Blitz writes me constantly. Between taping promo segments. During breaks in the dance rehearsals. I rarely go more than two hours without hearing from him.
I’m starting to believe this could be real.
Mindy comes on Thursday to take me to the park. We watch old Dance Blitz episodes. I witness how he goes from a dancer to a philanderer to a jerk. It’s all there. The explosion in the ratings. The comments on the episodes. They love it. The crazier he gets, the more they love him.
They created him.
But he let them. He went along.
The one time he seems like himself is during the finale of season one. He’s supposed to propose to one of the finalists, or at least offer to be their partner. I pause the footage, zoning in on his expression, the lift of his eyebrows, the tightness around his mouth.
“What are you seeing?” Mindy asks me.
“I’m seeing someone who doesn’t like who he’s become,” I say.
She squeezes my arm. “You’re still talking to him?”
My phone chimes and I hold it up. “Every few hours.”
“That’s amazing.”
We do searches and read gossip. There are no limo images, no dates outside of filming. Everyone is speculating that he’s actually in love with one of the finalists and wants to have time alone without cameras. They try to guess who it is.
Only I know.
“The finale is December 10,” Mindy says, scrolling through links.
“That’s the same day I take the SAT.”
“You should be done by then, though, right?” she asks.
“Oh, yes, a little after lunch.” We double-check the listing. The finale goes live at 8 p.m. our time.
“You going to watch it?” Mindy asks.
“I don’t know how,” I say. My father appears in the corner of my eye and I tuck my phone under Mindy’s leg. The park is quiet, but the weather is back to warm again. I wave at Dad. He walks on by.
Mindy leans in to talk softly. “Come over after the SAT. Spend the day with me and we’ll watch it together.”
This is a good idea. I might need the support. “I’ll talk to my parents about it,” I say.
“I’ll have my mom call yours.”
I stick my phone in my pocket, and we walk through the playscape.
I see Blitz everywhere. Pushing Daisy on the swing. Pulling up in his red Ferrari. I miss him. I cling to our night in the Presidential Suite. I wish I could walk up to the hotel and just gaze at the entrance. But it’s too far.
At least I have my memories.
On Friday, I know it must be time for my toe shoe assessment. Danika said it would be this week. I bring the pointe shoes in my string bag and head into my ballet class.
Betsy greets me with a smile. “Can you stay after class to be assessed for pointe?” she asks.
I nod. This is it!
My stomach is a ball of knots as we go through class with the other students. Most of them are younger than me, some of them waiting to be old enough for toe shoes even though they qualify in years.
When the lights finally blink and class is over, Betsy says good-bye to the other girls, and I stay behind.
I’m filled with doubt. What if Danika was wrong and I’m not ready? What if I snap a tendon the very first time I try pointe? It can happen if you’re not strong enough.
My belly flutters with nerves as Betsy closes the door and comes back to me. “Ready?” she asks.
I nod.
“All right,” she says. “Come to the barre.”
Even though I’ve taken dance with her for over two years, I’m nervous as I approach the barre.
She notices my anxiety. “Don’t worry, Livia. I’m sure you’ll do fine. We just have to make sure you won’t injure yourself when you try pointe.”
I place my hand on the barre.
She comes up beside me. “All right. Show me your demi-plié.”
I drop into the position. I know she is looking for proper turnout in my feet and hips.
“Good,” she says. “Now sixteen relevés.”
This is not as easy as it would have been before doing an hour of ballet rehearsal, but I manage them okay.
“Nice,” she says. “I know you’re probably tired.” She steps a little farther away. “Show me your passé balance at half-pointe.”
I move into place and hold. She squats down, checking my form, my calves, my feet. “Arch your foot a little more,” she says.
I feel her hands on my feet.
“Roll your feet for me,” she says.
This is what Danika had me do earlier this week, and I move from flat feet to demi-pointe over and over.
“Fix your turnout,” she says.
I adjust my knees.
“Did you bring the shoes?” she asks.
My heart hammers. Does she mean I can put them on? “Yes,” I say.
“Let’s see how they fit.”
I hurry to my string bag in the corner and pull out the pristine shoes. I haven’t cut or sewn them yet, as I didn’t want to damage them in case we had to exchange the size.
Betsy heads to the shelves and rummages through a bag, returning with two small toe socks. “Put these on first. You want extra protection and support until you are secure en pointe.”
I roll the socks over my toes. Then I pull out the shoes. I haven’t put them on, even to check for fit. I was afraid I would jinx my chances.
The shoe goes on perfectly. It makes me think of Cinderella trying on her slipper.
“Looks good,” Betsy says. She squeezes along my toes, arch, and heel. “You’ll want to sew this.” She sticks her finger in a small gap.
My feet are extra long in the shoes. They have a padding of glue and fabric in the toes. It’s a strange feeling.
“Let’s go to the barre,” she says.
I know she’s going to have me do my first relevé in the shoes. “Can I get my phone to record it?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “It’s a big moment.”
I tug the cell phone out of my bag. I set the camera to record a video and lean it against the wall, using the selfie mode so I can see what it is capturing.
“Okay,” she says. “Take care in your first relevé. Do one foot at a time, no weight on it, and get a feel for the shoe. Fourth position.”
I move into the pose, one foot in front of the other, toes in opposite directions.
“Now go to the toe with your right foot,” she says.
I do the movement, feeling my foot slide against the base of the shoe.
She squeezes the shoe around my foot. “Good. Now the left.”
I repeat it. It feels solid. She checks this one as well.
“You ready?” she asks. “Let’s relevé with both feet. Shift to first position.”
I take in a breath and move my feet so the backs of my ankles touch, toes out.
Then slowly, I rise, feeling the strange pull on my arches as my feet lift higher, up onto the bulk of the shoes.
I look down. I’m en pointe!
“How does it feel?” she asks.
Tears squeeze from my eyes. “Amazing,” I say.
“Come on down,” she says. “Go up and down slowly a few times in first position, then go back to fourth, this time rising up with each individual foot.”
I follow her instructions. Every lift onto the shoes is like ascending a staircase. I watch the mirror, admiring my own feet, the arch, the beauty of the shoes.
“That’s enough for today,” she says. “Congratulations, Livia, you’ve moved to pointe.”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand as she hugs me. This is the biggest thing I’ve ever achieved. I pick up my phone and stop the video. I can’t wait to share it with Blitz.