Third Position Page 5

  Francesca.

  11.

  I stare into the tiny alleyway in disbelief. Raphael and Francesca. It can’t be.

  But it is.

  He’s dancing with her, and not just any steps. The routine Raphael choreographed just for his audition. Just for us. He’s smiling down at her like they’re the only two people in the world, his hands tight around her waist, guiding her body into place as they spin and move across the cobbled street. Francesca gazes up at him, and the connection between them is undeniable—sensuality shimmering in the air between them, radiating from every step.

  I feel a chill wash through my body, paralyzing me. I know what it feels like to be where she’s standing, to fall into his arms like this. They couldn’t be more intimate if I’d walked in on them having sex.

  The door slams shut behind me. Raphael looks up.

  “Annalise!” he exclaims, leaping back from her. And if seeing them dance together wasn’t bad enough, then the look on his face now is enough to break my heart.

  Guilty.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper, suddenly feeling too weak to stand. I reach out a hand, clutching onto the wall for support. “What are you doing with her?”

  “I was teaching her the steps,” Raphael gulps. He shoots an anxious look at Francesca, then back at me.

  “But...why?” I blink, trying not to lose it.

  “Because I’m his partner again,” Francesca answers for him, giving me a triumphant look.

  I stare. “Is that true?”

  He looks down. “I was going to tell you. I got a message, from the Collective. They asked me to a call-back. Only, it’s a week from now. Your opening night. I knew I could never ask you, so...”

  Francesca steps forward beside him, sliding her hand possessively around his arm.

  “He came to me, and begged me to dance with him,” she says smugly. “He realized he made a mistake picking you, he said he couldn’t do it without me—”

  “That’s not how it is!” Raphael interrupts, but I already feel ill, just listening to her. “Annalise, listen, let me explain.” He takes two paces toward me. I flinch back.

  “Is she telling the truth?” I swallow back tears, waiting, hoping for him to say something to make all of this OK. “Did you ask her to replace me?”

  “No, I mean yes, but it’s not like that!” Raphael looks anguished, but all I can see is the image of them dancing together, a perfect couple. A few hours ago that was me in his arms, and now he has Francesca there, like it meant nothing at all!

  “So what was I?” I demand, anger coming now, hot in my veins. “A place-holder? Some temporary fling until she came back to you? Or maybe that’s what we all are—disposable partners, for you to pick up and put down whenever you want!”

  “You’re not listening to me.” Raphael closes the distance between us and takes my hands in his, staring into my eyes. “I did this for you. I could never ask you to choose between me and your dance.”

  “But you did!” I cry, fury and wretched misery crashing through me in a torrent of grief. How did I not see this coming? How could I ignore all the warnings?

  “The moment you asked me to be your partner, I made a choice. Do you even know what I’ve given up for you?” I demand, thinking of the rehearsal hours I sacrificed to be with him, all the sneaking around and lies. And now, my very place in the company is hanging by a thread, and all because I fell for his charm, threw myself headfirst into his embrace. “God, Raphael, you don’t even know. I risked everything!”

  “I do know,” he tells me, still holding me tight. “That’s why I went to Francesca. So you wouldn’t have to dance both parts anymore. You can focus on your ballet, and we can be—”

  “There is no ‘we’!” I wrench away from him, sobbing. “You chose her and you didn’t even tell me, you just dumped me like I don’t mean a thing to you.”

  “You’re not listening!” Raphael argues, but I am. I’m finally remembering everything he’s said to me—and all the things he hasn’t.

  And the fact that he never said he loves me.

  Not even close.

  Staring at him, feeling the shiver of doubt snake through me, I realize the truth. I told him that I love him, I showed him: last night, I made love to him with my body and my soul, but he never said it back to me, not once.

  Oh God. What have I done?

  I feel my heart break clean in two. I’ve been blind all this time, believing we were more than what we really are. My mom was right. He let me down. And now? Now what will I do?

  I back away from him, shaking.

  “What was I to you?” I beg, still holding out hope. “Your partner? Your lover? Or just some stupid American slut who gave it up to you without even...without...” I can’t take it anymore. My voice breaks with grief.

  “Annalise, don’t say that. Please, you don’t understand!” Raphael starts after me, but I shove him away.

  “Answer me!”

  “This isn’t about us,” Raphael implores me, “this audition, it’s my chance. And you’re so busy, with your own rehearsals...”

  He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t even realize his betrayal. But he’s a dancer, after all: the work comes first, and everything else is negotiable. Second-best.

  I was second-best, I realize with an aching resignation. My insecurities come raging to the surface, a bleak whirlwind of despair. You’re not perfect, not to him. You’ll never be good enough.

  “I should have listened,” I weep. “To my mom, to everyone. They warned me, but I believed. I believed in you.”

  I give one last look at him, at those dark eyes that seduced me, at the body that transported me to paradise and back, and then I flee.

  “Annalise! Annalise!”

  I ignore the sound of his cries echoing after me and I run, blinded by tears, torn apart by grief. I run.

  12.

  I don’t know how I make it back across the city to the rehearsal studios; it’s all I can do to keep from sinking down on the nearest park bench to weep. But as the streets pass me by, morning traffic fading to a blur, my anguish hardens into a resigned numbness.

  You should have listened. They were right, all along.

  I risked everything, and he betrayed me. I was just a dancer to him, a brief fling to be discarded when someone better, stronger, more beautiful came back around. I wanted so much to believe that what we had was special, but all along, it was just another dance to him: passionate steps, and gasping, pleasure-filled nights. He was going through the motions of love, but there was nothing more behind his movements.

  Stupid girl. You stupid fucking girl.

  I reach the studio and slowly climb the stairs. The dressing room is empty, and I can hear the sound of music from down the hall, so I quickly change into my practice leotard and tights, tightly wrapping the ribbons of my pointe shoes up my legs.

  The door bursts open. My mom hurries in. “Where have you been?” she demands, careful to keep her voice hushed. “I told you, you’re hanging by a thread here. I just spent the last hour promising the earth to these fools to stop them from cutting you out of the program right away. Why didn’t you—”

  She stops, taking in my expression. Concern flits across her face. “What happened?” She moves to touch my arm, but I jerk away.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sweetheart—”

  “I said no!” I clench my jaw fiercely. “You were right, OK? About Raphael, about everything. Are you happy now?”

  Her face drops. “I only ever wanted the best for you, you know.”

  “No,” I correct her, meeting her gaze head-on. “You wanted me to be the best. There’s a difference.”

  I swallow back my tears, pushing past her, out into the studio. I slink in the back and take my position at the barre, avoiding Mademoiselle’s questioning gaze. I try to block everything from my mind now, all my pain and hurt, and focus on nothing but my body, and the steps, and preparing for t
he performance that’s now the most important thing in my life.

  The only thing left in your life.

  No! I grit my teeth and hold back the tears. Falling apart now would mean failure, nothing but foolish weakness, and I’m not going to be that stupid, weak girl anymore. My mother raised me better than this, she raised me to be perfect, and now, after everything, I’m not going to let her down.

  I’m going to prove to Gilbert and the company that I deserve this part. I’m going to prove to myself that Raphael doesn’t matter. He can’t hold me back or distract me anymore.

  It’s over. He’s out of my life. And now I have to make sure that the only thing damaged by my stupidity is my heart, not my career.

  Because what my mother taught me is true. I should never have loved anything more than dance.

  And now that I’ve learned my lesson, I know I never will.

  13.

  “The feathers aren’t right.” My mom plucks at my costume disapprovingly. Dress rehearsal has just finished, and everyone else is filing out of the theater, but she’s still arguing with the wardrobe mistress over my outfit. “They don’t billow the way they should, and we need more yardage in the skirt.”

  “Mom...” I sigh, exhausted. All I want to do is fall into bed, and instead, I’m stuck up on this stool backstage among the tangle of electrical cables and props, with the poor seamstress jabbing pins into every spare limb. “The feathers are fine.”

  “Fine won’t cut it.” Mom gives me a look. “You need to be breathtaking, enchanting, a regal swan queen. Not a mangy old duck from Central Park,” she adds, giving the wardrobe assistant a glare.

  I mouth a silent ‘sorry’ and stand patiently, until she’s pinned and tucked an extra layer to my skirt. For the last week, I’ve been in the middle of a swirl of wardrobe fittings and last-minute rehearsals, surrounded by people with barely a moment to myself. I’m grateful. If I was left alone, I wouldn’t be able stop myself from thinking about him, and that hurts too much.

  It hurts too much to bear.

  Even like this, the time has dragged past, an eternity. Every minute I’m apart from him, I feel it; every second knowing he’s out of my life fills me with a heavy ache. I should be excited, nervous, anything other than numb, but it’s like there’s a sheet of smudged glass dividing me from everyone else: dimming the lights, keeping me separate and detached no matter how much noise clatters around me.

  Mademoiselle praised me for it. She said I had a wonderful temperament, keeping so calm when other dancers were having mini freak-outs and anxious fights. I didn’t tell her that it felt more like a curse than a blessing—that I wasn’t capable of feeling anything but misery.

  The seamstress pins for a few more minutes as I wait. “Better.” Mom casts a critical eye over me, then nods. “Thank you, Cybil,” she adds, suddenly all smiles and honey. “I know I’m a nightmare, but what can I do? This is my sweetheart’s big debut.” She gives me an exaggerated hug, and finally, Cybil smiles.

  “You must be so excited. I’ll have this all fixed for the morning.”

  “You’re a gem!” Mom calls after her as she packs up and goes.

  We’re left alone in the chaos of the backstage space. “Always be nice to makeup and wardrobe,” Mom advises me. “I forgot once, and had sharp words with mine back when we were doing Sleeping Beauty. I wound up looking like a horror movie, all white skin and dark shadows under my eyes. I was supposed to be well-rested!”

  I step down off the stool and reach for a wad of cotton wool and the tub of cold cream. Slowly, I wipe away the harsh makeup, watching my ordinary face show through the layers of powder and eyeliner. Mom putters around the dressing room behind me, straightening up things, and checking my pointe shoes.

  “So... how was I?” I finally ask. “You saw the whole thing. What did you think?”

  Mom pauses. “You’ll get there,” she says, and my heart falls.

  I know what that means. Not good enough.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, but she’s already launched into her laundry list of criticisms.

  “You need to keep your arm up,” she tells me, her tone brisk. “It drops every time you hit the halfway point on the spins, and it throws your whole line off. And the lifts are still lagging,” she adds. “I know Gregor doesn’t have the strength you need, but I tried to have them cast Alexis and they wouldn’t listen. No matter,” she continues, not noticing I haven’t said a word. “You’ll just have to jump the extra height when he releases you, to make it look right. And don’t drift upstage—you need to keep your position, even if the corps hit their marks wrong...”

  I tune her out, staring at my reflection, sadness aching in my chest. I remember dancing the steps for Raphael in his apartment, how much joy and meaning I poured into every beat. Out there, on the stage, it wasn’t the same. I was going through the motions, and nothing I do seems to break me out of this wretched numbness.

  “Annalise?” I hear my name repeated, and lift my head. “I said, are you ready to go?” Mom looks impatient. “I thought we could have a quiet dinner, and go over your rehearsal videos again. It’s a big day tomorrow.”

  I slowly shake my head. “I think I’m going to stay here a little while, practice my spins some more. Get used to the stage.”

  Mom frowns, but doesn’t disagree. “Alright, darling. But don’t stay too late. You need to be fresh for opening night.”

  “I will be.”

  I change back into my regular practice clothes and walk slowly back to the stage. All day, the theater has been a bustle of activity: dancers racing around, technicians bumping through with their lights and equipment, but now, it’s almost eerily quiet. I trail my hand over the heavy curtains and walk out on stage.

  Silence.

  I look out over the empty theater, at the rows of velvet seats, and try to imagine tomorrow night, when they’ll all be filled with curious audience members, clutching their programs and settling in for the show. Expecting greatness.

  Expecting me to be perfect.

  I take a slow breath, rising up on my toes and stretching my leg out. We did a full run-through this afternoon for the entire program: my solos, and all the others, too. It was the first time we’d been in full costume, with everyone dancing their separate routines. I’ve always loved dress rehearsals: to see the show become something real, more than just dancers in sweatshirts pirouetting in a basic studio space. The gorgeous tutus and rustle of tulle, the bright lights, the backstage buzz, the first glimpse of what it would be like with a real audience out there in the theater.

  But today, it slid past me in a daze.

  I take my position again and try another move, a series of spins. I kick out, and again, try to banish all thoughts from my mind, but as I spin, I see his face. Raphael. There in my mind, his dark eyes taunting me, teasing me.

  Seducing you.

  There’s a noise off-stage and I falter, stumbling out of the spin. I turn, my breath coming fast, feeling hope rise in my chest even though I know it’s in vain.

  Maybe he came. Maybe he’s realized he made a mistake, and—

  “Sorry,” Karla’s voice comes, and she steps out of the shadows into view. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going to get a bite now, if you’d like to come with?”

  I look up. She’s loitering awkwardly in the doorway to the studio, waiting for me.

  Even though it’s the first time she’s tried to talk to me in a week, I shake my head firmly, turning back to the mirrors. “I have to practice.”

  “You’ve been turning those steps for hours now. If you do them any longer, you’ll drill straight through the floor.” Karla laughs, but I don’t join in.

  “I really can’t. I don’t have time. It has to be perfect for tomorrow.” I do the spin again, making sure to set my leg higher, make the line more elegant.

  “Come on, Annalise...Annalise!” She says louder, and I stop, breathing heavily.

  “Wha
t?” I demand.

  Karla pauses. “I’m sorry, OK?” She looks down, guilty. “About what happened with everything. I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time.”

  I blink, my frustration fading away. “No, I’m sorry,” I admit, shameful. “You’re right. I have this huge opportunity, and I was taking it for granted.”

  “But you’ve earned it!” Karla insists. “I was just being jealous and petty, saying the things I did.”

  “No, I was the petty one,” I argue back, my voice wavering. “You were only looking out for me!”

  “Aww, don’t make me cry, my mascara’s going to run!” Karla moves forward to hug me, and I hug her back, glad that the tension between us has eased, one small weight lifting off my shoulders. “And I’m really sorry about Raphael, too.”

  “How did you...?” I start to ask, then stop. Gossip in the company travels like wildfire, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out my romance was dead—especially not with me moping around with a scowl on my face, practicing at the studios all hours of the day.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Karla asks gently. “I know you must be hurting.”

  “It’s fine.” I grit my teeth, feeling the same dull pain stab through my chest that comes whenever I think of his name, his face, his body. “I just need to work, that’s all. This is my last chance.”

  Karla sighs. “I know, but I miss you. We all do. Ros and I have barely seen you since you moved out of the dorms.”

  “Mom rented an apartment right around the corner,” I explain. “It’s easier this way. I thought you’d be glad,” I add. “Less competition for the bathroom in the morning.”

  Karla manages a small laugh. “OK, that’s one plus. But we still miss having you around. Movie nights, and girl-talk, and all that stuff. You know Mademoiselle is driving Ros crazy,” she adds, confidentially. “She’s like this close to quitting.”

  I blink in surprise. “But what would she do then?” I ask, distracted by the gossip. “Would she have to go home?”