“By then, it was only a few days before the recital, and I really wanted to perform, so I didn’t tell my parents. It wasn’t until my temperature went higher and I could hardly walk that I finally told them. Mom and Dad took me back to the emergency room. For some reason they argued, my parents and the doctor. He insisted it was a urinary infection and they should take me home. I was so sick, though—horrible pain and I was terrified. My parents were on the verge of losing it because they didn’t know what was wrong with me. I just knew I had cancer or something.”
“Did your parents take you home again?” Jenna asked.
I shook my head. “My fever was so high, I’d grown delirious. I remember looking at the nurse behind the counter and her face seemed to melt because it felt so hot in the room. The next thing I knew I’d thrown-up all over the Admitting desk. After that, they got their crap together, did some tests, and found it was my appendix. My appendix had burst and I had to have emergency surgery. They said I could have died.”
“Wow!” Jenna murmured.
“From that point on, I don’t remember much. But they took out my appendix and I stayed in the hospital for several days.”
“So you missed the recital.”
“Yeah, but that’s not all. About a week after I came home, I fell ill again, running fever, nausea. We made another trip to the surgeon and they discovered tissue left behind during the surgery. It had turned septic, and the infection was in my blood stream. So I had surgery again and stayed in the hospital for another week before they got the infection under control.”
“Holy cow, that’s awful,” Jenna said, shocked. “But what does that have to do with your performance anxiety?”
“It came back.”
“Your appendix?”
“No. The pain. A month after my recovery, I was at dance class and started to have stomach pain and vomiting again.”
“No way,” she sputtered.
“Once more, we were back at the doctor’s office with more tests. I kept imagining all kinds of horrible things, like they’d missed something else, a tumor, or a disease. The tests results were fine, but the doctor told my parents that I was having phantom pains. He said that I’d suffered such trauma that it had affected me emotionally, and I might have to deal with it for the rest of my life.”
“You’re kidding.”
“When I get stressed, it flares up. Mom thinks I should be able to control it by now, and I know it’s in my head—it’s not real and I’m not sick—but I feel it just the same—the nausea and stabbing pains.”
“And as a first year dancer at Rousseau, auditioning to get into the second company triggered it,” Jenna concluded.
“Yeah, I totally freaked, left the room in tears.”
“I’m really sorry, Chris. What a bitch Mrs. Hahn is bringing it up like that. But look, I got your back, all right? If we’re chosen for the auditions, we can practice together. Maybe I can help you get through it.”
A soft breath filtered from my throat and the tension dissipated and it felt like a load had been lifted off me. Jenna truly meant what she said, and in a setting where your friend pool is also your competition, I was glad to have Jenna Newsom as a genuine friend.
Ms. Zaborov opened her office door then and stepped out to lead us to an empty studio where Jenna and I went to the barre to pass the time while we waited. She never brought up the subject of the failed audition again, and I knew that was because she got it.
A few moments had passed with Jenna and me at the barre, when Ms. Zaborov commanded, “Attention, ladies. We have guests.”
We whirled around to face the door and pulled up—hips level, shoulders and spine straight, and head up.
Director Darby entered the room first. Smiling, he stepped aside to let two men follow. I presumed one to be the trustee, while the other had to be the football coach, because he wore a Polo shirt with Davis High School Diamondbacks embroidered on the chest. Advancing into the room, they let a procession of very tall, very burly, and very scary boys amble in. Although, I wasn’t sure boys was the right word, as most of them were larger than the men who preceded them.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jenna’s face take on an especially satisfied appearance. She practically grinned, obviously finding the choices to her liking. Then the last player entered the room and I gasped. Instantly, my palms began to sweat and my heart did a nosedive as I stared across the room at my elevator guy.
At the sound of my sharp breath, Jenna’s head snapped my way.
“What’s the matter?”
“I know that one. I’ve seen him in my building.”
Chapter Ten
I could hardly believe my eyes. The hotty from the Templeton Tower’s elevator was standing in the level eight dance studio. And though it wouldn’t seem possible, in a navy blue crew neck sweater, crisp khakis, and gray boat shoes he looked even hotter than the day before.
“Who is he?” Jenna whispered.
“I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him around my building a few times.”
“He’s cute,” she observed, “but I think I like the one with the red hair and freckles—looks a little like Ron Weasley on steroids.”
At that moment, Ms. Zaborov ever so slightly swiveled her head, her neck elegantly elongated. Though the group around her wouldn’t have discerned it, Jenna and I knew she was annoyed with us for murmuring behind her back. Her eyes conveyed the message, If you embarrass yourselves, and thereby the Rousseau Academy, I will have your heads on a platter!
We shut up.
Director Darby motioned elevator guy forward, and he stepped out of the line-up of behemoths and moved to where the board member stood by Ms. Zaborov. I guessed my elevator guy was the trustee’s nephew Ms. Z. had mentioned, because the man was proudly patting him on the shoulder.
I strained to listen as they made their introductions, but I couldn’t hear when Mr. Darby said the guy’s name. He wasn’t as big as the others were, maybe five-ten. I noticed his hair wasn’t actually blond either. It was more a light, sandy brown with blond highlights that seemed natural, like he’d been in the sun the entire summer.
Ms. Zaborov signaled for us to join her. “Girls.”
Striding up next to my instructor, I couldn’t bring myself to look at elevator guy as Ms. Zaborov extolled our accomplishments.
“These are two of the Academy’s finest dancers, Jenna and Christine. They have graciously volunteered to assist us in this endeavor.”
Any other time, I would have been thrilled to hear her speak of us in such a manner, but not now. Now it was disconcerting.
When she looked at us again, to let us know she’d finished, we bowed and curtseyed, paying révérence to both her and Director Darby. That was when elevator guy recognized me. I saw it in his wolf-blue eyes, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smile that made my heart squeeze.
“Girls, this is Mr. Howell, the football coach,” Director Darby said. “And this is Mr. Chaney. I’m sure you will recognize him as a member of the Rousseau Ballet Company’s board of trustees.”
The man stepped forward to shake our hands. “Thank you girls for helping us with this.”
Ms. Z. responded for us. “They are more than happy to assist.”
“Perhaps you’d like to take a tour of the facilities,” Mr. Darby suggested to the group. “Maybe we could even step over to the Wakefield Center and see the two theaters there, the Griffith and the Werner.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Mr. Chaney said.
“Wonderful,” Ms. Zaborov concluded. Then she stepped to the door to lead the procession out of the studio and into the hall to explore the rest of the school. This left Jenna and me to bring up the rear.
We walked along slowly, making the occasional stop for Ms. Z. or Mr. Darby to comment on a particular aspect of the school’s construction. Since elevator guy was pulled from the line-up in the studio, he was now near the end of the parade, only a few feet in front of me.
I was relieved to have him there rather than behind me. I couldn’t have taken it knowing he was there, possibly checking me out. This was, of course, hypocritical, as I was totally checking out his killer derriere.
Jenna was doing her share of ogling his bottom, too. She elbowed me, cast her eyes that direction, and fanned her hand in front of her face. “WOW,” she silently mouthed.
After Mr. Darby decided we’d seen enough of the school, we traipsed across the plaza to the Wakefield Center where we took a cursory look at the Werner Theater, used primarily for the opera, and then we went to the other side of the building to tour the Griffith Theater.
We were treading our way down the theater aisle, when Jenna saw her chance to get closer to the redhead. Fully aware of her figure in her dance clothes, she zigzagged through a few boys, who tried to catch her attention, until she was beside her target. The movement caused a shift in the line of young men, and elevator guy took a couple of steps to fall back closer to me. When Mr. Darby and Ms. Z. paused at the orchestra pit and fell into a deep discussion, he spoke to me.
“So, you live in Templeton Towers?”
Answer him. Answer him. I tried to pull up words. Answer him. But all I could do was smile and nod.
Chapter Eleven
“My name’s Raoul. Raoul Chaney. I’ve seen you at Templeton Towers.” He paused and it was obvious he waited for my response.
I glanced at Ms. Zaborov, who was still conversing with Mr. Darby, and swallowed my anxiety to whisper, “Yeah.”
“You know, usually when a person tells you his name, you give yours.”
My face heated up and I was sure it was red. “Christine Dadey.”
“Nice to meet you, Christine.”
“Nice to meet you,” I murmured, hoping Ms. Z. wouldn’t hear me talking and consider it impertinent.
“I notice you keep looking at your teacher. You afraid of her?”
I glanced at him to see if he was mocking me, but his smile only made my insides feel warm.
“Don’t let her size fool you,” I said. “That woman eats football coaches for breakfast.”
He laughed, a sound that was smooth and velvety.
“Do you live in the Towers?” I asked.
“My father does. I live with my mother in River Oaks.”
“Oh,” I mumbled and we fell quiet for an awkward moment.
“So you’re going to teach me to dance like Hilarion?” he asked
I lifted my brows in surprise.
“What?” he chuckled. “My uncle is on the board of trustees. Don’t you think I’ve seen a few ballets?”
I was embarrassed that I’d been so obviously close-minded and presumptuous. Nonetheless, I was astounded to learn he was familiar with Giselle.
“I know about Hilarion’s unrequited love for the fair maiden, Giselle. How she falls for Duke Albrecht who deceives her by posing as a peasant to get close to her, and the lovesick gamekeeper Hilarion who tries to break them apart.”
When I couldn’t summon a reply, he grinned at my discomfiture.
“Although, I suppose,” he added, “dancing like the jealous Hilarion would be a dumb choice, since he dies in the end.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you were—”
“Culturally or intellectually warped because I play football?” He finished my sentence.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “Yeah, that.”
From the front of the line, I heard Jenna clear her throat.
She gave me a warning glance, so we quieted and the group moved forward to circle up the aisle and out of the theater.
As we trailed across the plaza, returning to the school, Raoul walked beside me. I sensed him watching me. When he glanced away, it was my chance to get a closer look at him. He had an athlete’s body, and his steps were lithe and energetic. He would have made a powerful dancer.
Back in the studio, there was a lot of discussion between Ms. Zaborov and the coach about what to expect from the classes. She even asked Jenna and me to demonstrate a few poses while she narrated. “Ballet will help players learn to find their center of gravity and gain balance while in complex positions,” she said.
“I admit,” Coach Howell said, “I’m not sure about this, but I know professional players who’ve taken lessons and they say it improved their game. Some claim it cut down on injury.”
“I cannot say about the football injuries,” Ms. Zaborov responded, “but I know a well-trained dancer is a strong, healthy dancer.”
Once schedules were discussed, it was decided the boys would forgo two days a week of strength training in the gym to come to the studio to practice with us. After a lot of hand shaking, and the promise of returning on Thursday dressed in workout clothes ready to train, the group departed. The last thing I noticed as they filed out the door was Raoul turning to wink at me, and without thinking, I raised my hand and waved a small goodbye.
When the room had emptied, and she was certain they were out of earshot, Ms. Zaborov turned to us and said, “Thank you, ladies. You conducted yourselves admirably. And now, on Thursday, we will see if we can whip these oafs into dancers.” Then she gracefully left the room, and Jenna and I burst into laughter.
On our way to the dressing room, Jenna poked me in the arm and asked, “So did you get his number?”
“Seriously? We barely had time to say three words to each other and you want to know if I got his number.”
“Maybe they weren’t the right words.” She grinned and raised her open hand to my face.
“Are you kidding me?” I grasped her wrist and ogled the ink phone number written on her palm. “You got his phone number? Already! Did you even get his name?”
“Yeah, it’s Troy,—uuuh—something or another. I forget the last name.”
“You don’t waste any time.”
“You snooze, you lose,” she said.
I may not have moved as quickly as Jenna had, but I was pleased with myself nonetheless. I’d been nervous the whole time, and if he hadn’t initiated the conversation, I’m not sure I could have, but we talked—that was something.
After we changed clothes, I noticed it was almost five, and since I hadn’t told Mom otherwise, she would be picking me up shortly. Jenna and I walked outside together where we saw her mother already parked on the street, waiting for her.
“I’ll catch you later,” Jenna said as she went to the car and slid in.
Behind me, I heard the school door open and saw Van and Liam exit together. Not long after, Mr. Sims came out, a toolbox in one hand and an overstuffed trash bag in the other. When he spotted Van, a worried shadow passed over his face, and I remembered I was supposed to talk to Van again. But Mom pulled up then, so it had to wait. But as I climbed into the car, I promised myself I’d do it tomorrow.
As she maneuvered through traffic, she told me about her day. I caught bits and pieces about her wonderful assistant, Cooper, before I zoned out, thinking about my own day. I was surprised I hadn’t gotten nervous when Ms. Zaborov had asked us to demonstrate some of the basics for our all male audience, and I wondered if I would when we actually started the lessons.
After we’d parked in the garage, we took the stairs to the main lobby, and as we stepped out, I thought I heard my name called. I glanced about and heard it again.
“Christine!”
Following the direction of the voice, I was surprised what I saw. Raoul Chaney was striding purposefully across the marble floor toward us, smiling and motioning for me to join him.
Chapter Twelve
Surprised to see him there, it took me a couple of beats to speak. "Raoul? Are you visiting your father?”
He shook his head. “I came to see you.”
Stunned, I blinked in rapid-fire and felt Mom staring at me. I opened my mouth a couple of times before words finally came out.
“Mom, this is Raoul Chaney. His uncle is a trustee on the Rousseau’s board. You remember I told you about the football team. He’s a pla
yer.”
“Yes, of course. It’s nice to meet you, Raoul.” She extended her hand.
After he shook it, we stood there for a couple of stiff seconds before he asked me, “Is it okay—umm—can we talk?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Mom?”
“Right,” she said and smiled. “I’ll see you upstairs.” Then she headed for the elevator, her heals clicking on the marble floor as she went. I watched her press the button a couple of times, unsuccessfully trying to hide her grin.
Once she’d stepped out of sight, I faced Raoul again. Neither of us spoke, only stared at each other. The longer the silence spread between us the more my breathing sped up.
“So, you wanted to talk to me? Did something happen at the studio? Because if you left anything behind, I have a key card; I can get you in.”
He chuckled, again with the dulcet tenor sound that made my spine shiver. “No. I wanted to ask you out.”
I stopped breathing altogether then, convinced I’d heard him wrong. “C-come again?”
“I’m asking you out, Christine. Unless, of course, you’re seeing somebody.”
“No! No, I’m not seeing anyone. I’d love to go out with you.”
“Great. How about Saturday? I have a game in Katy Friday night, but I could—”
“Saturday sounds wonderful.” I’d cut him off and I feared coming across desperate.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and extended it to me. “Put your number in.”
I took it and keyed in my name and number, trying not to let him see my fingers tremble.
When I passed it to him, he looked at the screen. “Thanks, Christine Dadey. I’ll text you later.”
“Okay.” I backed toward the elevator. “I a—my mom,” I stammered and pointed toward the doors.
“I’ll see you at practice Thursday,” he said, as I stepped into the elevator. Then I jabbed the fifth floor button several times and watched him walk toward the exit, my heart still hammering in my chest.
After the elevator doors closed, I squealed and did a series of pirouettes until my dance bag threw me off balance. I stopped and looked up at the security cameras. I didn’t care if they saw me. I was too excited. In fact, it was too bad Mrs. Hahn couldn’t see me, emoting the hell out of my moves.