The Ballerina's Secret Page 5

  “I...” she started.

  But before she could finish, the frosted glass window at the counter slid open with a horrible screech.

  Tessa whipped her head in the direction of the sound.

  The woman behind the counter narrowed her gaze. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I need to speak to the company secretary. Or possibly Madame Daria, if she’s available.” Tessa swallowed. This was more difficult than she’d thought it would be. “I need to withdraw from the auditions.”

  The woman looked her up and down and then shrugged. “I’m the company secretary, and I’m afraid you’re too late.”

  Tessa frowned. “Too late?”

  “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Tessa Wilde.”

  The older woman winked. “You should probably go check the list.”

  Tessa’s heart nearly stopped.

  “The casting list is up? Already?” Ivanov had already chosen his dancers? After just two days?

  Impossible. Auditions were scheduled to go through this evening.

  “It went up about ten minutes ago.” The secretary shot her an encouraging smile. “Good luck.”

  Right.

  Tessa turned, not really expecting to see the piano man still standing there. But all the same, she felt a bittersweet tug of disappointment when she realized he’d gone.

  It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. At the moment, only one thing did. The casting list.

  She strode toward the practice studio, where the casting sheet was most likely tacked to the door so it couldn’t be missed. Other dancers rushed past her, eager to check for their names. Word had obviously spread. The air hummed with anticipation. Tessa could feel it as surely as she could feel the lingering butterflies in her stomach from her intriguing encounter with the piano player.

  Her footsteps danced a fine line between a walk and a run. Up ahead, she could see Violet’s wide grin as she hugged one of the girls who’d shared the barre with them the day before in class. Good. They’d both been chosen, possibly even placed in Cast A.

  Every ballet had two different casts that performed on alternating nights. Cast A was the more prestigious grouping, the crème de la crème. They performed opening night, when all the critics typically showed up. Cast A always closed the show, as well. Cast B, in turn, performed matinees and weekday nights.

  As she reached the cluster of dancers crowded around the door to the practice studio, the floor began to vibrate. Dancers jumped up and down, their excitement so real that it was a tangible, physical force, humming beneath Tessa’s feet. There was a lot of noise, too—so many voices that Tessa couldn’t have made sense of them even if they hadn’t sounded so muffled and strange.

  A ribbon of dread snaked through her as she stood on the fringe of the crowd. She wanted to look, but at the same time, she didn’t. If her name wasn’t printed on the sheet of paper tacked to the door, it was over. Everything. Her dancing. Her life. As long as she didn’t know—as long as there was still a glimmer of hope—nothing changed. She was still a ballerina.

  What are you thinking? You came here to quit, remember?

  In front of her, Violet turned around to head out of the crush of bodies and make room for the ones who hadn’t yet pored over the list. Tessa had never seen her friend look so happy, so full of joy. Cast A. Definitely. Then Violet made eye contact with Tessa, and her smile faded. Just the tiniest bit.

  So the news was bad.

  “It’s okay,” Tessa said, as her limbs went wooden. She’d expected failure to feel different, somehow. She’d expected soul-crushing disappointment and tears. Definitely tears.

  But the tears didn’t come. Neither did the sadness. She felt nothing, actually. Just a strange state of numbness, as if her body refused to acknowledge the awful reality of the situation. This one, final loss was more than she could accept. She wished she’d had the chance to quit. At least then she would have never known she hadn’t been good enough.

  “I’m sorry,” Violet said, gathering Tessa in her arms and holding on tight.

  Tessa couldn’t even bring herself to hug Violet back. She just stood there awkwardly, until her friend finally let her go. She wasn’t sure what perverse drive compelled her to look at the list when she knew she wouldn’t find her name on it. Closure, perhaps? Or maybe she just needed to see its absence for herself. Then maybe the awful truth would sink in.

  She pushed her way to the front of the crowd and scanned the list of corps dancers for Cast A. As expected, Violet’s name was right there. Second from the bottom, but placement didn’t matter. She was in. Tessa, of course, was not. Her name was nowhere to be found. Her gaze flitted to the Cast B corps list. It wasn’t there either. So this was real. She was finished.

  She stood for a second, until she imagined she could feel her heart breaking in two. But as she turned to go, her gaze snagged on a familiar arrangement of letters.

  Her name.

  She whipped her head back around and scanned the list again. She still didn’t see it. Great. Now she wasn’t just hearing things, she was hallucinating. Just in case, she let her gaze drift upward, past the list of corps dancers. She read the names of the dancers who’d been selected for solo parts, and then finally stopped reading when she reached the very top of the page.

  There it was.

  Tessa Wilde.

  It had to be some kind of mistake. What was her name doing opposite the lead role? In Cast A? It just wasn’t possible.

  Was it?

  Violet certainly hadn’t seen it. Then again, she’d been looking at the list of corps dancers, not the principals.

  The lead role—the diamond tutu—it was all too much to hope for. It wasn’t real. Just like the sound. Just like the music. None of this was real.

  Then, through the slender window on the door, she caught a glimpse of the man sitting at the piano. His back was to her as he pounded on the Steinway, his nimble hands flying over the keys, the same elegant hands he’d used to speak to her only moments ago.

  Congratulations.

  He’d known.

  Somehow it made sense that he had. She wasn’t sure why or how. But it did.

  Chapter Five

  “I hate to say I told you so.” Against all odds, Julian found himself smiling as he sat across from Chance at the coffee shop around the corner from the dance studio. As close as he ever came to smiling, anyway.

  “But you’re going to.” Chance rolled his eyes as he drained his espresso. He seemed antsy. In a hurry to run off and bed one of his coworkers, most likely. “Go ahead. Say it.”

  “Okay.” Julian shrugged. “I told you she was good, and I was right.”

  He grinned into his cup of coffee. He preferred it black. Bitter. Like his mood. Although at the moment his mood wasn’t half-bad. A rarity.

  What had gotten into him, anyway? He was out for coffee. He was chatting with a friend. Anyone watching would have thought he lived a normal life, full of outings and social engagements. The life of the party. He probably even looked like the old Julian right about now.

  Except for the scars.

  “You certainly did. It seems your little Tessa has turned you into a balletomane,” Chance said.

  “She’s not mine. And it doesn’t take an expert to see that she’s good. Admit it.” Your little Tessa. He wished Chance would stop using that particular adjective. Although, if it kept Chance from sleeping with her, he supposed he could live with it.

  Since when do you care whom she sleeps with?

  He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He just thought she deserved better than Chance. He was a friend, yes. But also a player. Not that he needed to lose any sleep over Tessa’s love life, he reminded himself.

  She’d been crossing his mind more than he cared to admit. If he was really being honest, she could possibly
be the reason for the sudden uptick in his mood. Which was just absurd.

  So Tessa had been given a role. A lead role. But so what? They’d hardly even spoken to each other. It had nothing to do with him.

  You’re happy for her. You care.

  Right. Not likely. His change in mood was more probably attributed to the fact that he could taunt Chance unmercifully because he’d been right about Tessa all along. She was a gorgeous dancer. Special. Chance had to have been blind not to notice.

  Even if Julian did care—just a little—the feeling was obviously not mutual. Tessa had looked at him as though he’d sprouted a second head when he’d signed at her earlier.

  Congratulations.

  He probably hadn’t even gotten it right. So much for YouTube tutorials. He forced his lips into a straight line and tried not to think about the fact that his first instinct upon seeing her name at the top of the casting sheet had been to Google “how to congratulate someone in sign language.”

  What was he doing?

  “Yeah, well, you were right. She’s good.” Chance shrugged. “Big deal.”

  A nonsensical spike of irritation hit Julian square in the chest, which only irritated him further. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? You’ve been cast as her partner, remember?”

  “Exactly.” Chance gave his empty demitasse cup a shove toward the edge of the table. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Pardon me if I’m less than thrilled at being cast in the lead alongside a dancer who wasn’t even part of the company until this week. A deaf dancer at that.”

  Julian’s grip on his coffee mug tightened. “Don’t be such an ass. You’re still the star of the show.”

  “For now,” Chance said.

  Julian stared blankly at him. “What more do you want?”

  Chance’s gaze narrowed. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  Apparently not. “Enlighten me.”

  “If she screws this up, we’re done. Which means I’m done. We rehearse as partners. If she can’t cut it—and I sincerely doubt she can—they’ll move the Cast B lead couple up to Cast A, and the understudies would become Cast B.”

  Julian sighed and then reminded himself that none of this had anything to do with him. He played the piano in the corner. He was invisible, and that’s just the way he wanted it. “I guess I thought once the casts were chosen, they were set in stone.”

  “Every part, every step of choreography—hell, even every costume—is subject to change up until the moment you’re onstage. Nothing is ever set in stone in ballet.”

  Or life.

  Julian knew as much. All too well. Wasn’t there a Grammy Award sitting on the mantel in the apartment he could barely afford? The night he’d brought that shiny gold statue home should have been the beginning of his song. Instead, it had turned out to be the outro.

  He swallowed. The coffee had left a bad taste in his mouth. Now he remembered why he never did this sort of thing anymore. “Tessa’s got a shot, though. Maybe you can help her.”

  “Me? I’m a dancer, not a social worker.” Chance let out a bitter laugh.

  Every so often, when Julian was with Chance, he caught a glimpse of the lanky kid who’d grown up across the street from him in Brooklyn. Now was not one of those moments. Chance had long shaken off any of his lingering awkwardness. He was a star, from the tips of his toes to the top of his arrogant head. Sometimes Julian wondered how their friendship had survived.

  But deep down, he knew it was because he and Chance were the same. There was nothing gallant about Julian. There never had been. Not even before. It had taken a single-minded focus to come as far as he had. He’d had time for nothing but himself. There’d been women, but they hadn’t meant anything. Julian’s life had been all about Julian. And his music, of course.

  But the music had just been an extension. It had been a part of him as much as his legs, his arms, his hands.

  His face.

  He cleared his throat. He didn’t give a damn about the scars. Not really. It was what they represented—the loss of the music—that made him hate looking in the mirror.

  He put down his coffee cup. “Believe me, I know you’re no social worker. It’s just a suggestion. You’re her partner after all. If she doesn’t dance, you don’t dance. You said so yourself.”

  “So you’re saying I should spend every night at the studio, just like Tessa?”

  “No. That’s not what I said at all. There are other ways, you know.” He focused intently on the wood grain of the table between them. “Probably, anyway.”

  Chance narrowed his gaze. “As in?”

  Julian feigned nonchalance as best he could. “Nonauditory cues. Something visual or sensory for her to rely on for timing with your partnering.”

  Chance stared at him for a long, silent moment. When he finally spoke, there was an unmistakable hint of amusement in his tone. “Since when have you become an expert on hearing impairment?”

  Damn Google. Julian had the sudden urge to pitch his cell phone into the nearest black hole. “Look, surely there are things you can do to make it easier on her. I’m guessing there are, anyway.”

  “You’re just guessing. Got it.” Chance winked. “Nonauditory cues is just a phrase that came to you off the top of your head.”

  Julian’s temples throbbed. “Can we change the subject?”

  “Gladly. Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a date tonight.” Of course he did.

  Chance rose from his chair and tossed a few dollar bills on the table—enough to cover both their coffees. Julian didn’t bother reaching for his wallet. It would have been a waste of time. Since the night of the accident, he’d become Chance’s project. The job, the coffees, the unexpected visits...guilt offerings. If it had been anyone else, Julian wouldn’t have put up with it. He had his pride after all.

  Outside the coffeehouse, a street performer had set up business on the corner of 66th and Amsterdam. A percussionist. He’d arranged his drumsticks in a neat row on the sidewalk, on top of a red towel. Julian’s footsteps slowed as he passed, and his gaze narrowed. The drumsticks were Vaters. The real deal. The guy sounded good, too, even though he was using those nice sticks on a pair of upturned plastic buckets, rather than actual drums. Ratatatatatatatat.

  Julian’s hand thumped against the side of his thigh in time with the beat as he and Chance crossed the street and headed uptown. Even after the thump thump thump of the drummer’s sticks faded and blended with the sounds of the city—sirens, horns, the whoosh of traffic—the rhythm hummed in Julian’s fingertips.

  There’d been a time when he’d heard music everywhere. He hadn’t even tried. He’d step out of his apartment door and lose himself in the staccato of street noises. Songs seemed to write themselves. He’d been able to find a pattern even in the most random collection of noises. All around him, the city had moved and breathed, spinning free-form jazz improvisations in his head. He’d been a songwriter, and New York had been his song.

  After the accident, after he’d stopped playing, he’d also stopped listening. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. Somehow, the music had just slipped away. He didn’t tap his toes anymore to jackhammer noises on street corners. He didn’t hear low bass moans in the breaths of idle bus engines. Somehow, in the loudest city in the world, Julian’s soul had gone silent.

  He was beginning to hear it again, though.

  He didn’t know how. Or why. Maybe playing the piano had unlocked something inside him. Maybe the explanation wasn’t so simple.

  Maybe, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, his reawakening was in some way related to Tessa. Something shifted inside him when he watched her dance. He lost himself in her fluid grace, much like the way he used to lose himself in his music.

  He felt almost whole again, which was borderline nuts. His behavior didn’t make any sense. What was he doing G
oogling ASL and nonauditory cues? If Tessa found out about it, she’d probably think he was some sort of stalker.

  Whatever the reason, he was once again beginning to find the rhythm in everyday life.

  He’d strummed a five-part melody against his leg for two blocks, distracted by the faint stirring of a song that seemed to be fighting its way to the forefront of his consciousness, before he realized Chance was leading him in the exact opposite direction from the 66th Street station.

  Julian stopped. Chance kept on walking.

  “Hey, man,” he called after him. “Where are you going?”

  “Not much farther.” Chance walked a few more feet and then turned around. “Okay. Here.”

  Julian approached him slowly. What the hell was going on?

  Chance crossed his arms and waited in front of the Bennington Hotel, one of the most famous historic hotels in Manhattan. The Bennington was an icon of the Roaring Twenties, as well as the home of Guy Lombardo and his orchestra and the birthplace of the New York tradition of playing “Auld Lang Syne” on New Year’s Eve. Julian knew a lot about the Bennington. What he didn’t know was why he was standing beneath its glittering marquee while the midtown traffic moved behind him in a blur of yellow taxis and sleek black town cars.

  Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a bad feeling about this. Very bad.

  “I’m not dressed for drinks here, if that’s what you have in mind.” Julian cast a pointed glance at a man dressed in a sleek tuxedo, who was entering the building through its shiny revolving door, and then narrowed his gaze at Chance. “Neither are you, for that matter.”

  Chance shook his head. “Not drinks. I just want to show you something. Let’s go inside. It’ll take five minutes, tops. Then you can go home and get back to your busy schedule of ignoring the rest of the world.”

  Chance shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and disappeared through the revolving door. Julian had no choice but to follow.