Chapter Seventeen
Mirrors.
The wheeled apparatus turned out to be mirrors.
Mina gaped. There were six of them, each two meters tall and a half-meter wide, in wooden frames connected by hinges. When Carmen had taken them from the storage closet, they had been folded together like an accordion to save space. Stretched out now, with a barre in front of them, the shiny basketball court was transformed into a makeshift little dance studio.
“Manny and mijo built it a few years ago, when Zachary first started the new summer program,” Carmen explained.
Late comers took their places along the wall and on the bleachers, likely hearing about her visit through word-of-mouth. Mina turned her attention from them to Zack—who was herding about thirty kids ranging in age from six to twelve—into a semi-circle on the gymnasium floor. It wasn’t a publicized event, but camera phones were out nonetheless.
“Zack started it? Not you?”
“Sí, it was his idea.” Carmen beamed at her son, who was telling jokes and laughing with the kids. “We do it every summer for free, because some of the kids can’t afford to pay. Most can’t afford dance clothes, so we rely on donations and support from the community.”
“The summer? And…after that?”
Carmen spoke candidly. “I get one, maybe two every year who have enough natural ability that I can mentor them, catch them up in time to apply for scholarships. The rest? If I see them next year, I’ll be surprised.”
Mina gasped, pressing her hand to her stomach. “But…” She blurted the word, because her insides felt like a lava lamp—like her organs were floating around in molten liquid. “How can you introduce them to something so beautiful, only to tell them they cannot continue?”
The warmth in Carmen’s wide brown eyes intensified to a spark, her voice a whisper. “En boca cerrada no entran moscas.”
Mina stared at her mutely.
“You have no idea what that means, do you, linda?”
“I understand the words, just not what they mean. ‘Flies don’t enter a closed mouth?’”
“Sí. It means, ‘Sometimes, it’s best to keep your mouth shut.’” She gave her a meaningful look, then went to join Zack in front of the kids.
Even with her own foot shoved down her throat, Mina observed the way Carmen radiated around Zack, how incredibly proud of him she was—how fiercely protective.
Oh.
Merde.
Zack, who stood there so charismatic and relaxed, had been one of these kids. Hungry and full of potential. Potential, but not money.
Without Carmen to keep him from slipping through the cracks, where might he be right now? How different—and small—would the world of ballet look without him to stretch and redefine its boundaries? Without someone who refused to accept that the genre was confined to the styles of only a handful of choreographers? Someone who saw a classic like La Dame Aux Camélias and re-imagined it for a contemporary audience—and for the lead to look like her.
Mina’s heart sank to her stomach, and she suddenly felt half her usual height. Strangely, the smile on Carmen’s face looked genuine when she introduced her to the kids, and Mina knew instinctively that it was. Everything about Carmen was real—her warmth, her frankness, her laughter, and obviously her love. To someone like her, an apology was nothing more than empty words.
Mina had not been sure of what she would say to these children before she’d arrived. She supposed Zack might lead the discussion, open it up to some questions, and she’d take a few pictures. Now, she was determined to share a little of herself, to show Carmen that her privileged upbringing hadn’t made her so out-of-touch, she couldn’t connect with these children.
Or that you can’t connect with Zack, her annoying subconscious said. Not that it would bother you for her to think that, simply because she knows you like his hand in your pants.
Impeccable timing, as always. She tried not to groan. Unlike her subconscious, people could hear her. And see her. Naturellement, he was looking at her now. Non, not at her, or through her. It felt—had always felt, from the first time they’d met—like he looked inside of her, past skin and muscle and bone. That’s why she’d raised a leaden shield around her heart, so his gratingly precise x-ray vision couldn’t see what she wasn’t willing to share. Taking a deep breath, she lowered the shield—just a little—smiled and took her cue.
“Your accent is funny.”
Zack met Mina’s quick eye contact.
Is he serious? she telepathed.
Don’t look at me, he telepathed in return. Serve it right back.
She cut her eyes back to her heckler. “Funny, that’s exactly what the French children told me when I arrived with an américain accent.”
“You were an American?” The kid stared at her like she’d said she was from Narnia.
Several people laughed.
“I am américaine.” She lifted a fine brow. “It is a lifetime honor, so I’m afraid you are stuck with me.”
“Ever heard of Beyoncé?” another one challenged, obviously unconvinced she hadn’t been hatched, or cultivated in a petri dish.
Mina narrowed her eyes playfully. “I’m from France, not Mars.”
With that, the little band of misfits was hooked. Zack exchanged an amused glance with his mother—who seemed to be fighting a smile and losing—then folded his arms over his chest and watched Mina work.
“I come from one of the oldest ballet schools in the world…”
Jesus.
Maybe it was her impeccable posture, or the way her voice had risen to reach the people in the back, but the hard, echoing surfaces of the gym seemed to magnify her accent. The subtle huskiness of her tone became less subtle, her words blending into one another, lending a steady, lyrical sound to her voice that seduced her listeners with its rhythm. It was like hearing her speak for the first time again, sending his pulse racing in his chest.
“I was the only ballerina of African descent in any of my classes, the first to join my company. I had friends, of course, but it was…a unique kind of loneliness—the kind you can feel even when you are not truly alone.”
Zack’s heart stuttered—from pure shock—at those words, at the pain in her voice and in her expression when she said them. Of all the methods he’d considered for extracting information from her (including possible use of tethers), wide-eyed, ruddy kids weren’t one of them.
“It hurt me,” she said, “to feel underestimated sometimes. Like greatness was neither expected, nor required of me. And then, sometimes, when I exceeded expectations, to feel like I was being evaluated with a more critical eye than my peers. It was not until I was preparing to compete for an apprenticeship, that I realized the advantage my experiences had given me. You see, in ballet, your body and every movement it makes, is placed under a magnifying glass—no matter who you are, no matter what you look like…no matter where you come from. When everyone else around me grew sick from the pressure of competition, I remained strong. The kind of scrutiny they were preparing to endure? I had already endured for years.”
Zack felt a whisper tickle up his forearms, the back of his neck, even the skin of his legs. Goosebumps. Her passion was tangible—like he could reach up and pluck it from the air. It was almost too much, being exposed to the full intensity of her soul when he’d grown used to getting just a glimmer at a time.
“If you choose this path, it will be hard,” she said. “It will hurt, and sometimes you will want to give up. I just want to say, don’t. Don’t ever give up, no matter what you decide to do. Would you like to know why?”
At their nods and softly uttered yeses, her face lit up with her smile. Holy shit, did it light up. It wasn’t until that exact moment that he missed her smile, when he realized it was her first smile since she’d started talking. That’s how bright it was.
“In French, we say, ‘Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid,’” she said. “It means, ‘Little by little, the bird makes its nest.’ With patience and persistence, you can accomplish anything.”
It wasn’t a speech, but it felt like one. The room erupted in applause and whistles, and a little girl sporting two fluffy puffs of hair on either side of her head rushed forward, nearly knocking Mina over in her eagerness. Zack recognized the smallest ballerina in the program that summer. She belonged to one of the gym’s regulars.
“That’s Charley,” he said. “Six years old, youngest of five, only girl, and obviously raised by wolves…”
Charley giggled, and Mina moved into a squat, bringing them eye-to-eye.
“You’re the same brown as me,” Charley said, which made everyone laugh.
Holding up her hand, Mina examined the back of it with feigned concentration. “I think you’re right.”
“And, we have the same hair…I think.” Charley frowned. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but hesitated.
Mina went to her knees. “Did you want to ask me something, chère?”
Charley moved her head closer, whispering something in Mina’s ear. When she pulled back, Zack saw Mina’s face again—a strange mix of shock and curiosity. They stared at each other long enough that it was almost awkward, and he started toward them to rescue Mina from whatever put that look on her face when she held up her hand to stop him. He paused, gaping along with everyone else as Mina smiled into Charley’s eyes, gave her a subtle nod, and bowed her head.
Charley lifted one of her little hands and tentatively stroked Mina’s hair, sifting several of the spiraled strands through her chubby fingers. Mina’s eyes welled up, but she stayed stock still, waiting for Charley to finish her gentle examination.
“Well?” Mina asked when Charley dropped her hand again.
“You’re just like me,” Charley said. “I knew it!”
That drew some much-needed laughter, and after Mina graciously answered a round of questions, Zack decided to complete the rescue mission he’d started several minutes ago.
“Okay, we have time for one more. You—Snaggletooth,” he said affectionately to a girl missing all four of her front teeth. “Bonus points if you don’t ask to pet the special guest.”
The girl giggled, then shyly asked her question. “Hi, what’s your dream role? Thank you.”
Mina tensed up, as if the girl had asked what bra size she wore. It was subtle, the way her posture got a little straighter, her chin a little higher. He quirked his brow at her, opening their telepathic communication line again. What’s that about, petite?
Averting her eyes, she turned back to her audience, her smile a little too perfect. “Forgive me, I don’t think anyone has asked me that question. I think, because I’ve been fortunate to have danced as many roles as I have… I-it’s a great question.”
Expert Stalling Tactics, an abridged version, with annotations by special guest, Wilhelmina Allende…
Her words stalled, but her face didn’t. It seemed painted in two shades: sadness and happiness. Red and gold waged war on her skin.
“When I was six years old, my papa took me to see Swan Lake. I was in awe of everything about it, especially that a single dancer got to play two roles—the black swan, and the white swan—such a range of emotion and technique…Since then, I have always dreamed of being the Swan Queen.”
With that, Zack’s heart tripped hard and fell, hitting every rib on its way to his toes. This time, his telepathic communication said:
What.
The.
Fuck?
Then the door to her heart slammed shut, the sound of it echoing off the rafters, and question time was over. Mina was a champ, though. For half an hour, she endured questions about her Frenchness that were, at the least, curious, and at most, semi-insulting (not from his kids, thank God). After posing for selfies with anyone who asked, she was understandably ready to go. She tried to hurry ahead of him, but Zack kept up with her easily.
“How is it you’ve never been the Swan Queen?” he asked. “Weeks ago, when we danced for Alex’s class, it felt like you’d done it a million times. The way you moved—it’s like it wasn’t a memory at all. Like it was mapped in your DNA.”
“I do not want to talk about this, Zachary.”
“Zachary? Are you shitting me, petite?”
Her speed-walk into the parking lot out back was comical, since she was riding with him to his mother’s house for dinner.
“That is your name, oui? Just like Mina is my name, and how I would appreciate being addressed in public.”
He looked around the near-empty parking lot. It was six o’clock, but daylight streamed through the trees and a persistently overcast sky. Security was locking up. Other than the two of them, there was just a guy tossing his gym bag into his trunk and getting into his car. A few stragglers were smoking something that smelled illegal across the street, but they weren’t paying them any attention. She tugged on the passenger’s side door handle, to no avail. Cursing, she spun around, looking thrilled to see him standing right behind her.
“I am not shitting.” Leaning against the door, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I just don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“No,” he said. “Not okay.”
“Putain!”
“Sticks and stones, petite.”
See, this was supposed to be the part where she crinkled up her cute little nose and called him an ass in her sexy pissed off voice. For the record, she didn’t.
Instead, her eyes locked with his.
Her hands balled into fists.
She shook like a leaf.
And though she’d been walking fast, unless she’d also done fifty jumping jacks in the last sixty seconds, she shouldn’t have been breathing so damn hard.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Unlocking the car with his keyless entry, he opened her door and shuffled her in, then jogged around to the driver’s side, sliding in and closing the door. Keening noises roiled in her throat, building, but staying obediently put as she looked to him for… What? Permission? Oh. Starting the engine, he hiked the volume as the radio came on, then checked their three, six, and nine o’clocks for any potential onlookers.
“We’re good, petite. Go ahead and let her rip.”
So, she did.
She ripped.
And ripped.
Then ripped some more.
No words, just noise. She screamed until the tears he’d seen in her eyes a few times during her non-speech to the kids finally streamed down her cheeks, until her tightened fists relaxed, until she fell back in her seat, boneless and damn-near hoarse. He kept his face forward the entire time, checking his periphery, giving her a moment. She needed that, he sensed. To have someone with her so she wouldn’t be alone, but space to exorcise whatever demons plagued her. Wordlessly, he handed her some tissue from the center console, sneaking a glance to ensure she was okay. A minute later, she flipped open the sun visor mirror and started touching up her face.
“Oh no.” He flipped it back up. “Uh-uh. We’re not about to just ride off into the sunset after a screaming banshee just crawled out of your throat into my car. Talk to me, petite. For God’s sake.”
The minute hand on the console changed again. And again. God, this was torture.
“Mina,” he said softly. “Please?”
That brought her head around quick, her eyes mapping his face then falling to his hands gripping the steering wheel. He hadn’t even noticed he was doing it.
“You’re…asking me?” She looked incredulous.
Okay, that was fair. He did make a habit of demanding things from her—in the studio, on stage, and the few times he was lucky enough to have her in his arms. Leading. Maybe it was time to let her do that.
“I’m asking, petite.” He let go the steering wheel, letting his left hand fall to his lap, his right resting between them, palm-up. “I’m asking you to trust me with this—with whatever is hurting you.”
She stared at his hand.
“How about some collateral?” His voice was low, earnest. He was beginning to understand her more, that sometimes she needed a full minute to process things. “How about I tell you this doesn’t freak me out? That I wasn’t holding onto the steering wheel because I thought you were crazy.”
She lifted her eyes to his. Go on, they telepathed. I’m listening.
“How about I tell you it’s because I used to scream just like that when I was a kid, into my pillow, until Carmen and Manny took me home? That I used to wet my bed for a year after?” Her soft palm slid over his, and his fingers curled automatically around her hand. “I was eleven before I woke up to dry sheets, because, for all the heroes I’d made up in my head, there was at least one monster. I’d have the most…vivid dreams. Lots of kids have monsters under their beds.” He swallowed his hammering heartbeat down. “One of my monsters tried to come into mine.”
Mina gasped and shuddered, her eyes mirrors of his pain. “Zack, I—I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She winced. “I feel…stupide. I shouldn’t- “
“No.” He squeezed her hand. “That’s the point, petite. You should. Okay? You can’t keep carrying everything on your own, letting it bottle up like that. You wanna know the ugliest monster in my head? Foster Mom Number Three. She was wearing the skin of a good guy, like the villains in Scooby Doo.” Angling his head, he studied her face. “What does your monster look like, Mina? No monster is too small. Tell me. Let me help you rip the mask off the son of a bitch.”
Her laugh had cracks all through it. Pain dripping through the humor, washing away some of the madness. Taking a deep breath, she let it all go. “My monster is…the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She wears a feather crown, and a tutu so shiny with diamonds, so full of feathers that, when she dances, she looks like an angel floating in the clouds.”
“Odette,” he said. “From Swan Lake.”
“Oui, I’ve wanted to play her since I was six, since my very first ballet, when papa gave me that crystal swan.” Her smile had the same hint of sadness she’d worn at her apartment when she’d shown him the figurine. “Every time I look at it, as much as I feel love for my father, and comfort at his memory… it tortures me, too. Taunts me.”
“Because you think you can never have it.”
She nodded.
He ached for her, his free hand curling into a fist. “You can’t really believe that, can you? You were incredible as Giselle. You have the speed, the stamina, the precision… Not for nothing, petite, but you’re intoxicating to watch. It’s what made me come to Paris for you.”
“So then, why? Why is it, no matter how many roles I dance, how much I succeed, how much I improve, when I go out for the Swan Queen, it’s always, ‘Désolé.’” She’d deepened her voice, screwing her face up like a stuffy old man. “‘I’m sorry, chère, you’re just not the right fit.’”
Zack sighed. “I—can’t answer that, not with any kind of certainty. I can’t explain why some choreographers are obsessed with this antiquated notion of uniformity, when other art forms seem to be evolving much faster.”
She sniffed. “It is so unfair, to see dancers I’ve bested, get the role I’m rejected for.”
Jesus. That explained why she was always looking in the mirror. Second-guessing. Obsessing. But the normal tendency of a dancer to find something to improve upon had fuck-all to do with this. No, one of the most gifted ballerinas in the world was having a mental breakdown because she couldn’t measure up to a standard no amount of rehearsing could meet. And it made his blood boil.
“It is unfair,” he said. “It’s bullshit, but if you let it, it’ll drive you nuts. Besides, what’s the alternative? You stop?”
“Non! M-my heart beats for this. If I could not dance, I think something inside of me would die.”
Releasing her hand, he lifted her chin, seeking her out. Checking for that constant, driving hunger that made her eyes so powerfully compelling. She didn’t let him down.
“For so many dancers, the Swan Queen is the endgame,” he said. “You are nowhere near that yet. It can happen anytime. It will happen. No one persists like you do and fails. I believed what you said to those kids in there. They believed it, and I know you believe it too, or you’d have run right back to Paris after our first rehearsal.”
“I do,” she whispered. “I do believe it.”
“That’s it, then, petite,” he murmured, kissing her eyelids. “Little by little. Okay?”
She nodded stiffly, because he still held her chin hostage.
“Good.” Nuzzling her nose, he let her go. “Let’s start with dinner.”