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Authors: Katherine Locke
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hallway?” whispers another girl. “She walks like a duck. Do you think that’s how we’ll be when we’re her age? That it’ll feel weird to point our toes forward?”
“Probably,” says the first girl.
I smile and Aly catches my eye as she reaches my corner. She smiles back at me over her shoulder and gets scolded for being distracted. Grinning, I step away from the doorway.
I’m halfway through my book when she slides onto the bench next to me and leans her head on my shoulder. Her leotard peeks out beneath her old Phillies sweatshirt and her hair’s in a low ponytail. It’s that easy to transform from a prima ballerina into just your average girl. I lean my cheek against her head and wait for her to speak. Sometimes it takes us a few minutes to get ourselves together again, shed the protective skin we wear here, turn from professionals back into kids.
“How was class?”
I shrug. “Good, actually. I think we’ve all got spring fever.”
“Is that Adrian’s excuse?” she asks as Adrian tries, clumsily, to flirt with one of the other corps dancers on her way out the door.
“I’ll have to give him some pointers,” I say with a grin.
“Oh, so now you’re the king of flirting?” She laughs and sits up. “I taught you everything you know.”
“No, you just gave me a reason to compete,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes at me and then gets to her feet, offering me her hand. When I take it, I’m surprised by how clammy it is, like she’s nervous. “Can we walk?”
“Yeah.” I get to my feet and try to calm myself. “Want to hit up the halal food truck on the way? Chicken and rice?”
No matter how much you remind this girl she needs fuel in order to dance, she’s never had a positive relationship with food. I think in the real world, they’d probably say she had an eating disorder, and maybe she does. I don’t know. She eats because she has to, and as long as she’s eating, I don’t complain. But I’m used to needling and harassing, poking and prodding, and offering about seven thousand options before she reluctantly picks one.
Today, her eyes light up. “Yes. That sounds good. Can we take it to the park?”
I’ll say yes to anything if it means she’ll look this bright for the rest of the afternoon. She hasn’t even mentioned missing company class, or being late. Add it to the list of things I’ll ignore because it’s Aly and she’s happy. I think. We walk down Walnut Street, hand in hand, dodging the dirty water splashes from the buses and tourists and shoppers milling on the sidewalks.
“You’re quiet,” she says when we stop at the truck on Sixteenth Street and wait for our food. She chews on her bottom lip.
“Is there something you’d like me to say?” I tease her, and then touch her chin. When she glances up, I kiss her softly. She tastes like toothpaste still, like she barely rolled out of bed when she arrived at work. She slips her hand into my back pocket and tucks her chin onto my shoulder. We sway, like we’re dancing, until they call our order and we pick up our barely stable Styrofoam plates for the final few blocks to the park.
The benches are still wet, but the park’s bustling. We sit on the ground by the fountain instead, watching a swing dance club’s lessons next to us.
Aly stabs at the chicken in her plate with her plastic fork and then takes the tiniest bite. So not everything’s changed. She glances over to me, her gaze careful beneath her half-lowered lashes. She smiles around the bite of chicken. “You’re staring.”
The last time she told me that, I nearly fucked her against a wall. I have to look away from her for a minute before I shrug. “Yeah.”
She smiles a bit, color lifting up her cheeks. “King of flirting?”
“Can’t say this is my A game today, to be honest.” My lamb gyro’s fallen apart and I pick at it with my fingers. It’s picnic style. What do I care?
“Okay. I need to talk to you. Can you stay calm for a
“Probably,” says the first girl.
I smile and Aly catches my eye as she reaches my corner. She smiles back at me over her shoulder and gets scolded for being distracted. Grinning, I step away from the doorway.
I’m halfway through my book when she slides onto the bench next to me and leans her head on my shoulder. Her leotard peeks out beneath her old Phillies sweatshirt and her hair’s in a low ponytail. It’s that easy to transform from a prima ballerina into just your average girl. I lean my cheek against her head and wait for her to speak. Sometimes it takes us a few minutes to get ourselves together again, shed the protective skin we wear here, turn from professionals back into kids.
“How was class?”
I shrug. “Good, actually. I think we’ve all got spring fever.”
“Is that Adrian’s excuse?” she asks as Adrian tries, clumsily, to flirt with one of the other corps dancers on her way out the door.
“I’ll have to give him some pointers,” I say with a grin.
“Oh, so now you’re the king of flirting?” She laughs and sits up. “I taught you everything you know.”
“No, you just gave me a reason to compete,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes at me and then gets to her feet, offering me her hand. When I take it, I’m surprised by how clammy it is, like she’s nervous. “Can we walk?”
“Yeah.” I get to my feet and try to calm myself. “Want to hit up the halal food truck on the way? Chicken and rice?”
No matter how much you remind this girl she needs fuel in order to dance, she’s never had a positive relationship with food. I think in the real world, they’d probably say she had an eating disorder, and maybe she does. I don’t know. She eats because she has to, and as long as she’s eating, I don’t complain. But I’m used to needling and harassing, poking and prodding, and offering about seven thousand options before she reluctantly picks one.
Today, her eyes light up. “Yes. That sounds good. Can we take it to the park?”
I’ll say yes to anything if it means she’ll look this bright for the rest of the afternoon. She hasn’t even mentioned missing company class, or being late. Add it to the list of things I’ll ignore because it’s Aly and she’s happy. I think. We walk down Walnut Street, hand in hand, dodging the dirty water splashes from the buses and tourists and shoppers milling on the sidewalks.
“You’re quiet,” she says when we stop at the truck on Sixteenth Street and wait for our food. She chews on her bottom lip.
“Is there something you’d like me to say?” I tease her, and then touch her chin. When she glances up, I kiss her softly. She tastes like toothpaste still, like she barely rolled out of bed when she arrived at work. She slips her hand into my back pocket and tucks her chin onto my shoulder. We sway, like we’re dancing, until they call our order and we pick up our barely stable Styrofoam plates for the final few blocks to the park.
The benches are still wet, but the park’s bustling. We sit on the ground by the fountain instead, watching a swing dance club’s lessons next to us.
Aly stabs at the chicken in her plate with her plastic fork and then takes the tiniest bite. So not everything’s changed. She glances over to me, her gaze careful beneath her half-lowered lashes. She smiles around the bite of chicken. “You’re staring.”
The last time she told me that, I nearly fucked her against a wall. I have to look away from her for a minute before I shrug. “Yeah.”
She smiles a bit, color lifting up her cheeks. “King of flirting?”
“Can’t say this is my A game today, to be honest.” My lamb gyro’s fallen apart and I pick at it with my fingers. It’s picnic style. What do I care?
“Okay. I need to talk to you. Can you stay calm for a
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