Dark Turns

by Cate Holahan

  In the end, the pair had struck a compromise. The majority of the students would execute pretty, synchronized steps; two female students would perform challenging pas de deuxs with Alexei and Joseph; and one star pupil would command the stage for five minutes with a dance filled with bravura: pointe work, fouetté turns, petite allegros, grand jetés, and an arabesque penchée.

  Her sneakers squeaked up the stone steps leading to her building. It had rained again sometime that evening, painting every surface with a slick of water barely visible beneath the dorm’s outdoor lights. She slowed. One bad slip could do in her Achilles for good. A dancer’s feet were her prized possession. She’d sooner lose a hand than a toe.

  Her pocket buzzed. She’d forgotten to call her mother back. Her thumb swiped the screen as she pulled it from her pocket. She’d inadvertently answered.

  “Hello? Nia?”

  Dimitri’s voice slipped from the speakers. The sound of it stopped her breath. She wasn’t ready to talk to him. But what could she do? Hang up?

  “Nia?”

  Her stomach felt hollow. She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “It’s Dimitri.”

  “Hi. Um, it’s been awhile.” She forced air into her voice. She needed to sound light and preoccupied, not sad and shocked.

  “Yeah. Too long.”

  She couldn’t murmur agreement. She wouldn’t show any sign that she’d pined for him for the past year. She needed to continue climbing the steps. The motion would make the conversation more casual.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Good. Good.” She added more conviction to the second word.

  “I saw that the Janet Ruban troupe would be in New York City. Your mom had said that you were performing with them. I thought, maybe, we could get dinner while you’re in town and talk.”

  Nia bit her lip. So he’d called to catch up because he’d seen that her small, former dance company would be in his neighborhood. He’d probably wanted to boast about his great life working with the New York City Ballet.

  “I’m not with Janet’s troupe anymore.”

  “Oh. Where are you?”

  She surveyed her surroundings. Moonlight reflected off of the magnolia trees lining the courtyard, making their broad, wet leaves shine like crystals. The girls’ dormitories resembled a sprawling, gothic castle. She was teaching at a beautiful, prestigious school. But she was still teaching. At her age, not dancing was failure.

  “I’m actually an instructor at Wallace Academy. You know, the boarding school in Connecticut? They—”

  “Are you okay?”

  The concern sounded genuine. She didn’t care. She didn’t want his sympathy. Above all, she didn’t want him to feel sorry for her. Pity was worse than rejection.

  “Yeah. Of course. They just offered me a really great deal to teach for a year. Anyway, I was a bit tired of all the traveling with Janet’s troupe, so I thought, why not? The students are very impressive. Most of them will go on to major companies, and I’m really involved in the choreography of the biannual shows, so I’ll be able to add that to my résumé. Plus I’m getting to work with Ted Battle. It’s been great, like having a master class on grand jetés every day. When I go back to audition next year, I think all this experience will really put me in a better position.” She spat out the sales pitch in one breath, afraid that a pause might sap her courage to go through with it.

  “You should be here. You’re better than these girls.”

  The compliment needled her. If she’d been better, then she would have gotten picked for NYCB’s company.

  “I’m sure they’re just fine.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I thought you were still traveling. I miss you.”

  The three words sounded stale. She’d waited to hear them for months after their breakup. She’d imagined him surprising her at a show with roses and a teary-eyed apology for caving to his parents’ lectures about the perils of settling down young.

  “I could drive up to Connecticut. Saturday, maybe?”

  “They keep me pretty busy.”

  “I want to . . . We should talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  “In person. I want to see you.”

  No. He would have the advantage in person. The sight of him would weaken her. She would let her attraction to him blur the only fact that mattered: he’d wanted to see other people. He’d said he wanted her, only her, forever. Then he’d changed his mind.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

  “Do what?”

  “How about I come up Saturday? We can go to brunch. I’ll take you—”

  “I don’t think I’ll have time. There’s so much choreography to—”

  “So you don’t ever want to see me again? Is that it?”

  Panic gripped her chest. They’d never said anything that final. “No. It’s just they keep me busy. And—”

  “I’ll come up Saturday. Say, ten o’clock?”

  Dimitri wouldn’t give up. When he wanted something, he kept after it. She’d admired his persistence in dance school. Now it overwhelmed her. “Okay. I guess it will be good to catch up.”

  “Yes. I’ll see you Saturday. I love you, Nia.”

  The dial tone rang in her ear. He’d hung up before she could reply. She was glad that he had. She was afraid of what she might say.

  15

  Brisé [bree-ZAY]

  Broken, breaking. A small beating step in which the movement is broken.

  Nia removed her pointe shoes, revealing a large bunion where the phalange bone in her big toe connected to the longer metatarsal. The bunion wasn’t the cause of the pain shooting from her foot up her calf. Neither was the fresh blister that had formed during the morning’s extended demonstration of échappés sur les points, which were like ballerina jumping jacks. It was her heel again, throbbing from constantly rolling her foot onto her toes.

  She shoved the pointe shoes into her cubby and then dug her knuckles beneath her ankle. She rubbed her foot as the class filed out of the door. The health insurance couldn’t come soon enough.

  Marta exited the studio first. The T twins and Kim followed behind, walking slowly so as to overhear Alexei and June’s competing opinions about the school e-mail concerning “a student’s arrest.” Alexei insisted that the school should have revealed Theo’s name. After all, he said, everyone knew he did it.

  Lydia and Suzanne brought up the rear. They, too, were in the midst of conversation, but classical technique, rather than school gossip, was the subject. As the new girl, Lydia couldn’t lend any insights into Theo’s guilt or innocence.

  Aubrey and Joseph were last out of the room. He draped his arm around her shoulders, a possessive and comforting gesture. Aubrey leaned into his side. Nia wondered whether she’d told him about being with Theo and about her concerns that he would have hurt her too. Joseph had probably heard about the tape.

  Nia’s foot still ached as she took the long way back to her dorm. Not wanting to pass the lake was the primary reason for taking the roundabout way. But there were also other benefits. The path passed the boys’ quad, where she might run into Peter. Best way to forget about an old flame is to stoke a new fire. That was also one of her mother’s sayings, though not one that Nia had taken to heart—at least, not yet.

  She was still hung up on Dimitri. His parting words from their brief phone conversation replayed in her head. He’d said he’d loved her. Loved her! Had he realized that they were meant for each other, or was he between girlfriends and suffering a momentary pang of nostalgia?

  Nia tried to extinguish her excitement. Even if he did love her, so what? His love wasn’t lasting. She couldn’t open herself up to getting hurt again. She’d just started to consider moving on. Of course he would show up now, reminding her of the past, trying to make sure she still waited on the sidelines for him while he played the field.

  An SUV parked on the lawn
outside the boys’ dormitory. This one didn’t have police badges or lettering. Nia doubted that it belonged to the detectives. The words “Range Rover” glimmered in the sunshine. Surely, Connecticut police departments didn’t pay for detectives to cruise around in a car that expensive.

  The SUV’s trunk arched in the air like a mechanical claw. The dormitory door swung open. Peter carried a box out to the trunk. Theo followed behind, rolling a suitcase.

  Nia stepped toward them and then stopped. She didn’t want to appear nosey. But she did want to know why Theo, who’d only been arrested yesterday, was out of jail and leaving campus.

  She waved to Peter. “Do you guys need any help?”

  Peter turned to Theo and said something inaudible. The boy shrugged a response. Peter waved her over.

  Her heel still throbbed as she hustled to the stairs. Carrying boxes was not recommended exercise for a foot injury. But curiosity beat out her better judgment.

  “Theo is going to spend some time with his folks. His parents are in there packing. If you want to grab a box, that would be great.” Peter leaned toward her. He lowered his voice so that Theo couldn’t hear. “It probably would be good for them to see that the whole school hasn’t abandoned him and that the faculty is being supportive.”

  Nia hadn’t made up her mind about Theo’s innocence. But she had already offered to help pack his bags. “Sure. Is the door open?”

  “No, I’ll—”

  A crash interrupted him. Theo had thrown the suitcase into the interior. It had collided with a ceramic table lamp, exploding a hole in the lamp’s belly. The missing piece sat on the trunk’s carpeted floor, an unconcealed shiv glinting in the sunlight.

  “It’s so messed up.” The boy shook his head. “It’s just so messed up.”

  Peter squeezed his shoulder. “You’ll be back. They don’t have any evidence except some circumstantial nonsense about a phone call—”

  “Not a phone call. A text message that they say came from my phone but that I didn’t even send.” Theo raked his fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t even on campus when they think she was killed. It’s like they’re out to get me or something. I didn’t do anything.” He shook his head and rubbed beneath his nose. “It’s totally messed up.”

  “I know.” Peter again laid a hand on Theo’s shoulder. The gesture would have seemed frigid if Nia hadn’t known that any teacher-student contact was forbidden. Peter was risking reprimand for even such a small measure of support.

  Teacher and favorite pupil shared a moment. Nia felt awkward witnessing it, but she couldn’t slink away now. She spoke to remind them that she stood there. “What can I help pack?”

  Theo eyed Nia like a poker player trying to determine if the other guy was bluffing. Brow lowered. Forehead wrinkled. He swatted at a tear on his cheek.

  “Thanks, but my parents have it. They’re not really up for talking.”

  “I understand,” she said before Peter could press the issue. She didn’t want to meet Theo’s parents. They’d probably be crying. And what comfort could she offer?

  She didn’t know whether Theo was guilty of murder. But, given the rumors, he wasn’t that innocent.

  16

  Divertissement [dee-vehr-tees-MAHN]

  Diversion, enjoyment. A suite of numbers inserted into a classic ballet. These short dances are calculated to display the talents of individuals or a group of dancers.

  Too sexy. Nia frowned at the little black dress as she examined her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The built-in bra squeezed her bust, propping it above the scoop neckline like a shelf. The dress didn’t say come hither so much as come ‘n’ get it.

  She didn’t want Peter to get the wrong impression. Though she wasn’t sure come ‘n’ get it was the wrong impression. Her body craved contact, and the call from Dimitri had made it worse, bringing back memories of the two of them together. She felt tight, anxious, uncomfortable beneath her skin. She needed a release.

  Still, this LBD wasn’t approved for first dates. Better to opt for a more casual look capable of blending in at an upscale place. Something pretty, feminine, and summery. Floral.

  Nia shed the second-skin fabric and frowned at the scant contents of her closet. She didn’t own anything sufficiently girly. Dance clothes, a skirt suit, and a few solid-color dresses hung in front of her. Nothing flirty. Nothing expensive. Peter’s ex-wife would have worn pricey, designer clothes.

  She pulled a Grecian-looking frock from a hanger and slipped it over her head. The cowl neckline cradled her cleavage. About the same amount showed as with the tank dress, but the draping and creamy color softened the impact. The cowl continued in the back, exposing the cappuccino expanse from her shoulder blades down to the v of her waist. Sexy, but not begging for attention. Better.

  She swept her flat-ironed hair into a high ponytail that highlighted her defined back. If she didn’t flaunt other assets, she could show off her jutting shoulder blades and narrow waist. She opened her makeup bag. Neutral eyes and red lips were the look of the moment. She swept a taupe shadow from eyelids to brows before lining her lashes with a deep brown pencil. She finished with a coat of black mascara and cherry-colored lip-gloss.

  The clock on her nightstand showed ten minutes ’til. Better early than late. She dusted her fingertips against her forehead, pulling down some face-framing hairs from her ponytail. She glanced at her reflection one more time before locking her door for the night.

  Nia descended the stairs and stepped out into the warm evening. Peter wasn’t meeting her at the door for multiple reasons. First, students could see him. She didn’t know if Wallace frowned upon workplace romance and didn’t want to find out. Second, gossip circled the campus via an indelible digital network of smartphones and computers. A web search for her name and “dance” yielded three results: a winning video audition for SAB’s summer intensive, a favorable review of her solo with Janet Ruban’s troupe, and a blurb from one of SAB’s calendars. She didn’t want a fourth result to point to a message thread about the new dance teacher’s dating life.

  She rounded the building and entered the student/faculty parking lot behind it. Half a dozen cars were scattered across the asphalt: Volvos and Hondas, a few older luxury sedans, BMWs, Mercedes, Audis—all brands rich parents either purchased for the safety ratings or passed down when they traded up for the new model. A campus security car blocked several empty spaces. Its lights shone, prepared for the last of the daylight to slip behind the buildings.

  Nia heard a door open. Peter stepped from the driver’s side of a black BMW. The shiny black color and sleek lines hid the sedan’s age. She guessed the vehicle was at least three years old, given Peter’s history. Wall Streeters, not high school writing professors, bought status cars. He probably couldn’t sell it for anything close to what he’d paid. Or maybe he didn’t want to renounce all the comforts of his former life.

  “Wow.” He mouthed the compliment as she approached. His lips brushed her cheek. Warm breath caressed the nape of her neck. She wanted him to kiss her already.

  Wow was good. Better than nice. Almost as good as beautiful.

  “I can clean up?”

  “You look amazing.”

  Amazing trumped wow. But it didn’t necessarily mean she looked appropriate for their date. Nia examined Peter’s clothes to gauge whether she had chosen wisely. He wore near-black pants and a matching button-down. The outfit was part suit alternative, part bus boy, fit for a fancy restaurant or a coffee shop. The dark navy color electrified his eyes, and the close fit displayed his lean body and defined arms.

  Muscles tensed in her back where she wished he would touch her. She wanted to feel his hand rest right on her waist, to sense the warmth of his fingertips on the small of her back.

  Nia pinched the light jersey fabric flowing around her thighs. “I thought this might be an improvement from terry cloth.”

  “That was a good look too.” He offered his hand. “We’re this way.”

>   He opened her door. She slipped into the passenger seat and leaned over to release the driver’s side. Her stomach grazed the gearshift as she stretched for the door handle. The awkwardness of the move didn’t matter. The act helped level the playing field. It said, You open my door, I’ll let you in. You pay for dinner, I’ll get drinks or dessert. Sex will be a mutual decision, not a way of repaying an evening out. Her body wanted to sleep with him, but she hadn’t made up her mind about whether she would. It was only their first real date.

  Peter smiled “thanks” as he slipped into the leather seat. He turned the ignition. His hand reached toward her thigh, then landed on the shifter.

  “It’s manual,” he said. “They’re a dying breed. Even sports cars come automatic now. The computers switch faster than any human.”

  “Then why do manufacturers still make them?”

  He palmed the shifter and jerked it into position. He grinned at her. “They’re more fun.”

  He revved the engine. The car growled. The seat rumbled, vibrating her thighs like a massage chair. She eyed the gearshift, trying to anticipate his next move.

  The security officer flashed his high beams, visually admonishing them to keep the noise down. Peter yanked the stick. The car leapt out of the lot onto the street and then zoomed down the hill to the guard stand.

  They each flashed their IDs to a young campus security officer. The man pressed a flashlight against the cards, like a convenience store clerk looking for the magnetic strip on a hundred-dollar bill. Rather than hand her ID back to Peter, he emerged from the guard booth to deliver the card through the passenger window. He checked the card once more before passing it over.

  The car sped through the school’s gated entrance. Sunset washed Peter’s face and hair in a golden hue. She cracked her window, unleashing the country smells outside: cut grass, flowers, the faint sweetness of manure mixed with asphalt and rubber. The wind whipped her ponytail around her face like a tassel and freed Peter’s slicked back strands.