When I arrive at Dreamcatcher Friday afternoon, I know Blitz won’t be with my class. Danika listed off the groups she’d given him. None of them are at the same time as my intermediate ballet class.
So he may have already come and gone.
But something told me he wouldn’t leave. Advanced jazz ends just an hour before mine begins. I had told him in the storage room that I would be back on Friday afternoon. Maybe he had paid attention to that.
A girl can hope.
I’m a little early. Suze isn’t at the desk. The foyer is empty except for a pair of moms talking quietly by a window.
Since it’s after school, the studio hall is full of parents. Every room is crowded with dancers. It’s the busiest time of day.
I walk along, my string bag close to me, trying to avoid bumping into parents and siblings. Lots of ballet today and a hip-hop class. I pause by each window, looking inside. Maybe Blitz stayed to help in whatever room he was in earlier.
But he’s nowhere. Just students and their regular instructors.
I try to avoid feeling crestfallen. When I get to the end of the hall, I open the door to the storage room. I might as well have a little reverie in there. Maybe try on the corset and the top hat Blitz wore. It’s silly, but it’s better than feeling totally down.
But when I get inside the darkened room, light spills through the open door on the side that leads to the stage.
My shoes squeak on the floor as I move toward it. Danika is probably in the recital hall again. I can at least make myself useful in the half hour until my class begins.
I step into the staging area, then onto the wings behind the side curtains. No one is on the actual stage. I feel timid about stepping out onto it since it’s fully lit and the chairs are not, as if there is a performance about to start. I would hate to head out there only to discover there was a private exhibition happening that I didn’t know about.
I peer into the seats, shading my eyes from the intense lights shining down, but I can’t see farther back than the first few rows. There’s a clipboard resting on a chair, but no people.
I duck into the wings and walk behind the back curtain over to the other side. Still nobody. Huh. Danika must have been here and then left. Or a prop vendor. She has to order the decor for the holiday show. Maybe someone was up here taking measurements.
I walk along the side curtain and take one step onto the stage.
“Hello?” I call out. “Danika? Did you need any help?”
My voice echoes in the empty space. Then all is silent again.
I move to the edge of the stage and sit down. It’s wild being in here alone. Usually it’s full of people. I picture an audience in the seats, the silence after the applause.
The air is heavy with expectation. I’ve done three recitals on this stage. I was totally nervous my first time, but now I’m used to it. Even my parents approved of the lovely grace of our performances, despite my father’s anxious glances at my leotard.
I switch from the tennis shoes I walked in to my ballet slippers. I point my feet, imagining them in toe shoes. I’ve asked for a pair for Christmas, my only gift. I really want to be ready by then.
My leotard today isn’t my best, but I couldn’t repeat the light blue set again and I wore my yellow one Tuesday. So, I’m back in the pink set from the day I met Blitz. Maybe it will be good luck.
I’ve tied back my black hair with a pink ribbon, just away from my face, no ponytail. It’s harder to dance that way, but I wanted it down for Blitz. I can still feel the tickle of it as he dipped me in the waltz, the way it swirled around my shoulders in a spin. I can always twist it up before class starts.
I stand, planning to pick up my bag and go back to the rooms to wait. But the stage calls to me, as if it’s whispering in my ear to do just a little dance. Something small and simple.
I have no music, not even a cell phone to play a song. But I don’t really need it. I run through the warm-up routine, neck stretch, Achilles, ankles, feet, then hips and thighs. When I feel good and warm, I take my first run across the stage. I spin and spin, reveling in the whoosh of air that is one of the best feelings in ballet.
When I’ve come out of the turns and am steady again, I dance-walk to one side and take a few running steps for a grand jeté. I know I’m not stellar at this move yet, but the extra space and knowing no one is watching makes me feel bold and free. When I land squarely, I head to the other corner to do it all again.
Then I see the shadowy figure in the aisle.
I halt instantly, breathing hard. I can’t make it out, but it definitely isn’t Danika. Too tall. Too solid.
He comes forward and the light hits him.
It’s Blitz.
Today he’s wearing knee-length spandex shorts and a form-fitting tank. Both are charcoal gray. There is no muscle or bulge that isn’t perfectly delineated. My eyes glance where they shouldn’t and dart away.
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Oh, hey,” I say.
“You look beautiful up there,” he says.
Despite the strength and power I felt just a moment ago, I’m definitely melting now. “Thanks,” I squeak.
“What is that leap you just did? I’ve seen it in a dozen ballets.”
“A grand jeté.”
He climbs up the steps to the stage. “How many steps do you take?”
“It depends on the dance leading up to the leap,” I say. “And how strong you are. Some can do it with just a step. I need some lead time.”
“Can you do it again?”
My face heats up from nervousness, but I say, “Of course.” I’m tempted to add that my grand jeté is not perfect, but I swallow the words. Just let it be what it is.
I take a few steps back, then run lightly forward into the leap.
“That’s fantastic!” he says. He imitates me, jumping into the air.
He is powerful and takes greater flight than I did.
When he is back on the ground, he turns to me. “Did I do it right?” he asks with the eagerness of a young child.
“Mostly,” I say.
“Mostly!” He runs over to me and lifts me by the waist until my face is well above his head. “Mostly!” He expertly drops me sideways and catches my body, one hand beneath a knee and the other under my arm.
I’m breathless. He sweeps me out and sets me on my feet again.
“What was THAT called?” I ask.
“I have no idea!” he says. “I just felt like doing it. So tell me what I did wrong.”
I extend my arms. “Arm position is very important in a grand jeté,” I say, framing my face in the circle of my arms. “This is fifth position, but there are other popular arm extensions.” I extend one arm to the side and one straight up. Then I place one arm straight in front and one straight back.
“What did I do with my arms?” Blitz asks.
“They were sort of all over the place.” A laugh escapes.
“Amateur,” he says. “I’m just a damn amateur.”
“You’re currently the most famous dancer there is. You have your own show.”
“Used to have my own show.” He shakes his head. “Maybe learning ballet is a good use of my time.”
“We have a lot of good teachers here,” I say.
He spins in circles around me. I turn to him as he makes his way around. He’s amazing. His form. His energy. It’s one thing to see recordings on a laptop screen. It’s another one entirely to have him right in front of me.
“The whole world probably wishes they were me right now,” I say.
This stops him. “Not exactly,” he says. His face is serious. “I don’t think there’s a name I haven’t been called in the past few weeks.”
“Is that why you came home?”
He takes my hand and starts turning me in circles, roll out, roll in, away from him and back. Finally he says, “I couldn’t trust anybody. Half of my staff quit and the other half is stabbing me in the back.”
“So you wanted your family.”
Blitz steps close and places my hand on his shoulder in what I recognize as waltz position. He grasps the other and we begin circling the stage floor. “Your favorite,” he says.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He spins me in a circle and lets go once I’m away. “You are my escape right now.”
My heart threatens to stop. “Me?”
He nods. He runs a few feet, then leaps into another attempt at a grand jeté. He’s full of nervous energy.
I decide to stop asking questions. If he needs escape, then I’ll be it.
When he lands, he asks, “Better?”
“Yes. But I think for a man, you don’t want the framed arms. I’d go with an extension.”
He does it again. Each leap is higher than the last. He’s a wonder. I can’t believe Danika said a thousand dancers were as good as him. He has to be one in a million.
“I know there are basic ballet positions,” he says. “But I don’t know what they are.”
“You want me to show you?”
“I’d love it.”
“This is first position,” I tell him, putting my heels together, toes out, and my arms in a circle in front of my chest.
“Like this?” he asks.
It’s perfect, but I use this as an excuse to touch him, shifting his arms down the barest inch. His skin is warm, the muscles flexed and hard. Danika warned him away from me. I have to be careful.
But I can’t stop myself.
“That’s it,” I say. “From there you go into second position, stepping your feet wide and extending your arms.” I move into place.
He mimics me perfectly.
We go through all five positions.
“I love this,” he says. “I guess if you’ve never danced with a partner, you don’t know any ballet lifts.”
I shake my head. “There aren’t any male ballet instructors at Dreamcatcher, although I’m sure the other girls know some dancers.”
“I might have to get some names.” He places his hands on my waist and lifts me again. “I’m betting it’s all very similar.”
It’s a little disconcerting how he keeps taking me airborne. He braces his legs with a lunge. Then his hands shift me so that my center of balance changes.
“Can you hold the position horizontally?” he asks. “It takes a lot of core strength.”
I’m not sure, but as he tilts my body into a line, my legs stay in the air until I’m parallel with the floor. I remember my arms and hold them out, fingers in proper hand position.
“Now that’s beautiful,” Blitz says. “You ballet dancers really have pretty details in the hands and head.”
He lowers me down. “You okay?” he asks. “Was that a strain?”
“Not at all,” I say. And that part is true. But I’m so high, so outrageously overflowing with excitement in his presence, that it is almost painful. I can’t tell him that.
“Too bad we don’t have any music. I left my cell phone in my car.” He notices my string bag. “Do you have yours?”
My face burns. “Not with me,” I say.
“Good for you. Going off grid.” He takes my hand and assumes the waltz position, but this time he leads me into another type of step, in a box. “I wish I could stop torturing myself with the Burn Blitz Burn hashtag.”
“What’s that?” I try to relax and follow Blitz’s steps, but with no music or any idea what he’ll do next, it’s all I can do not to tromp all over him.
“It sounds like fun, which is why everybody keeps jumping in. They bash me pretty damn hard with it. Every time I think it’s died down, it resurrects itself.”
“Like Zombie Jesus,” I say.
His laugh reverberates off the stage and walls of the recital hall. “Princess, where have you been all my life?”
Hiding under my father’s iron rule, I think, but I simply continue to follow his step. He rolls me out, ducking me under his arm, then lifts my arm so he can turn beneath mine. We do this over and over again until I’m breathless and my arm aches. But it’s fun, so fun. We’re dancing almost as part of the conversation.
“So do you have class today?” he asks.
I let go of him. “Oh my gosh. What time is it?”
He flicks the round screen on his wristband. A watch face lights up. “Four-ten.”
“Oh, no! I’m late!” I run for my bag, then stop. “Come with me,” I say. “Betsy can teach you a few things!”
He hesitates.
“Do you have something better to do?” I ask. “Like reading nasty Burn Blitz Burn Tweets?”
“Touché,” he says. “All right. But I’ll have to keep my hands off you in there.” We head off the side of the stage.
My heart revs up. “Why is that?”
“Your kindly boss Danika,” he says. “I’m skating on thin ice after Wednesday.”
Shoot. That’s right. It was one thing to sneak a dance in an empty recital hall. Another thing to be together with an audience.
I stop walking. “Maybe we should go through the main entrance of the recital hall rather than just appearing from the storage room.”
“I’ll risk it if you will,” he says. His smile is devilishly charming, and my heart immediately reacts with a jump in my pulse.
He takes my hand and we head into the staging area, where the door to the storage room still stands open.
My blood rushes in my ears. “Did you have some nefarious plan for in there?” I ask.
We dodge the costume racks. He pulls me behind one.
“Just this,” he says.
He cradles my face in both of his hands, and before I can even think, his lips land on mine.
Kissing is everything I remember, and so much more. His breath caresses me, his mouth warm and welcoming. He takes it easy, nibbling across my lips, his thumb stroking my cheek.
When I lean in, the kiss grows more demanding. His body presses against mine. His tongue flicks against my mouth, and I open for him.
His arms come around me as he explores inside. He tastes like mint gum and smells like pine. I couldn’t be more swept away.
Blitz’s kiss is the key that unlocks the secret diary of my past, every suppressed need, every hidden desire.
The kiss goes on and on. His hands explore my back and neck, his fingers threading into my hair. I never want the moment to end. My body tingles, warming to all the old needs I once felt but shut away. I bring my arms around him too, hanging on to his strong muscled back.
He breaks the kiss and holds me close, pressing my head to his chest. He caresses my hair for long moments. I listen to his heartbeat, quick and sure. Finally, he lets me go.
“Ballet?” I ask.
He glances at the exit sign by a set of loading doors. They aren’t entirely closed. Apparently whatever caused the stage to be in use involved a delivery.
“I think I’m going to jet this way, Princess,” he says. “I’m afraid if we go out there the way we are feeling right now, everyone is going to see it.” He gestures between us.
My heart feels ready to burst. So he feels something too!
“Besides,” he says, “parts of me are more prominent than I’d like.”
I glance down at his tights and my eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh!” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I’m a damn teenager around you. But I’ll be here next week.”
I want to protest. That’s a weekend away!
But he turns and heads through the double doors, leaping majestically off the loading dock.
I head over and watch him leave, moving across the parking lot with easy grace. Then he turns the corner of the building, and I can’t see him anymore.
I lean against the door frame. I’m in over my head. I don’t care what a hashtag says, what the world thinks of him. This isn’t the person they are talking about. It can’t be.
Because he’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met.