First Position (Dirty Dancing #1)

by Melody Grace

  “Believe me, I’ve thought about it,” Rosalie sighs. “But then what would I do? Go home, back to Nowhere, Idaho? At least with Mademoiselle, I get to travel, see beautiful things and amazing cities. That makes it all worth it, right?”

  “Right!” Karla and I chorus enthusiastically.

  Rosalie gives us a weak smile. “What were you guys talking about, anyway?”

  “Annalise is going to break curfew tonight to go party with some hot axe-murderer,” Karla immediately replies.

  I toss a pillow at her. “I never said that!”

  “But you never said you wouldn’t, did you?” Karla teases. “I’m not judging you,” she adds, “I’d risk all kinds of grave consequences for a man who looked at me like that.”

  “Like what?” I sit up straighter. “How did he look at me? Tell me!”

  Karla raises an eyebrow. “Like you were the last pastry in the box.” She licks her lips suggestively, “And he couldn’t wait to eat you up.”

  I feel a shiver that has nothing to do with my bucket full of icy water.

  “You’re going out alone after dark?” Rosalie looks anxiously at me. “I don’t want to be the nag, but that doesn’t sound very safe.”

  I shake my head, trying to banish all thoughts of Raphael for good. “I’m not! I swear, it was just an invitation. It probably didn’t mean a thing.”

  But it meant something to you.

  I try to shake it off. I’ve never had a connection with a guy like that, so vivid and intense, but there’s no way I can see him again. I can’t risk breaking curfew to sneak out to the party.

  Can I?

  Six.

  Mademoiselle Ninette organizes a movie night in the common room on the ground floor: a room full of dancers sprawled on couches and pillows, watching the big screen. I’m sandwiched tightly between Karla and Rosalie, watching Audrey Hepburn discover Rome, but all I can think about is Raphael, out there, somewhere.

  Maybe waiting for me.

  You’re pathetic, I scold myself. And quite possibly crazy, too. You’ve spent so long locked away in a ballet studio, your hormones are doing backflips over the first hot guy to look your way.

  But I can’t help it. He’s not just some gorgeous stranger I saw on the street. Watching him perform, I feel like I know him already. That’s the thing about dancers, the very best of them: they pour themselves into their work, so that every step reveals a little part of their soul; every motion baring more of their heart. Raphael moved with such grace and fierce determination, I can already see that side to his personality.

  And the raw sexuality, the sensual domination when it came to touching his partner...

  The memory sends thrills straight through me, shivers of quicksilver anticipation that itch in my bloodstream, making me restless. Yearning.

  Determined.

  By the time the final credits roll on the movie, half the room is already sleepy-eyed and yawning, but I couldn’t feel more awake. Karla and Rosalie pull each other to their feet and slouch back to our room, yawning.

  “What time shall I set the alarm?” Rosalie asks, scooting into her bed and pulling her covers high. “Seven, right? So we have time to shower.”

  “Showers are negotiable.” Karla murmurs, already sprawled, half-asleep. “More sleep. Good sleep. Now.”

  They turn out the lights and slide into bed, but I lay there in the dark, wide awake, pictures of Raphael running through my mind. I know all the reasons why it’s a terrible idea to sneak out, but that restless itch won’t go away.

  I need to see him again.

  I get out of bed and silently grab a couple of things from my suitcase. Then I lock myself in the tiny bathroom and set to work. My heart is pounding as I slip out of my sweatpants and into a cute denim skirt, my hands shaking with nerves from what I’m about to do. I’ve never broken the rules, not even a little. I was never one of those girls who rebelled, who stayed out all night and ran around with bad boys and didn’t care about the consequences. I didn’t have the choice. Ballet was all I ever wanted, but now... now I feel something blossoming inside me, a force even stronger than the threat of what might happen if it all goes wrong.

  Desire.

  I pull on a lacy camisole, and button a plain shirt over the top, then pin my hair back with my favorite jeweled barrette. I smear on some pink lip gloss and a dab of mascara, then I catch sight of my reflection in the faded old mirror above the sink: pale skin, big brown eyes, a mess of auburn hair. I look scared half to death, as if I’ve never sneaked anywhere in my life.

  I catch a breath. Relax, Annalise, I order myself. You can do this.

  You have to do this.

  I quietly open the bathroom door and tiptoe out into the bedroom, but I’m barely three steps into the room when the light snaps on again.

  “And where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

  I freeze. Karla is sitting up in bed, her arms folded.

  “I ...” I pause, running through a million explanations, but the truth is, I don’t have one. Nothing I can put into words, at least. Just a feeling. One of the strongest feelings I’ve ever known. “Look, I’m sorry,” I start, pleading. “I know it’s crazy, but I have to go. I don’t understand it, I just do. Will you help?”

  There’s a sickening pause, and then Karla rolls her eyes and laughs. “Of course we’ll help, won’t we, Ros?”

  “Mneugh?” Rosalie murmurs, still sleeping.

  Relief floods through me. “Oh, thank you!” I exclaim. “You’re the best. I swear, I’ll darn your pointe shoes for like, a month if you cover for me.”

  “Make that two months.” Karla pats her bed, so I go sit beside her. “You look cute, so that’s a start,” She reaches over to fluff out my hair, and wipe away a smudge of mascara on my cheek. “Now, where is this party?”

  I show her the flyer. “It’s called the Trastevere district, it’s not far, see?”

  Karla takes my phone and programs something into it. “OK, here’s the address, and here we are. This is a taxi app, you can just click, and it sends someone to your location. Don’t accept drinks from anyone, don’t talk to strangers unless they’re really, really cute, and please be back by midnight.”

  I stare at her in amazement. “You think of everything.”

  Karla gives me a look. “Not all of us live in a cotton-wool-padded ballet cell, you know. Some of us have to function in the real world.”

  I feel a sting at her words, but brush it aside. She’s being so helpful here, and I know, any other roommate would report me to Mademoiselle the moment I even thought about breaking the rules. With all of us in such strict competition, dancers will turn on each other in a heartbeat to get ahead.

  “I promise, I’ll be back in time,” I tell her, my excitement rising again. “See you later!”

  “Be safe,” Karla warns me, as I start for the door. “And I don’t just mean on the streets!”

  I silently let myself out of the room and check the hallway.

  All clear.

  I creep carefully along and scurry down the stairs, past the empty common area and deserted lobby. The front door makes a beeping noise as I let myself out, and for a moment, I freeze in the doorway, expecting alarms to sound, and Mademoiselle to pounce, and for me to be shipped off home in disgrace. But there’s nothing but the whir of the vending machine and a flicker from the broken fluorescent light overhead, so I close the door behind me with a quiet click.

  Outside, the Rome night is warm, with the faint sounds of traffic and late-night partiers. A group of young Italians pass me on the street, dressed up and chatting excitedly in words I don’t understand. I fall in behind them, for a moment feeling like another person entirely. I don’t know if I’m being crazy, or braver than ever before. Perhaps they’re the same thing in the end.

  I gather all of my courage and set out on the dark, foreign streets. Towards the party. Towards Raphael.

  Seven.

  I walk briskly along the main
streets, and soon, I’m at the edge of the neighborhood marked on the flyer. My heart is still pounding so fast I think it might burst out of my chest, but the thrill is from anticipation now, not fear.

  Back home in New York, I was always nervous on the streets at night: there was something cold and dangerous about the city blocks; but Rome at night is a warm, bright comfort. Golden streetlights illuminate the cobbled sidewalks, casting shadows on the tiny courtyards and ancient statues, and every square I pass is noisy with laughter and voices, people clustered outside the sidewalk cafes, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes with stylish nonchalance. The breeze is crisp with the coming fall, but the air is still warm with the memory of the day’s sun, whispering around my bare legs and sending shivers down my spine.

  And then I hear it. Music, just like the other day. The swell of strings, the low thunder of bass. Surging. Infectious.

  Calling to me.

  I cross the street and head deeper into the winding alleyways that crisscross from the main boulevards. Even in the dark, I can see that this is a hip, young neighborhood. The store windows are all full of cute vintage clothing, and the bars are packed with scruffy, hot Italian people in their late teens and twenties. There’s an energy here, full of life and vivid promise, and it drives me on, towards the music, into the unknown.

  I can hear the party clearly now, voices and laughter in the dark night. I duck under a curved archway, and suddenly find myself in the middle of a large courtyard nestled between apartment buildings, bright with light and activity.

  It’s so beautiful, I have to take a breath and look around, greedily drinking in the scene. Tiny lanterns and twinkling lights are strung up all around the space: twining through fire escapes and along the electricity wires overhead, illuminating the old shutters on the buildings and the flowers spilling off every window ledge. People are dancing, chatting, sipping wine and greeting each other happily; a pulsating mass of people, their voices echoing out into the night.

  I let the energy wash over me, but now that I’ve arrived, my self-consciousness flickers back to life.

  What am I supposed to do now? I don’t know a single person here.

  More people arrive behind me, and the music rises another level, so I cautiously edge into the crowd. A whole mix of accents surrounds me: Italian, what sounds like French, Spanish, even some English too. It’s a young crowd, impossibly gorgeous, and stylish in that effortless European way. The girls all wear lipstick, their hair long and glossy, or cropped, gamine-style. They wear teetering heels with flowing dresses, or skintight jeans and casual shirts—whatever it is, they look like they all just strolled in from a Vogue shoot.

  I tug on the hem of my denim skirt, feeling way underdressed, and out of place. Over in the corner, I find a table crammed with bottles: wine and liquor and all kinds of alcohol. I hunt for a soda, or even a bottle of water, but I can’t see one anywhere.

  “Avete po il vino!” A guy lurches towards me, dark liquid sloshing from the jug in his hand. I jump back, but not quick enough: it splashes my shirt, staining the white fabric with drops of red.

  He swears, then starts apologizing in Italian, his words a foreign torrent.

  “It’s OK,” I protest quickly, backing away. “I’m fine.”

  “Ah, you’re American.” He brightens immediately, switching to English. “I’m sorry, I’ve perhaps had a couple too many. Here, let me fix it.” Over my protests, he grabs a bottle of white wine and douses my shirt. Now it looks even worse: sticking to my chest in a large pink stain.

  “Really, I’m fine,” I insist helplessly. “It was an accident.” I quickly strip the shirt off before it soaks through to my silk camisole underneath.

  When I look up, the guy is staring straight at my chest.

  I cross my arms uncomfortably over the thin layer of wet silk, and begin to turn away, but he moves to block my path: lounging against the wall and penning me in against the table.

  “So where are you from?” he asks, flashing me a wide, toothy grin.

  “New York,” I answer slowly, looking around for an escape.

  “The Big Apple,” he announces. “I was there on business just the other month.”

  I make a noncommittal sound, still trying to figure out how to get away from this guy. He’s cute, I guess, with a scruffy denim shirt and stubble, but there’s something about the way he’s leaning in, invading my space, that sets my nerves on edge.

  “It’s such a dirty place,” he continues with a sneer. “The garbage, just laying out in the streets, all the homeless people. And no sense of history. If you want a real city, you have to come to Europe.”

  “I have to get back to my friends,” I lie, trying to edge away.

  “Girlfriends?” He brightens. “You American girls, you like to party, eh?” He winks, so sleazy it makes my skin crawl, but before I can think of a response, someone reaches past him and takes my hand.

  “There you are,” the calm voice says. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  I look up, and my heart floods with relief. Relief and something more.

  It’s Raphael, looking like a knight in shining armor. Well, a plain black T-shirt and dark wash jeans, but right now, I couldn’t be more grateful.

  Raphael gives the guy a look, and right away, he backs off.

  “Hey man, sorry to muscle in.” The guy winks. “I get it.” He adds something in Italian, and Raphael’s expression darkens. He replies in a clipped tone, and wipes the smile off the guy’s face. I’m relieved when the guy turns and disappears into the crowd.

  “What was that about?” I ask curiously, still thrilled from the touch of Raphael’s hand on mine. His T-shirt hugs his body, and I can see the muscles defined in his arms.

  “Don’t worry,” Raphael replies. He turns back to me, his dark eyes full of concern. “Are you all right? Was he bothering you?”

  “No. I mean, yes,” I correct myself, already blushing under the intensity of his gaze. “But I’m fine.”

  “Good.”

  Raphael pauses, and suddenly the enormity of what I’ve done comes rushing in. I showed up here at this foreign party in a strange city, just because some guy handed me a flyer on the street. Does he think I’m crazy and desperate to be here?

  “Where are your friends?” Raphael looks around, and I realize he overheard my lie.

  “I didn’t...” I pause, embarrassed. “I came alone, I just wanted him to think...”

  There’s an unbearably long silence. Oh God. I pray that the ground will open and swallow me up. He has to think I’m crazy now!

  “I’m glad.” Raphael’s voice is quiet and when I look up again, there’s a heart-stopping smile curling the edge of his perfect lips. “I hoped you’d come.”

  I forget how to speak. I open my mouth, but no words come out. My brain is too busy screaming with joy.

  I hoped you’d come.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Raphael doesn’t seem to notice my brain freeze. “Beer, wine maybe?”

  “A soda would be great,” I murmur, hoping he doesn’t think I’m a kid. The truth is, I’ve never drunk more than a sip of wine at one of Mom’s dinner parties, or a sickly sweet cocktail out with the other girls sometimes. With early nights and practice first thing in the morning, a hangover was never worth the risk.

  Now, I wish I could sound more adult: order a mixed drink, and sip it like all the other glamorous girls here tonight. But Raphael just nods, checking the table. “No soda here, let’s try inside,” he suggests, nodding towards one of the open doors leading off the courtyard.

  I follow him through the crowd, now even louder and more raucous. Raphael places a hand on the small of my back, guiding me beside him. It’s only a light gesture, barely pressing against my camisole, but I feel the touch like a tidal wave, crashing through my body, leaving me breathless and reeling on the shore.

  I want his hands everywhere.

  “So what brings you to Rome?” Raphael asks, leading me inside. Peo
ple are clustered here too, hanging out in the rooms that we pass. He glances back at me. “Are you a student?”

  I pause. “Something like that,” I reply.

  It’s a white lie, I know, but I’ve found out the hard way that people have all kinds of preconceptions about ballet dancers: that we’re stuck up and prissy, prima donna rich girls who don’t know how to have fun. Maybe some of the stereotypes are true, but tonight, I can’t help desperately hoping that I can be more than just a ballerina for a few short, sweet hours. That with Raphael, I can be someone different: exciting, worldly, the daredevil risk-taker I could never be back home in New York.

  “We just got here last week,” I add, moving on from my fib. “Today was my first chance to get out and see the city.”

  “And what do you think of it?” Raphael ducks through a doorway at the end of the hall, and I find myself in a tiny, crammed kitchen. Every wall is covered with open shelves, jars and saucepans, and a huge old range takes up half the room. Raphael goes to open the refrigerator in the corner while I look around, not sure where to stand.

  “I love it here,” I answer honestly. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. It almost feels too beautiful,” I add, trying to explain the spell the city has already cast on me. “Like everywhere I look, there’s too much to take in. The buildings, the little squares, even the light here has something magical about it...”

  I trail off, embarrassed to be gushing so much, not cool and removed like Lucia, and all the other effortless Italian girls.

  Raphael turns back to me, and I feel a rush of relief when I see he’s smiling in agreement. “There’s no place like it,” he agrees.

  “Have you traveled much?” I ask. “Your English is amazing.” I blush. “I can barely string a sentence together in Italian. Uno espresso per favore,” I mimic, shamefaced.

  He laughs. “But that’s all you need. And uno gelato,” he adds.

  “Gelato?” I ask. “That’s like ice cream, right?”