You Before Anyone Else (16 page)

I shrug. “It's a high school thing where I'm from.” I can only think of a handful of my middle school friends who ended up at boarding school. Many applied though—teachers and counselors talked about it frequently, I guess.

“My grandfather went to boarding school in London when he was eight,” Eddie says. He aims his green SweeTART and tosses it. It lands on my hand, the one wrapped around the cup.

“Close enough. That counts.” I pop the candy in my mouth. “Would that be Edward James Wellington the first?”

“Second,” Eddie corrects. “And boarding school's not as weird as you're making it sound. It's kinda normal. That's what I thought when I first started at Andover, all the people around all the time. I kept thinking this must be what normal family life resembles. My place—my parents' place—is so big with all our rooms at different ends. We could go days without seeing each other. Sometimes, not having alone time bugged me at school.”

I try not to look heartbroken by that idea of his family home, but it's hard not to. “What did you want to do with all this alone time, Eddie Wells?”

“This,” he says, reaching for me and pulling me under him. “And it's my turn to ask you a question. I know you want to open the studio, but have you ever thought about dancing professionally, like your mom?”

Yes. The answer to that question is yes. For years, it's all I thought about. Daydreamed. Sometimes, my fantasies took me onstage with the New York City Ballet. Other times, I was a backup dancer for Lady Gaga, though hip-hop is not my strength. I even toyed with voice lessons for a while, because I wanted to be on Broadway. But never in my almost adult life have I had those dreams. So it doesn't feel true, saying yes.

“Not really,” I tell Eddie.

He lifts an eyebrow, his face hovering above mine. “Never? Come on, you lived with a professional ballerina. I find that hard to believe.”

“Maybe when I was really young, like little girl fantasies,” I concede. He's getting way too good at reading me. I decide an escape might be best. “I need a Diet Coke. You want one?”

He studies me for a beat and then says, “Yeah, sure.”

I slide out from under him and head for the door. I point a finger at him. “Not a sound from you, okay?”

I'm still stuck on Eddie's question while walking to the kitchen. I think I even know the last time I thought about dancing professionally. My mom and I danced a duet for the studio's annual recital once. We had talked about doing it for years, since I got my first pair of pointe shoes when I turned eleven. But the year before, she had been über pregnant, ready to give birth. The year before that, she had just had a miscarriage, wasn't in a good place, and was trying to get pregnant again.

But eventually, nearly a year after she gave birth to the twins, we danced together. A piece from
Coppelia
that my mom had done onstage with the New York City Ballet when she was nineteen. She claimed to be still in a postbaby, out-of-shape state, but I thought she looked amazing. And so did everyone else. My mom even invited her old director from back in the day. He came backstage after and gushed about my mom and then about me. That had been nice to hear. I mean, he was a real-life ballet director. But what made me want something big was my mom telling me I had danced the piece perfectly and with heart.

Three weeks later, she died. And my dad nearly died too. He needed five different surgeries, and he couldn't walk. It's not that I was afraid to try or that I was too sad because dance made me think of her; it's just that it didn't seem important anymore. How could it? So much had changed that I figured dance was bound to change for me too.

But dancing
Don Quixote
in my parents' studio a few weeks ago… It had felt like the duet with my mom all over again. Since then, I haven't gone a day without doing something in those pointe shoes.

I reach for two cans of Diet Coke and then nearly hit my head on the fridge when I hear Elana's mom speaking in whispered French. I look up and see that they're awake, pulling items out of the small stacking washer/dryer in our kitchen.

“I forgot, you guys are heading to New Jersey, right? The shampoo commercial?”

“Lipstick,” Elana corrects with a yawn. She heads back into her room for something.

I hang around for a minute so I can say good-bye, and while I do, French Mama appears in front of me, saying something I don't understand, but she's got that sympathetic motherly look on her face again. Already, my gut twists.

She opens the fridge and begins pointing out containers of food. At first, I think she's showing me what's theirs so we don't eat it. Then I quickly realize that it's meals she's prepared. For us. I clear my throat and try to stop my cheeks from burning. I'm not used to people taking care of me.

French Mama rushes over to the dryer and returns with my sweater. I must have left it on the couch last night while I tried on dresses in Summer's room. She sets it in my arms, and the scent of soap and dryer sheets wafts up toward my nose. It's folded in that special way that stores do, with the arms tucked inside, making a perfect rectangular shape.

My mom folded sweaters like this too. I'd come home from school and find the sweater I left lying around the house folded neatly, like a gift, at the end of my bed. It always made me smile, no matter what. I swallow the lump in my throat and mumble a thank-you, then I mumble a good-bye to Elana. I close and lock the door to my room, but I'm still staring at the sweater when Eddie stands and takes the Diet Cokes from my hand.

“You okay?” he asks.

I lift my head, force a smile, and nod. I carefully place the sweater on my dresser top. Eddie tugs me toward the bed, probably sensing that something is off with me, and makes a joke. “So should I head upstairs to my apartment? I don't want to mess up again and have my pants thrown in my face in the morning.”

I laugh, breaking out of my trip down memory lane. “You can stay. If you want.”

“Good,” he says with a grin. “Because we still have three SweeTARTS left.” He pulls me under the covers with him.

I don't feel like being on opposite ends of the bed anymore. And I'm tired all of a sudden. I curl up to Eddie and yawn. “What time did Eve say she wanted us at the studio tomorrow?”

“Eleven,” Eddie says. “We should sleep.”

“For real this time.” We've had several failed attempts to sleep thus far. Eddie's quite a distraction in my room. Even now, I'm completely spent but caught up in my lips brushing the skin on his neck, his hand sliding under the extra-large T-shirt I like to sleep in.

I finally do begin to drift off to sleep, but even half-conscious, I can't help thinking how different tonight was from the last time. How much more I know about Eddie and how that changes the way we both sleep in this bed. It changes so much.

And I'm really beginning to like this new way. Maybe it doesn't have to end?

Eddie

“No makeup?” Finley repeats.

Eve Nowakowski is busy adjusting lights for the shoot but manages to answer with, “Uh-huh.”

“Me too?” I ask hopefully. I still don't know exactly what we're doing for this shoot.

“Yep,” she says in response.

Finley looks at me and shrugs. It's strange to be at a shoot without the crowd of people around. Not that I'm an expert yet, but just Eve and Finley here is definitely not the norm. We're on the eighteenth floor of this building in Brooklyn. It's basically wide-open space, just wood floors, white walls, and support beams placed here and there. The crew left some lights and camera equipment but no makeup and hair area.

“Hair?” Finley asks, tugging at the wet locks around her face. She came here fresh out of the shower. So did I, but my hair is mostly dry now.

Eve crawls over to a big bag on the floor, the camera lens still clutched in one hand, and pulls out a blow-dryer. “Flip your head upside down and dry it.”

I figure I have a few minutes, so I plop down on the floor. “So you're working for
Cosmo
? Or just interning?”

“Neither,” Eve says, raising her voice over the sound of the blow-dryer. “Just a short-term project for my independent study. I wanted to gain some experience coming up with photo concepts to go with articles. My mentor, Janessa Fields, gets a kick out of pairing me up with industry people who I would never seek out otherwise.”

“Why?” Seems like a mentor would want to help her find someone doing what she hopes to do in the future.

Eve shrugs. “According to Janessa, the worst thing for my career right now is being too sure of what I want to do.”

Huh. “That's something the college counselors never told me.”

“I know, right?” Eve goes over to her giant bag again and pulls out what looks like a T-shirt and then a black tank top. “I don't think these shots will be right for
Cosmo
, but I have something else in mind…” She looks up at me, concern on her face. “I hope that's okay? Finley said you guys didn't have anything scheduled this morning.”

“So this is unpaid work?”

“I like to call it volunteer.” She's waiting for my response, looking more worried now.

“In that case…” I start to stand up, but then stop and flash her a grin so she knows I'm kidding. “I don't have any jobs all day, so it's fine.” I scratch my head. “Well, I mean, I don't know if it's fine, because I'm not sure what I'm getting into, but fine for now.”

“I don't know exactly what I'm getting into yet either,” Eve admits, seeming relieved by my response. “And there might be a picture right for
Cosmo
—I'll let them take a peek. Then you'll get a couple hundred for your time. And your”—she waves a hand in front of me—“you know,
body
.”

I stifle a laugh. “Right.”

“I couldn't resist the opportunity to use their lights and equipment, plus this space is insanely expensive. After that private lesson concept was dropped into my lap at the party, I was up nearly all night spinning ideas.” She looks a little embarrassed about this but shrugs again. “We'll make it quick, and if it turns out to be nothing, then whatever.”

Finley shuts off the blow-dryer and turns herself upright again. I'm staring at her now, caught up in the memory of last night. I barely hear when Eve says to me, “Mind ditching your shirt?”

“Huh?” I touch the material on my chest. “My shirt?”

“No?” Eve asks, then she looks at Finley. “Probably less weird if you ask.”

I roll my eyes but pull the T-shirt over my head. “Happy? Anything else?”

“Not yet.” Finley stands in front of me and loops her thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans. She tugs until I'm right up against her.

I use my fingers to comb through her hair, straightening it out after the blow-drying session. I don't think anyone else could have convinced me to “volunteer” to have more pictures taken. I've pretty much sworn off all voluntary photos.

Standing here so close, I'm engulfed in the same feeling that hit me last night—a weight pressing against my heart, a weight that will no doubt be replaced with emptiness if or when it's gone.

I think I might be in love with her. Or on my way there. A little more time and—

But time isn't really part of this thing we're doing.

“Put this on.” Eve waves some black clothing in the air, and Finley moves away from me to grab them. “And your ballet shoes.”

Soon, she's wearing a black tank top and tiny black shorts. Nothing fancy. Her ballet shoes are tan and blend with her skin. It takes her a few minutes to get them on. Eve sits on the floor, snapping pictures of her going through the process of covering her toes and tying the ribbons. Finley is much less distracted by the camera than I am.

I must have looked uncomfortable, because Eve glances up at me. “This will be painless, I promise.”

“No problem.” I shrug and fold my arms over my chest.

“Do some warm-up-type things,” Eve suggests to Fin. “And Eddie, just stand there and watch.”

She flashes me a grin, and I nod. That I can do.

Even though I've seen ballerina Finley a few times, I'm still caught off guard by how fluid her movements are. How there's this other person inside her who comes alive when the shoes are on. But really, if you look close enough—something I made sure to do last night—you can see evidence of the dancer. Her feet, for one—high arches, old healed blisters, a few new ones too. The way she stands with her feet turned out, the calf muscles that flex when she raises on her toes to reach for a coffee mug in a high kitchen cabinet.

Eve is busy snapping pictures, but she pauses when Finley does a series of complicated turns. “Wow…”

Fin stops her turn, sharp and precise, and her blond hair whips around to hit her in the face. “Enough?”

Eve nods, and then her gaze drifts between the two of us until she's guiding Finley backward, toward me. “What if…” She takes one of Fin's arms and hooks it around the back of my neck. “And then…” She places my right hand on Finley's stomach. “Now do that on your toes,” she tells Fin, and then to me, she says, “Less grip on her. More supportive and less ‘I'm dominating you.'”

Finley busts out laughing. “Sorry.” She glances at me over her shoulder and starts up again.

“So unprofessional.” I shake my head and have to tighten my grip on her, because she's laughing too hard to balance on her toes. I tickle her sides, earning more laughter. I slide a finger down her leg, and I'm about to lift it up and see how high it goes when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

“Sexy,” Finley jokes, then she reaches down and pulls it out for me. Even though it's obvious she's not trying to spy on my phone, the name flashes clear enough for both of us to see: Caroline.

My heart drops to my stomach. I take the phone from Finley, whose cheeks are bright red now. The phone continues to vibrate and flash Caroline over and over again. I suck in a breath—why is she calling? She always texts. And I hit ignore before stuffing it back in my pocket.

Maybe something's wrong? Something must be wrong. But what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I'm not even allowed to—

Finley gives me a tiny glance from over her shoulder again, and I know how this must look, with my face probably tense and revealing a problem. I'm supposed to say something, anything, to explain who this girl is, calling my phone. She's my cousin. She's my friend from school. She's someone from the agency.

But I can't lie to her. Not anymore. So instead, I say nothing.