
life. She’s here as Mademoiselle’s long-suffering assistant,
running after her every minute of the day.

“I’ve got some Oxyclean back in the room,” I
offer. “It got those smudges off my pointe shoes, so it might be
worth a try.”

“Or your skin will peel off,” Karla adds.
“Either way, it’ll get the marks out.”

Rosalie laughs. “Thanks, I’ll take it.” Then, as
if she has a sixth sense, Rosalie turns to the front of the bus.
Two seconds later, Mademoiselle’s voice rings out.

“Rosalie? Where are you?”

“Back to work,” she gives us a rueful smile.
“Some of us aren’t lucky enough to get the day off.”

“Rosalie!”

She makes her way obediently to the front of the
bus, just as the engine starts, and the bus pulls away. Rosalie
loses her balance at the sudden motion, and goes flying into the
nearest person’s lap.

“It’s obvious who isn’t a dancer here.” The
girl, Lucia, shoves Rosalie upright, scowling. “Maybe you should
sit in on a class, learn something about being graceful.”

“You can talk,” Karla yells down the aisle.
“Didn’t you get so dizzy turning
fouettes
you puked all over the Director?”

Lucia glares. Rosalie blushes, and scurries on
up front.

“She’s such a bitch,” Karla murmurs.

“Yes, but her
grand
jetés
put us all to shame.” I watch Lucia plug in her iPod
and slouch lower in her seat, pointedly ignoring the beautiful city
passing by outside the windows. She’s Italian, and hasn’t missed a
chance to remind us, heaping scorn on our halting accents and
halfhearted requests for ‘
uno espresso, per
favore.
’ “You think she’ll get a solo?”

Karla bites her lip. “There are only four to go
around.”

“You’ll take one,” I say. Karla doesn’t
disagree. It’s not ego, it’s simple fact: she’s one of the best
dancers in the company. I wish I could be as fearless as her, in
life as well as dance.

“So that leaves three …” I glance around the bus
at the other members, making sure to keep my voice low. “Julia had
that sprain,” I murmur hopefully, seeing one of the other best
dancers chat with some friends up front.

“But she’s better now,” Karla gives me a
sympathetic smile. “I saw her in rehearsal before we left. The
Director said she was promising.”

I inhale a breath. Coming from the Director,
that’s lavish praise.

We both fall silent for the rest of the journey,
all our earlier joking forgotten. When it comes to ballet, there’s
no room to play around. Out of the full company of eighty dancers,
we all know, only a small handful will ever graduate to be
principals, dancing the big roles, and of them, maybe one or two in
a generation will become
prima ballerinas
,
the best of the best, praised and adored by all.

My mom’s words echo again. She’s right, when she
was nineteen, she was already a rising star in the company, wowing
audiences with her solos and perfect form. Sometimes I feel lucky,
having a mother who can understand my passion so well. She doesn’t
ask why I spend three hours a night practicing my
arabesque
lines, or tell me they looked fine to her,
like some of the other dancers’ families. They just shrug and smile
in a bemused way, and applaud everything their kids do, but Mom
will stay up with me in our converted home studio, critiquing me
again and again until I’m perfect.

But then, other times, the weight of her legacy
feels like it’s crushing me, bearing down so heavily I can barely
breathe. How am I ever supposed to live up to her? To even equal
her skill and talent, let alone find some way to develop my own
style, my own form?

I used to be certain, so sure I would succeed,
but more and more, I hear the whispers rising, taunting me with my
own limitations. The fact is a dancer’s professional life is short.
Most peak in their late teens or early twenties, and by the time
they’re over twenty-five, their bodies can’t keep it up any longer.
It’s a short window, painfully precise, and I’m already into mine,
with barely anything to show for it.

“Hey, you’ll be OK.”

My worries must show, because Karla squeezes my
arm. “Julia has no musicality, and Lucia can do the leaps, but her
toe-work gets sloppy after a while. You’ve got a solo locked.”

“Thanks.” I manage a weak smile. “But enough of
that. This is our day off, we shouldn’t be obsessing about
ballet.”

Karla looks at me, and then we both burst out
laughing. “Fine,” I correct myself, giggling. “We should
try
not to obsess about ballet.”

“I can think of the perfect distraction.” Karla
points out the window, to where a group of Italian guys are waiting
to cross at the lights. “I love the local scenery!”

 

Our next stop is the Pantheon, a vast, soaring
old cathedral with a domed roof and elaborate columns.

“Oh, look at the square!” I breathe, stepping
off the bus. The church is set on a small
piazza
, the buildings all faded terra-cotta and dark
green shutters, glowing gold in the afternoon sun. “Isn’t it
beautiful?”

“Delicious,” Karla murmurs, and when I turn,
she’s gazing at our latest guide, a twenty-something man chatting
with Mademoiselle.

I roll my eyes, amused. “Down, girl.”

“Hey, I’m allowed to look.” Karla snaps a
surreptitious photo of him. “It’s not like I’ll get to do anything
else with this curfew they’ve got us on. Honestly,” she sighs, “I
feel like I’m back in school with all Mademoiselle’s rules.”

I nod, even though I never went to a real high
school. Mom enrolled me at a special performing arts academy so my
ballet training wouldn’t be interrupted. I got my GED and then
joined the academy two years ago, without even a graduation
ceremony. “It would be nice to have some free time,” I agree. “I
thought we’d get to explore, but she’s planned out every minute of
the day, down to the bathroom breaks!”

BOOK: Unwrapped
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