Bunheads by Sophie Flack Page A

moreminutes. She might be the politest of us, but she’s also the sloppiest.
    Daisy holds up her water bottle in a toast. “Finally some real repertory!” she cries.
    “Amen,” says Bea as she wads a pair of leg warmers into a ball.
    I hear my phone vibrate with a text, and I dig for it in my bag. I’m hoping it’s Jacob, but it’s not—it’s Matt.
    Merde
on your first day of winter season!
    Merde
, which is French for “shit,” is the dancer’s equivalent of “break a leg.” I smile to myself and toss my phone onto the countertop.
    “So what are your New Year’s resolutions?” Daisy wants to know. “I want to wear my size twenty-four jeans by March.”
    Bea says, in all seriousness, “I’m going to read
War and Peace
.”
    “Good luck with that.” I laugh.
    She shoots me a look. “Why, just because you can’t finish
Frankenstein
, which I’m pretty sure you’ve been trying to read since last summer?” she teases. “Anyway, I’m also going to get a boyfriend, or at least go on a date.”
    “Now,
that
I can get behind,” I tell her. “And for your information, I’m three-quarters of the way through the book.”
    “Zoe?” Daisy asks. “What about you?”
    Zoe is busy lining up all the new makeup she bought at Bergdorf’s. She looks up. “I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions,” she says, grinning slyly. “Because, really, what could I possibly change? I’m perfect as I am.”
    “You could drink more water and less Diet Coke,” Daisysays, “as I’m always telling you. That would be a good resolution. And you could also quit smoking.”
    Zoe scoffs as she experimentally swipes blue eye shadow over her lids. “Whatever,” she says, sounding bored.
    Daisy turns to me. “Han?”
    “Um,” I say, stalling for time. My sole New Year’s resolution is to get promoted, but I’m not going to announce
that
to the room. “Eat more kale?” I offer.
    Daisy rolls her eyes. “Clearly only Bea and I take this sort of new beginning seriously,” she says. “Dr. Shapiro says that voicing your intentions is an important part of manifesting your dreams.”
    Dr. Shapiro is Daisy’s therapist, whom she’s been seeing since she started at the MBA. I don’t know many sixteen-year-olds with a personal shrink on call, but if I had a crazy stage mother like Daisy’s, I’d want a therapist, too.
    Blah-blah-blah
, Zoe mouths, and I can’t help but giggle.
    “Oh, hey, you guys,” Daisy says. “Did I tell you what Caleb got me for Christmas?” She’s practically clapping her hands in glee.
    Zoe leans over to me. “Seriously? They’re still together? I thought she was just a layover on his way to Gaytown.”
    I stifle a snort while Daisy tells us about the clothes Caleb picked out for her at Barneys. My phone buzzes again:
Trattoria Dell’Arte
lunch by stage door. Enjoy!
    Wow—Matt left me lunch, which means I get to eat something besides yogurt and a banana today. I’m flattered and pleased, but it also makes me feel a little strange—like I can’ttell if he’s trying to hit on me or be my mother. Instead of responding to Matt, I text Jacob, who’s still in Puerto Rico for his brother’s bachelor party.
    So how much fun are you having?
    I stare at the screen, waiting for a reply. But apparently he’s having too much fun to write back.

     
    That afternoon Zoe and I enter the studio along with Adriana, Olivia, and a handful of understudies, who linger in the back of the room. We’ve been called to learn a new piece by a guest choreographer named Jason Pite. I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never seen any of his ballets; supposedly, he’s some kind of choreographic genius.
    Zoe pinches my arm when Jason walks in. He’s a former dancer, as most choreographers are, and he’s tall, with sandy hair and chiseled features. He’s barefoot and wearing green cutoff sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt with the neck stretched out and the arms cut off. Jason looks me right in the eye