First Position (3 page)

Stop now!

“Annalise!”

I hear the call as if from far away, but I’m so caught up in
this strange encounter, I don’t register my name until I feel a
sharp tug on my arm. It’s Karla, looking panicked.

“Where the hell have you been?” she demands. “We’re
all on the bus, and Mademoiselle is threatening to—Well,
hello
...” She notices the man with me.

“Someone grabbed my purse,” I explain. “This guy
helped get it back.”

“Raphael.” He introduces himself, holding out a hand to
shake Karla’s. Then he turns to me. “A pleasure to meet
you.”

“Hi,” I breathe, taking his hand. His touch is hot, his
grip firm. I shiver, my heart racing. “I’m Annalise.
Thank you, again.”

Raphael holds my hand a beat longer, then releases it, his index
finger grazing down the length of my palm in a gesture so soft, I
shudder.

Dear lord, what’s happening? I could melt to the sidewalk right
now, and all he’s done is shake my hand.

“I hate to break up the party,” Karla looks amused. “But
seriously, Mademoiselle is about to lose her shit.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, reality finally piercing my haze of
lust. “We have to go!”

I take a step backwards, but Raphael captures my hand again. “Wait.”
He holds me in place, reaching into the leather satchel he has slung
across his shoulder. “There is a party tomorrow night, in the
Trastevere district. Come.”

He
presses a flyer into my palm, his eyes lingering on mine. I feel his
gaze shoot through me, straight between my thighs.

“Anna!” Karla tugs on my other hand.

“OK.” My head is spinning. “Maybe.”

Karla drags me away before I can say another word. I glance back
through the crowd and see Raphael still standing there, watching us
leave.

Raphael
.

I feel his eyes on me, long after I turn away and hurry after Karla
to face Mademoiselle’s wrath. That night, when I fall asleep, I
dream only of him: dancing alone in a moonlit square, his body a blur
of perfect motion, his eyes blazing with raw passion.

In my dream, he takes my hand, and leads me to the shadows. Presses
me up against the wall, covering my body with his hard muscle. His
hands slide over my skin, he plunders my mouth with his lips…

I wake flushed and gasping, my body aching for release.

Raphael. The face of a saint, the body of a sinner.

And oh, how I long to see him again.

“You have to go!” Karla’s whisper cuts through the
silence of the rehearsal room as we run through the morning’s
warm-up.

“Shh!” I hiss back at her, stretching. The accompanist
starts playing on the piano in the corner, and we all move to our
positions at the barre. The studio has mirrors running all along one
wall, with polished honey wooden floors and bright spotlights
overhead: nowhere to hide from your reflection, but a dancer is used
to it. We study our own poses for hours, making sure every limb is
placed at precisely the right angle.

“Hello, did you see how hot he was?” Karla continues to
whisper from behind me.

“I don’t even know him!” I whisper back, checking
that our instructor, Gilbert, is over at the other end of the studio.
“He could be like, an axe murderer, or a human trafficker,
recruiting American virgins for some sex ring!”

“First of all, you’ve been watching way too much
Taken
,”
Karla whispers back. “And second, so what? You’re
thinking about it, I can tell,” Karla counters, lifting her leg
up to rest on the barre, and leaning out over it to stretch in a
perfect line. “You were practically stripping for him right
there in the middle of the square.”

I blush, knowing that she’s right. I’ve thought about
nothing but Raphael in the twenty-four hours since I first met him.
Picturing his face, the way he moved…

Imagining his body pressed against you, those hips rocking slowly
into you.

My face burns. The truth is, when it comes to guys, I’m
painfully inexperienced. Ballet was always the number one priority in
my life; I never went to parties, or out on dates, never even kissed
a boy until I was seventeen, an awkward fumble backstage after
rehearsal with a male dancer who was cut from the company the very
next week. I’ve always watched girls like Karla with envy, who
somehow manage to have a social life, and still put their ballet
first. But Mom was clear: the sacrifices I make now are worth it.
There’ll be plenty of time for guys later.

But watching Raphael, feeling the intense desire that hit me like a
ton of bricks, I wish I had more experience. It scares and thrills
me, how quickly my body responded to his dancing. I’ve never
felt chemistry like that, the way it made me imagine all the
forbidden things we could do…

Now, I can’t think of anything else. All through rehearsal, I
pore over the invitation he so casually offered. Did he mean for me
to come, like a specific question, or was it just something he
invited everyone to, a big show, or even some kind of scam—another
tourist thing, to make a few extra bucks?

By the time we’re done with our basic routines, I’m more
undecided than ever – torn between logic and desire. Karla’s
crazy, I can’t go wandering off after dark in some foreign
city.

But somehow, not seeing him again seems crazy too. Crazy and terrible
and wrong.

“Let’s take five.” Our instructor, Gilbert, claps
his hands together, and motions for us all to take a seat on the
floor. My eyes flicker over the company, silently organizing them
into groups: the male dancers, here to lift and carry and partner us.
The first-year newbies, destined for the
corps de ballet.
Kathryn
Landsdale and Petra Subkov, the two principal leads, and then the
rest of us, here to fight it out with them for those precious solos.
Karla, Lucia, Julia, and I.

“I know you’ve all been waiting to hear about our
program,” Gilbert motions for quiet. A lithe, intense man in
his thirties, he was once tipped to be a great dancer himself, until
an ankle fracture cut his career short ten years ago. Since then,
he’s made a name for himself teaching and choreographing. We’re
all secretly scared of him. “This fall, the city will be
staging a classic series. We’ll be presenting selections from
the greatest ballets in the history of dance:
Swan Lake
,
Giselle
,
Les Patineurs
, and
Les Sylphide
.”

The room breaks into applause and chatter, and I feel a thrill of
excitement. “
Swan Lake
,” I sigh happily, as Karla
bounces in her place.

“
Giselle
!” She replies, dark eyes sparkling with
delight. “The dance of the willies,” Karla says, naming
one of the most famous routines in all of ballet, where the tragic
heroine, Giselle, is tricked into death.

We grin at each other, already full of anticipation. They’re
the ballets I grew up with, watching from the wings as my mother
glided across the stage. I always dreamed of dancing Odette in
Swan
Lake
, or the skater in
Les Patineurs
.

Now’s my chance, it has to be.

“I’ll be making my casting decisions over the next week,”
Gilbert continues. “But I can tell you right now, that I expect
nothing but total commitment from every last one of you. To dance for
this company is an honor, and if you’re not willing to put your
body, heart and soul into these rehearsals, then you’re not
welcome here.”

Silence. We all exchange scared looks. Lucia smirks.

“What goes on outside the studio matters too,”
Mademoiselle interrupts, from her perch on a stool by the mirrors.
“We’ve had problems in the past with dancers running
around, breaking curfew.” She glares at us sternly. “Such
behavior will not be tolerated from us. Any dancer caught breaking
the rules will be sent back on the first flight home!”

We train all day with only a short break for lunch. By the time
Gilbert dismisses us at 4:00 p.m., we’re exhausted.

“You should try and nap now, make sure you’re rested for
later.” Karla yawns, collapsing on her bed back in our dorm
room. It’s a small space, barely room for three single beds, a
wardrobe, and an old dresser, but the tiny balcony looks out onto a
cute cobbled street, and bright pink bougainvillea spills around the
dark green shutters.

“What do you mean?” I ask, running cold water into a
bucket of ice I brought up from the hallway. I set it on the ground
beside my bed and sit, plunging my sore feet into the freezing water.
Ah, that feels good.

“For the party? With the hot dancer?” Karla prompts me.
She rolls over and props her head on one hand. “The one you so
secretly want to go to!”

“Even if I did, I definitely can’t now,” I protest.
“You heard Mademoiselle, ‘Such behavior will not be
tolerated!’” I mimic, playing it light. But deep down, I
feel a stab of fear. If I was sent home…? My mom would disown
me for sure.

The door swings open and Rosalie bursts in. “I hate her, I hate
her, I hate her!” she exclaims, falling face-first onto her
bed. We don’t need to ask who the ‘her’ is.

“Nothing new there,” Karla remarks.

“I mean it.” Rosalie’s head emerges from her
pillows, flushed and miserable. “She’s a total
power-freak, had me running up and down five flights of stairs at the
studio just because her cappuccino had milk in it. Of course it had
milk!” she cries, “It’s a cappuccino!”

I give Rosalie a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know how you
do it,” I tell her. “I would have quit the first day.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought about it,” Rosalie sighs.
“But then what would I do? Go home, back to Nowhere, Idaho? At
least with Mademoiselle, I get to travel, see beautiful things and
amazing cities. That makes it all worth it, right?”

“Right!” Karla and I chorus enthusiastically.

Rosalie gives us a weak smile. “What were you guys talking
about, anyway?”

“Annalise is going to break curfew tonight to go party with
some hot axe-murderer,” Karla immediately replies.

I toss a pillow at her. “I never said that!”

“But you never said you wouldn’t, did you?” Karla
teases. “I’m not judging you,” she adds, “I’d
risk all kinds of grave consequences for a man who looked at me like
that.”

“Like what?” I sit up straighter. “How did he look
at me? Tell me!”

Karla raises an eyebrow. “Like you were the last pastry in the
box.” She licks her lips suggestively, “And he couldn’t
wait to eat you up.”

I feel a shiver that has nothing to do with my bucket full of icy
water.

“You’re going out alone after dark?” Rosalie looks
anxiously at me. “I don’t want to be the nag, but that
doesn’t sound very safe.”

I shake my head, trying to banish all thoughts of Raphael for good.
“I’m not! I swear, it was just an invitation. It probably
didn’t mean a thing.”

But it meant something to you.

I try to shake it off. I’ve never had a connection with a guy
like that, so vivid and intense, but there’s no way I can see
him again. I can’t risk breaking curfew to sneak out to the
party.

Can I?

Mademoiselle Ninette organizes a movie night in the common room on
the ground floor: a room full of dancers sprawled on couches and
pillows, watching the big screen. I’m sandwiched tightly
between Karla and Rosalie, watching Audrey Hepburn discover Rome, but
all I can think about is Raphael, out there, somewhere.

Maybe waiting for me.

You’re pathetic
, I scold myself.
And quite possibly
crazy, too. You’ve spent so long locked away in a ballet
studio, your hormones are doing backflips over the first hot guy to
look your way.

But I can’t help it. He’s not just some gorgeous stranger
I saw on the street. Watching him perform, I feel like I know him
already. That’s the thing about dancers, the very best of them:
they pour themselves into their work, so that every step reveals a
little part of their soul; every motion baring more of their heart.
Raphael moved with such grace and fierce determination, I can already
see that side to his personality.

And the raw sexuality, the sensual domination when it came to
touching his partner...

The memory sends thrills straight through me, shivers of quicksilver
anticipation that itch in my bloodstream, making me restless.
Yearning.

Determined.

By the time the final credits roll on the movie, half the room is
already sleepy-eyed and yawning, but I couldn’t feel more
awake. Karla and Rosalie pull each other to their feet and slouch
back to our room, yawning.

“What time shall I set the alarm?” Rosalie asks, scooting
into her bed and pulling her covers high. “Seven, right? So we
have time to shower.”

“Showers are negotiable.” Karla murmurs, already
sprawled, half-asleep. “More sleep. Good sleep. Now.”

They turn out the lights and slide into bed, but I lay there in the
dark, wide awake, pictures of Raphael running through my mind. I know
all the reasons why it’s a terrible idea to sneak out, but that
restless itch won’t go away.

I need to see him again.

I get out of bed and silently grab a couple of things from my
suitcase. Then I lock myself in the tiny bathroom and set to work. My
heart is pounding as I slip out of my sweatpants and into a cute
denim skirt, my hands shaking with nerves from what I’m about
to do. I’ve never broken the rules, not even a little. I was
never one of those girls who rebelled, who stayed out all night and
ran around with bad boys and didn’t care about the
consequences. I didn’t have the choice. Ballet was all I ever
wanted, but now... now I feel something blossoming inside me, a force
even stronger than the threat of what might happen if it all goes
wrong.