Page 15 of Shine Bright

The building is locked at this time of night, but like everyone else, I have a keycard that lets me in after hours. All the windows are dark, which is no surprise, since most of the students are still on the roof terrace. The younger ones are probably in their dorms doing the same thing the rest of us are—getting to know each other. Without alcohol, of course.

I don’t bother looking for the light switch, even though the sun has long since set. I know my way upstairs, know exactly how many steps there are on each of the staircases I’m climbing. Normally, I look for a free studio on the first floor, but tonight I keep going, one staircase after another, until I reach the top. I need to find a place where my mind can finally slow down.

What I’m doing now isn’t very responsible. Tomorrow is the first day of class. I should really be resting, giving my body the break it needs because it didn’t get it over the summer. And it needs it even more now that I’ve been awake for so many hours.

God, how is it possible that I only got back from London at noon today? It feels like an eternity has passed since I finally got through to Mom at the airport, not just a few hours.

I really should be going to bed, but I’m bad at taking breaks. Besides, I’m addicted to feeling my muscles work, to the feeling of lightness that fills me when I dance.

But above all, I’m desperate for silence in my head.

My footsteps are barely audible as I walk over to the changing room to put on my dance clothes. I immediately feel calmer once I’ve exchanged my cardigan and dress for white tights, a pink leotard, and a practice skirt. In class, our leotards and skirts have to be black. There are no exceptions, which is why I always wear other colors when I practice.

I leave my pointe shoes in my bag in the changing room. With ballet slippers on my feet, I slip through the studios, deciding on one with a view out the back of the building, overlooking the administration building. At this time of day, there’s no one there anymore, so no one will know I’m here. Not that I’m doing something wrong, but I don’t want anyone to watch me.

The light is a little too bright when I turn it on, and it takes a moment or two for my eyes to adjust. Then I walk over to the sound equipment, which is on a small shelf next to the mirror and is hardly ever used. Our lessons are always accompanied by a pianist. I randomly grab a CD that’s sitting next to the loudspeaker. I rarely take my phone with me to the studio. I don’t know why, but it just feels different to use one of the CDs. It’s more . . . fitting, somehow.

There’s a soft crackle as I press play, and then the first song begins. Slow, gentle piano music fills the studio. I walk to the middle of the room, sink to the floor, and start with some simple warm-up exercises before finally stepping up to one of the barres. The smooth wood under my fingers feels comforting as I hold the barre loosely; everything feels so familiar.

My joints crack, I sigh, and my thoughts finally quiet down. With every movement, every step, every bend of my knees, every stretch of my feet, the chaos inside me gradually subsides. I take deep, slow, measured breaths. Again and again, I move to the rhythm of the music and feel my muscles slowly relaxing, even though I’m constantly tensing them. It’s a different kind of tension, controlled rather than cramped. I switch from pliés to tendus and relevés and port de bras. I take the steps more slowly than I do in class. No less controlled, no less perfect, just a little slower.

My muscles are working, my heart beating calmly and evenly. I raise my arm, the tension reaching my fingertips, and lower it again. I repeat the movement on the other side. I’ve been doing these exercises almost my entire life. Ballet is the only thing I’m really good at. It’s the only thing that grounds me. The only thing that makes me feel seen.

The only thing that really and truly makes sense to me.

“Hello, Ophelia.”

I recognize his voice without looking. He’s the only one who’s used my real first name in years, and not the nickname Sam and Jase gave me as toddlers because they couldn’t pronounce “Ophelia.” My heart races, and all at once I lose my balance. He throws me off kilter. Me, my heart, my steps.

Slowly, I turn around. Phoenix is leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s wearing the same black hoodie he had on this afternoon but has swapped his jeans for sweatpants. I have butterflies in my stomach. He looks too good, and he shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be here. Not alone. Not together.

“Phoenix,” I say, my voice too hoarse, too rough. Too damn overwhelmed. The corners of his mouth twitch; he’s noticed.

“I didn’t expect to see you again, at this school of all places.” Unlike me, his voice doesn’t betray him. It’s completely calm.

“I don’t think either of us expected that.” I try to smile and fail miserably. My palms are sweating uncomfortably, and I have to fight the urge to wipe them on my tights. We’re a few yards apart, and I’m not sure if it’s just me who’s hyperaware of it.

“You said you couldn’t dance,” he says, and his words make me feel warm inside. He’s right, I did say that. For a moment, I can feel his hands on my body again, can imagine him leading me into a spin and then pulling me back to him. Cool raindrops on warm skin.

“So did you,” I manage to say, a little choked up. I’m too caught up in the memory of that moment when everything was so easy and real. Now nothing is easy anymore; it’s much too complicated.

He just nods, suddenly seeming to be as overwhelmed as I feel. “I . . .” he begins, but immediately falls silent again and runs his fingers through his hair with a deep sigh. “I don’t know what to say.”

Neither do I, I want to say, but my voice won’t obey me. The words get stuck in my throat. They’re too honest, too much the girl I was with him, too little the person I really am. That night, he saw a version of me that I’ve never shown anyone before. For the first time, that thought scares me. No one at this school knows who I really am, and now he’s here, and he knows far too much. I have no idea how to deal with it.

Phoenix is the first to recover. He stops leaning on the doorframe and takes two steps toward me. It’s a very deliberate, controlled movement, and I wonder how I could have overlooked the signs that night. The way he moves, smooth and fluid . . . I should have realized he was a dancer, no matter what he said. Part of me wants to back away and put more distance between us, but I can’t move. I’m frozen.

“Did you tell anyone about us?” he asks, getting straight to the point. I’m not sure why I expected something else—or rather hoped for something else—because it is the most important question at this point. Still, I taste bitter disappointment.

Don’t be like that. It was just one night. It doesn’t matter.

Except that it does matter. It matters to me, at least.

I shake my head, struggling to keep my composure. “No. Nobody knows a thing.”

Relief spreads across his face. “Okay, that’s good. Really good.”

I return his gaze silently, hating everything about this conversation. It’s uncomfortable and awful and so totally different from that night. It feels wrong.