The Hit List (12 page)

The song ends and he pulls me into a hug. “You did great, Sadie. So, now the question is—”

“Why can’t you dance like that with me?” Luke asks from the doorway.

7

Luke leans against the doorframe of the studio. He pushes off against the wood and walks toward us. I’m frozen in Adam’s arms, but Adam solves that problem for me when he steps forward between me and Luke and his arms fall from around me.

I silently curse at him for eliminating my buffer against Luke. I feel like I’ve done something wrong, but I shouldn’t. This is probably the best thing I’ve done for myself in months.

“Hey, Luke,” Adam says.

“Hi.” Anger rolls off Luke’s body in waves.

He has no right to be angry.

“I’m just going to go,” Adam says, picking up his bag. “Watch yourself, Morrison.”

I plead for Adam to stay with my eyes, to help me explain, but I know he can’t. He turns back to me once he’s behind Luke and mouths the words “talk to him.”

Yeah, right.

Adam disappears into the hallway and I’m left alone in the studio with Luke.

“What are you doing here?” I cross my arms over my chest. Anger is the only thing I have. If I can stay angry, I won’t get hurt.

“I could ask you the same thing.” His eyes burn into me.

I see the jealousy he’s feeling, but I don’t care. I’m doing this to be a better dancer. Whatever it takes. That’s what I told myself before I left New York. Whatever you have to do to make your dream come true, do it without regret. Whatever it takes to make it to Fall Showcase and London. Whatever it takes to keep dancing.

“It’s not a crime to dance with someone else.” My right hand finds my hip, my other clenching into a fist at my side.

“It is when it interferes with our partnership. You know he’s gay, right? He doesn’t want to get in your pants no matter what you do. I mean, you can’t possibly be that dense.” He smirks at me, knowing his words have cut deep.

He’s just crossed a line he’s not coming back from. Not everyone gets involved with someone from the opposite sex because they’re interested in some sort of sexual relationship. It feels cheap that he would even suggest something like that.

I glare at him. “Fuck you, Luke.”

He runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. “Can we start over? I’m sorry I said that stuff to you earlier. This year is really important to me. I can’t afford to screw it up.”

He couldn’t screw up if he tried. He’ll always have the safety net of his parents to pull him out of whatever situation he gets into. If I screw up this stage in his life, he’ll still have his talent and his parents to fall back on.

“Your parents are head of the department. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” They wouldn’t let him fail.

“Which makes it that much harder to break into this business. People look at me like I’m some spoiled little rich kid,” he says, pointing at his chest. “My parents are in charge of the dance department at one of the most prestigious performing arts schools in the country and the only reason I got in is because I’m their child.”

I frown. He may have an in with his parents being who they are, but it still took some sort of talent to get him where he is. Talent I’ve seen. Talent that makes him one of the best in the school. “That’s not true. You’re an amazing dancer.”

He smiles bitterly. “No one sees that. Not the talent scouts. Not the people who are out there offering jobs. They see my parents’ name. They see I have raw talent, but I don’t have the best extensions and sometimes my turnout isn’t there.”

I smile at the criticisms he holds against himself because I’ve been there. One flaw in an otherwise breathtaking performance is always the focus of attention. A sickled foot, a bent knee, a missed count.

People are paid to find flaws in us. It doesn’t matter how hard we try, there will always be something and it’s hard to be okay with that. It’s hard not to take every thing they say to heart. It’s not just injuries that destroy dancers. It’s imperfections.

The little things are a dancer’s downfall. Because when someone wants to find something wrong, they will. We’re not perfect, and we never will be.

“They see flaws that my parents’ child should have left behind by age ten. They focus on every thing that sets me apart from being just like them. I had access to some of the best teachers in the world. I should be perfect.”

I can see the pain in his eyes even though he tries to cover it with anger. He sounds so deflated, like these people have the power to decide who he is.

My heart bleeds for him. He strives for perfection, but he’s only human. I learned a long time ago that internalizing every flaw, every criticism, slowly sucks the life out of you if you don’t create a balance. Dancing becomes a chore. And the day that happens is the day you should walk away.

“It’s not always about perfect technique. You’ve got to have heart, too.”

The dark blue in his eyes turns to ice and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, that’s definitely your area of expertise. I hear my parents talk about you. I’ve seen your audition tapes. You don’t just dance, you shine. I can’t take my eyes off you as soon as you step out onto the floor. Hands down, you’re the best dancer at this school.”

I stare at him, daring him to add a sarcastic comment about how I’ll never surpass his talent, but it doesn’t come. I want to tell him about my own struggles in New York. About the time a teacher told me I could never be a ballerina at the age of eleven because I didn’t have the body type and recommended I take diet pills. Or the time when I was fifteen and a director told me I didn’t have thick enough skin to make it in this world because I cried at an audition when he called me fat. Or the time last year when I wanted to give up on my dream because the last person I ever thought would leave me did.

But I can’t. I can’t be vulnerable with him. He may trust me enough to share his fears, but I refuse to let someone in like that again. I will never trust anyone enough for that.

“I thought you were the best dancer at the school.” My goal is to throw his words back in his face, but when I meet his gaze, I don’t find the usual cocky attitude I’ve gotten used to from Luke. Instead, he looks a little lost and more than a little scared.

I shouldn’t have said it.

He shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips. “We both know that’s not really true. I’ve gotten used to playing the part. I’m successful by association. I get jobs because of my parents’ positions. That’s my form of success, and I can’t afford to lose it. If I can’t maintain that, I won’t have anything left.” His words are soft, so soft that I’m not sure I heard him right. His eyes search mine for some sign that I understand him.

This is exactly why I can’t trust him. “You don’t love dancing, you love success. If that’s the case, you’ll never be truly successful because the minute you step out on that stage, the whole world will know dancing isn’t the most important thing in your life.”

He takes a step closer to me and runs his hand through his hair. “You don’t get it. This is what I want. I want to be the best. I want to deserve all the shit that appears for me at the snap of my parents’ fingers. I don’t want to live under their shadow anymore, and I need the best dancer at The Conservatory to help me get there.”

I can’t help my smile. It’s validating to hear, especially since I feel like I’m doing something wrong every time I’m around a faculty member.

“How can we fix this partnership?” His eyes plead with me.

I’m not sure I even want to fix it. Trusting him won’t make my life any easier. If anything, it’ll make it more complicated. “It’s not my business whether or not you’re playing the sex game, but you need to stop trying to play for me if you are.”

He sighs and rubs his palms against his eyes. “I’ve told you. I’m not playing that game. What are you really worried about?” He scans my face as I try to look as impassive as possible.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He runs a hand through his hair again, clearly frustrated with me. His hair stays pushed back away from his face this time. “Do you trust me?”

I stare at him, my jaw tightening as his brow creases. “No.”

“That’s how we fix this. If you won’t open yourself up to any kind of relationship with me, then it’s no wonder you can’t trust me.” He takes a step closer to me.

A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “I don’t want any kind of relationship with you.”

“You already have one. We’re partners.”

He’s right and nothing I can do is going to get me a new partner at this point. I have to at least try to work with him. I’ll regret it if I don’t.

“I’ll try to dance with you, but I don’t want to be anything more with you than partners.”

I can handle this. I can control my own emotions. I can make sure this partnership doesn’t turn out like my last one. After all, not every partnership leads to a romantic relationship. People dance together all the time without feelings getting involved.

I’ll dance with Luke. I’ll even give him the benefit of the doubt and believe that he isn’t playing the game. He’s just a flirt. He doesn’t want anything from me and all I want from him is a partnership to get me to Fall Showcase and London.

As long as I remember that, I should be fine.

Sleep is my enemy.

I thrash against my blankets for the third time in the last ten minutes. I don’t know why I’m even bothering anymore. It’s just after midnight and I should have been asleep hours ago, but now the only thing I can focus on is how I need to be up in five hours to be at rehearsal on time.

Brielle is fast asleep in her bed on the other side of the room and I’m careful not to wake her as I grab my iPod and shoes. I don’t waste time changing clothes. I’m already in shorts and a tank top and for what I have planned, it’s perfect. Stepping outside our room, I slide on my flip-flops and walk down to the lobby. I don’t care that we have a ten o’clock curfew. No one’s out here to catch me.

Back home when I couldn’t sleep, I would sneak out to the fire escape and work on my technique. Barre exercises set to the tune of New York City traffic are the most relaxing things in the world. It won’t be the same here, but it might help me fall asleep.

The steady hum of cars from the freeway drifts into the open space. I turn on the music and the opening piano notes from “Clair de Lune” take over my senses. Using the brick wall as a barre, I fall into the comfortable rhythm of the exercises I mastered years ago and have committed to muscle memory.

The moonlight reflects off the now-still water in the fountain and onto the grass in front of me. The hustle and bustle from the city has gone indoors for the night. I’m alone. It’s peaceful in the darkness, and I can pretend like I don’t have a million things to worry about.

It’s been so long since I’ve danced just for me. I walk out onto a patch of grass next to the fountain and slip off my shoes. Tucking my iPod into the jogging strap wrapped around my bicep, I start to dance.

It’s freeing. My tension falls away as I focus on pointing my feet at every opportunity or pulling up into a deliberate flex with my knee bent to break my lines. I pull myself into a pirouette. Blades of grass break beneath my foot from the friction.

I step out into an arabesque penchée and grab my leg behind me with my right hand to pull it up. My left arm stays in front of me for balance. I close my eyes, reveling in the tingles in my hip as I push myself just past my flexibility.

The foot I’m standing on grips the grass and dirt beneath me, but I’m facing down a slight incline and I can feel my body slightly shift forward as my muscles work to keep me upright. It’s hard to catch myself in this position and I fight with my balance to stay standing.

A breeze floats through the courtyard, tickling my face with my hair. I shiver against the sensation. My center of balance shifts and I’m forced to let go of my leg so I don’t face plant on the lawn. My right leg lowers a little to balance out my body as my right arm falls forward.

A flash of movement in front of me catches my attention before two strong hands grip mine and hold me up. I look up to see Luke, his hands still firmly clasped around mine to keep me from falling. I drop my leg behind me and he lets go of my left hand. He raises the other one above us both and twirls me.

“Where did you come from?” I watch him, but he doesn’t say a word.

He pulls the ear buds from my ears and removes my iPod, tossing it onto the grass a few feet away from us. Without missing a beat, he continues to lead me through the choreography we’d learned during audition week. It wasn’t designed to be a partner dance, but it works when Luke makes the changes. And even though we fumble through some of the steps and transitions because he’s improvising as we go, it’s okay. For this moment, I can forget about everything else that’s happened between us. In this moment, I just dance.

The eight count in my head becomes our music. His hand travels down my arm and onto my cheek as he takes a step closer to me. His thumb swipes across my cheekbone as my hands find his waist, silently pleading with him to stay.

He steps past me. His hand moves to my neck and I lean backward to stay close to him, to maintain contact. His hand lowers with me and he holds me up by the back of my neck, my torso and thighs parallel to the ground. I rise up onto the balls of my feet. My toes dig into the dirt. Arching my back, I roll up to a standing position and turn to face him again.