The Ballerina's Secret. Teri Wilson

at him upon his arrival. The score for the audition was Debussy. He was to open with Rêverie, which he rather liked. It was a vast improvement over the repetitive chords he’d had to play for the morning barre exercises. Debussy’s Rêverie had also been the inspiration for the melody of “My Reverie,” a favorite of Julian’s. He owned recordings of both Sarah Vaughan’s and Ella Fitzgerald’s renditions. On vinyl.

      He let his hands hover over the keys and played the melody silently, in his head, if only to keep from seeking out the interesting ballerina at the back of the room again. Even so, he found himself watching her more often than he cared to admit. It came as a relief when Daria rapped her hand on the piano and ordered him to play. Not asked, ordered.

      Julian banged out the opening melody over and over again, in half time, as the dancers learned their parts. After the first fifteen rounds, he could have played the score in his sleep, so he let his gaze wander to the action in the center of the room, while his hands moved by rote. The Russian demonstrated the steps, and the dancers mimicked him. Sometimes he grabbed a foot or an arm and physically moved it where he wanted it to go. He did this a lot, actually. There was only one dancer he never touched. Her.

      Julian wondered if this was good or bad. Then he wondered why he cared.

      On and on, he played, until the sunshine streaming through the windows grew dim and blue shadows stretched across the studio floor. The dancers peeled away leg warmers and layers of clothing, and the air in the room felt heavy and damp. The combination they’d been working on began to take shape. Chance and a few others had long since gone home, but the remaining ballerinas with numbers pinned to their black leotards moved in perfect sync, arms slanted at elegant angles, heads tilted just so.

      Except her. Number twenty-eight.

      Tessa.

      He’d learned her name after all the corrections Daria had barked at her over the course of the day. She wasn’t off beat anymore, but she couldn’t seem to rein herself in. That was the difference. She danced bigger than everyone else. Bigger than was acceptable, if the dour expression on Daria’s face was any indication. But when the Russian watched her, he smiled.

      Again, why Julian noticed any of this was a mystery. At any rate, he wasn’t ogling. He was simply observing. What was he supposed to do all day? Stare at the black-and-white keys?

      He reached the end of the piece, and Daria clapped her hands. “That will be all for today. Tomorrow morning we’ll have barre exercises and run through the combination a final time. Then we’ll begin the selection process. Good work, everyone.” She glanced up and down the row of dancers and nodded, never once letting her gaze rest on Tessa. “You’re dismissed.”

      Julian rearranged the sheet music for whoever took his place tomorrow and situated it on the rack of the Steinway. His hands ached. His back ached. He cursed under his breath, remembering a time when he could play his trumpet for hours, days, weeks at a time without so much as a sore pinky finger. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’d felt loose then. Liquid. Smooth. Like Coltrane.

      And now here he was. Broken down after a few hours on a piano bench.

      At least he felt something, though. He’d been numb for a while. A long while. He wasn’t altogether sure which was worse—the numbness or this new dull ache.

      “Mr. Shine.” He looked up and found Daria staring down at him, hands planted on her slim hips. Behind her, he could see Tessa sitting alone beneath the barre, untying the ribbons of her pointe shoes. She’d loosened her hair from its ballerina bun, and it fell about her shoulders in lush copper waves. The ache in his hands intensified, and he had the sudden urge to find out what that beautiful hair would feel like sliding through his fingers.

      He cleared his throat and damned the reawakening of his senses. “Daria.”

      She stared daggers at him. “It’s Madame.”

      He smiled and said nothing. He was only half paying attention, anyway. Tessa had removed her shoes, revealing her gracefully arched feet. They were flushed. Cherry red. She looked as though she’d been walking barefoot through a field of poppies.

      “You were satisfactory today,” Daria said primly.

      Satisfactory.

      Julian suppressed an eyeroll. Other than his short audition the day before, today marked the first time he’d played any sort of music in two years. Two years, one month and sixteen days, to be exact. Not that he was counting. The days somehow counted themselves, no matter how hard he tried to stop keeping track.

      Two years. He supposed satisfactory wasn’t the worst assessment in the world. What had he expected?

      He didn’t even know, other than he’d thought it would be somewhere besides a ballet studio, where the only people who knew his name were Chance and a taskmistress who barely cleared five feet tall. A taskmistress who clearly expected him to show up again tomorrow.

      “I’ll expect you at nine o’clock in the morning,” she said. “Sharp.”

       Thanks, but no, thanks.

      “Fine.” He turned on his heel, telling himself it wasn’t too late. He could still get out of this.

       Say it. Just say it. I’m not coming back.

      But the words stuck in this throat as his footsteps echoed past the empty space where Tessa had been.

       Chapter Three

      “New pointe shoes?” Tessa’s mother, Emily Wilde, eyed the Freed of London bag sticking out of her dance bag.

      Ugh, why hadn’t she zipped it properly? Never mind, though. She’d done nothing wrong. She didn’t have anything to hide.

      Other than the weird sounds she’d heard yesterday, obviously. That was a different story, and much more serious than an audition for a part she probably wouldn’t even get.

      “I’m auditioning for the Manhattan Ballet.” Tessa unclipped Mr. B’s leash and let him loose in the dance school. He trotted to the dog bed in the corner of the main classroom, spun three circles and then collapsed in a furry little heap.

      When Tessa looked up, her mother had already begun signing. Her hands moved through the air in an alphabetic flurry. “Again? Oh, Tessa.”

      “Yes, again.” She wondered what her mother’s voice sounded like now. Emily never talked when she signed, so Tessa couldn’t tell if she sounded the same.

      Probably not. Nothing sounded like it should. She felt as though she’d woken up a day ago at the bottom of the ocean. Everything sounded muffled. Distorted. Not at all like she remembered.

      “I need you to look after Mr. B today, okay?” He’d expressed his displeasure about being left behind the day before by disemboweling a throw pillow. There’d been more feathers on her living room floor than in the first three acts of Swan Lake. “And possibly tomorrow.”

      Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Tomorrow, too?”

      If I last that long. “The cast list goes up tomorrow afternoon.”

      “I see.” Her mom nodded. “And will you be back today in time for the preschool tap class?”

      Preschool tap. What on earth would that sound like? Tessa didn’t want to know. God help her. “Sorry, I have a doctor’s appointment late today. Can we get Chloe to cover it?”

      Her sister, Chloe, should be the one teaching tap, anyway. She was a Rockette. She lived in tap shoes. But she always had something more pressing to do. More important. It was getting kind of old, truth be told.

      “I’ll check.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realize you’d scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Is everything okay?”

      Tessa