Page 16 of Silver Sweet

“The dick better have been good, man,” he snaps. The dancers on stage stop leaping like they’ve just found their new source of entertainment. I glance warily at them, and they makenosign of being discreet.

One blonde girl stares directly at me and whispers in the other’s ear.

“Fucking A,” I mutter and stake a dark glare on her to fuck off. She hoists her chin in defiance.Ballerinas.

I’ve subbed in for musicians plenty of times at the ballet to know a literal and metaphorical divide sits between orchestral musicians and dancers.

Barely any of us are on a first-name basis. Dancers interact mostly with Giulia Carabello, the seasoned, regimented conductor, and the rare occasion when someone crosses the line between the pit and stage, it’s major gossip.

Most of the time, I just hear about dancers having meltdowns or bitching about the live tempo being off and screwing up their “perfect” variation.

I lean farther over the pit rail and lower my voice. “I wasn’t having sex,” I growl out to my brother.

Birdie’s brows rise as he stuffs a timpani mallet into my black mallet bag, which he must’ve grabbed from my room. “Really? Because I was happy to fill in for you knowing you were at least getting laid. Now I’m feeling used. Like a dirty oldsock.”

“It’s not like that.” I gesture to him. “I appreciate this.”

“Appreciation means shit. You owe me.” He zips up the bag and follows my gaze toward the stage. The girls are giggling.

Birdie grins.

I grit down on my molars and nail him with a vicious look.Don’t do it.

“Man, I know you have a twelve-inch dick,” he says loudly while making direct eye contact with me. “But there are worse problems in the world. Wars. Famine?—”

“Birdie—” I’m hustling to the end of the aisle where stairs descend into the orchestra pit.

“—World hunger. We all can’t be worried about your big…”

I’m in the pit.

“Fat…”

Feet away.

“Co—”

I place my hand over his mouth. The laughter from the stage echoes shrilly. I can feel Birdie’s shit-eating grin underneath my palm. I’d like to say this is an unusual occurrence, but Birdie making me the butt of a joke is practically his way of sayingI love you.Probably because he knows I can take it.

“Truly unnecessary.” I drop my hand from his mouth and shove his chest.

He’s still smirking as he sways backward. “Please. You’ll thank me later when one of the dancers in the corps de ballet asks for your number.” He grabs his water bottle off the floor and twists the cap.

“I don’t want their number.”

“Right. You’re shooting for a principal. Got to get the talented dick.”

I roll my eyes. “Can we stop talking about dick for five seconds?”

He grimaces into his swig of water, then rubs the back of his lips with his hand. “So you didn’t get laid and you don’t want to talk about dick?” He sweeps me in deeper concern. “Seriously, where were you?”

“You might want to take a seat.”

He rubs a hand over his buzzed head. “Mom and Dad?”

“It’s not about them.” I gesture toward the black aluminum fold-out chair.

Birdie plops down, his expression graver as he prepares for bad news. “Wait.” He holds up a hand, then unbuttons the first three buttons on his shirt, rolls up the sleeves to his elbows, and digs in his backpack. He takes out a standard pencil.