(chapter 1)
I’ll admit, this is not how I imagined my first hours in Paris. I had a picture-perfect vision of what was supposed to happen: I would get off the plane on a warm, sunny morning, my wavy brown hair bouncing and shiny, even after the seven-hour flight. I’d swing my tied-up pointe shoes over my shoulder and declare something cute in French with a perfect accent—the result of months of practice—before strutting elegantly toward the best summer of my life: an intensive ballet program at the prestigious Institut de l’Opéra de Paris. Le dream, non? Instead, I “gently” shove past a few people to snatch my suitcase off the luggage carousel, then search the signs above my head for the word taxi. That’s when something truly wild happens.
“Mia?” Um, what? How does someone in Paris know who I am? “Mia? Is that you?” It takes me a second to recognize that voice. I turn around, and there she is, my nemesis. Or she would be, if I believed in nemeses. “Whoa, Audrey! What are you doing here?” I realize it’s a stupid question only after the words come out of my mouth. “The same thing as you, I guess,” she answers, looking surprised.
When I booked my ticket, I was surprised by how many flights there are to Paris every day. I guess we were on different ones, both delayed by the storm. In any case, I can practically hear her wondering, ‘How did Mia get accepted into one of the most exclusive summer ballet programs in the world?’ Cause I worked my buns off, I want to say.
I’m not going to lie: Audrey is one of the best ballet dancers our age in the tri-state area, but, hey, so am I. I know because we’ve competed against each other in every major event in the dance circuit since we were basically babies. I live in Westchester, which is outside of New York City, and Audrey lives in Connecticut, so we don’t go to the same ballet school (thankfully!), but several times a year, I watch Audrey snatch roles, receive accolades, and almost always come out just ahead of me.
“So you got in to the Institut de l’Opéra de Paris?” Audrey asks with a perfect accent, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. I can tell she regrets her question, because she adds right away, “I mean, what level did you get in?” I clear my throat, buying some time. There are five levels in the program, and students from around the world get placed according to the skills they demonstrated in their application video. “Four,” I say, holding her gaze.