Francois Dupre, our instructor, is a French import. His pedigree is impressive. He’s classically trained, has danced as the lead with the French Ballet, and traveled the world. Most of the female dancers have a massive crush on him. A few of the males do as well. I can’t blame them. He’s dreamy with black wavy hair and intelligent cocoa-colored eyes. His body is long, lean, and muscular from years of rigorous training.
As if he hasn’t already commanded everyone’s attention, he claps his hands. “Excellent work,” he says in lightly accented English. “We meet again on Friday.”
A few sighs escape as three girls pop gracefully to their feet before rushing toward him. Once he’s flanked on all sides, tittering laughter rings throughout the spacious room.
I glance at Zoe, who is finishing up her stretches beside me, and roll my eyes. “What a bunch of whores,” I mutter under my breath.
The corners of her lips tremble before she spears a glance toward the growing swarm outfitted in Lycra. “Apparently, they haven’t figured out that Monsieur Dupre has no interest in someone with lady parts.”
I snort and shrug. “Perhaps they’re hoping to persuade him differently?”
“It won’t work.” She leans toward me before admitting, “I already tried.”
“You did not!” I gasp.
“Of course, I did.” Her gaze slices to him as she lifts a slim shoulder. “I mean, come on. Just look at the man.” Her voice turns wistful. “Can you even imagine what he looks like beneath his clothes?”
An image of Colton pops into my head. As delicious as Monsieur Dupre is, I only have eyes for one man. And it’s not our dance instructor. “He turned you down?”
“Yup. He said his boyfriend would have a problem with it,” she admits with a laugh. “I told him that I’d be more than happy to be the star of that little show.”
“Shut up!” I swat her arm as my eyes pop wide. “You didn’t!”
“Please, girl. You know me better than that.” She grins and shoots another glance in our teachers’ direction. “Do you have any idea how hot that would be?”
Umm...maybe?
“Anyway,” she continues blithely, “it was a no-go.”
I rise to my feet and extend my arms above my head before bending to the left, holding the pose, and then repeating it on the other side until my muscles feel limber.
Zoe slips off her beaten-up shoes before stuffing them inside her dance bag. I do the same, grabbing a bottle of water and lifting it to my lips. Once the container has been drained, I stuff it in the bag and pull on an oversized T-shirt. Black leggings come next before shoving my feet into a pair of boots and stuffing my arms into my jacket. “Ready to go?”
The willowy brunette nods as we wave to our instructor, who is still surrounded by a handful of students, and exit the studio. Even though I’m tired from a full hour of dancing, I feel revitalized. My muscles are fatigued and pliable.
No matter what happens in my life, dance is the one thing I can count on. When my parents went through a rough patch and were at each other’s throats, dance is what got me through the hard times. If I couldn’t escape to the studio, I was able to shove earbuds in, crank up the music, and lose myself in the choreography while locked in my bedroom.
What would I do if I couldn’t dance?
Who would I be without it?
I don’t have an answer to that. It’s such an integral part of who I am.
Even though I’m nowhere near good enough to dance professionally, my dream is to one day open my own studio. During high school, I started teaching ballet and jazz classes. It’s something I enjoy. I’ve been lucky to find an academy here in town where I can pick up a few classes to teach on the weekends.
Am I under the delusion that it will make me rich?
Nope, but I don’t care. Dance makes me happy.
As we move through the crowded corridor, Zoe chatters about the upcoming annual showcase. Each performer choreographs a three-minute routine to highlight their talent. Wesley has a fierce program with dancers from around the world. Guest instructors are brought in from the most prestigious programs and academies. A number of students go on to perform in companies, on Broadway, or dancing backup. I feel fortunate to be here, studying alongside and learning from such a talented group of people.
“Hey, you want to grab lunch?” she asks. “After such a grueling rehearsal, I’m starving.”
I pull on my fingerless gloves. “Sure. I could eat.” Truth be told, I can always eat. It’s a continuous battle.
What can I say? I’m part Italian and have a serious love affair with pasta. And chicken parmesan. One day, it will be my downfall.
As we push through the glass doors into the bright January sunshine, my phone chimes with an incoming message. I slip the cell from the pocket of my white puffer jacket and glance at the screen.