go. To me, it looks like nothing more than a whole lot of painful prancing around on your toes. “So what do these ex- ballerinas tend to do?”
“All kinds of things,” she says, shrugging slightly. “Some of them stop completely, some do things like run ballet schools.
I know one who was injured and now teaches yoga.”
“Is that what you want to do? Something like teaching yoga?”
Katrina shakes her head. “I don’t know. There is one thing I’ve been considering . . .”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I’ve always really loved Pilates. I’m thinking maybe something with Pilates might be a good option for me.” 65
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“That’s where they use that rack, right?” I’d taken a few shots of a star once at a glass- fronted Pilates studio. It all looked pretty painful to me.
Katrina throws her head back toward the blue sky and laughs. “You make it sound like torture.” Hey, if the shoe fi ts, I think, remembering that device stretching out the poor star till it looked like her thin limbs might just snap.
“I think I’d like that. Learning more about Pilates. Maybe even becoming an instructor, or opening my own studio,” Katrina says. “It’s something to consider, anyway.” There’s a pause then, in which I start to worry that she’s going to ask me about my own (non ex is tent) problems, but she doesn’t. Instead, she checks her watch again. “Oh, we’d really better go. I think Brad hinted that we might be going out somewhere this afternoon.”
“Out?” I frown and Katrina laughs.
“Yes, out. Sometimes they let us out from behind the bars, you know. I think we’re off to some kind of workshop or something. Anyway, better head back to the foyer and fi nd out. That’s where we meet in the afternoons, after lunch. In the foyer.”
I actively decide not to think about how exhausted my body is feeling. After all, I’m used to exhaustion— it’s my everyday operating system.
“Come on,” Katrina says with a wave and, with that, we’re off.
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6
“That should be everyone,” Brad says as he fi nishes counting off Group B, which seems to consist of twelve people, including me. Everyone stares at him expectantly when he’s done talking, except for the kid who’s hidden under his hooded jacket and the other kid who has his back to the group and obviously doesn’t want to be here. Okay. At least we know the score.
“So, today we’ll be going out for a couple of hours to a workshop,” Brad continues. His eyes swiftly move over the group until stopping to rest on someone— Ned. “I just want to say that this has been carefully or ga nized. The location is very private and the instructors hand- picked. It will all be discreet and well handled. At no point will there be any interaction 212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 67
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with”— Brad pauses, looking for the right word—“outsiders.” By now, everyone is staring at Ned, and it’s more than slightly obvious that this is all being said for his benefi t. After all, no one could care less that the rest of us are here.
“Thanks, Brad.” Ned practically groans the words.
“Okay, then. We’ve got ten minutes before the bus leaves, and I need you all to go and get changed into something stretchy. Something you can really move in. Sweats, leggings, a T-shirt . . . you get my drift. See you back here in ten.” Katrina gives me a look. “I can’t believe I forgot to pack a tutu.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry, you can borrow one of mine.”
★ ★ ★
It doesn’t take Katrina and me long to throw on sweats- and-tees- type wear, though Katrina ends up looking supercool in black three- quarter leggings, gray shorts, and a Karen Walker tee, her hair up in a tight topknot, while I end up looking . . .
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