One.
Annalise
I’m in a gorgeous square in the middle of Rome, staring at the
most beautiful fountain I’ve ever seen, when it hits me: I
think I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Around me, the rest of my dance company are happily snapping photos
of the view, but when I look into the water, all I see is the
impossible task ahead of me. Two months to dance like I’ve
never danced before. Two months to save my career before it’s
over for good.
Maybe I should just go home.
No . I stop that thought dead. There’s no way I can ever
go home.
It was a last-minute thing. I came home to find my mom dragging my
suitcases out of storage, a determined look on her face. “Someone
dropped out of the touring company,” she announced. “I
pulled some strings and got you the spot. You leave for Rome
tomorrow.”
Rome?
I stared at her. “I don’t understand.”
“I was dancing solos at your age,” Mom reminded me, as if
I didn’t already know. “ The Black Swan , Coppelia ... But you’re still in the corps de ballet ,”
she said, referring to the lowest rung of the company, the nameless,
faceless group who dance behind the major stars, out of the
spotlight.
There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s where all dancers
start. I freaked out the day the letter arrived. I’d been
accepted into the American Ballet Company, the most prestigious dance
company in New York. All of my hard work, the years of training and
sacrifice, had paid off. Maybe now, Mom would finally give me a
break.
I could make her proud.
But the shimmer of membership quickly faded. Soon, just being one of
the company wasn’t enough. It was about moving up, getting
noticed, winning solos and larger roles. The training got harder, the
competition more fierce. For the past year, I’d felt like I was
running on a treadmill that only went faster: pushing myself harder,
just to stay in the same place.
“I’m trying, Mom,” I protested. “You’ve
seen how hard I’ve worked.”
“Not lately.” She gave me a cool look. “You’ve
only been at the studio late four nights this week. When I was your
age, I danced every night until my toes bled, and went straight back
in the morning for more.”
I felt a flush of shame as she looked me up and down, adding, “And
don’t think I haven’t noticed your weight creep up. We
need to cut back again.”
I can’t escape my mother’s legacy. She was one of the
best prima ballerinas of her era, and she still she has tons
of fans—and a long list of people she trampled on her way to
the top.
“But what does this mean about Rome?” I asked, confused.
“All the top dancers are staying here for the fall season,”
Mom added scathingly. “This is the only way we can get you
noticed. The other girls will be out partying, messing around. You
can beat them. That is, unless you want to throw away everything
we’ve worked for.”
For a moment, I thought about saying ‘no.’ The truth is,
I wasn’t so certain I wanted this anymore—the work, the
long hours, all the counting calories and missing out on normal
teenage life. But I knew only one answer would do. “I’m
ready,” I said quietly, and went to start packing.
But now, one week and a thousand miles later, I wish I’d been
strong enough to tell the truth. Because here, away from my usual
routine filling every hour of every day, I can’t help but hear
the whispers of doubt I’ve fought so hard to keep at bay.
What if you’re just not good enough?
“Make a wish.”
A voice interrupts my thoughts and I snap my head up. An old Italian
woman is hawking souvenirs around the crowd, carrying racks of
keychains and cheap jewelry.
I stare at her, confused. She nods at the fountain, already sparkling
with coins that shine through the clear waters. “You make a
wish in the Trevi Fountain, it always comes true.”
I dig a Euro coin from my pocket.
“Wish for happiness and love.” The old woman winks at me,
then moves off into
Annalise
I’m in a gorgeous square in the middle of Rome, staring at the
most beautiful fountain I’ve ever seen, when it hits me: I
think I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Around me, the rest of my dance company are happily snapping photos
of the view, but when I look into the water, all I see is the
impossible task ahead of me. Two months to dance like I’ve
never danced before. Two months to save my career before it’s
over for good.
Maybe I should just go home.
No . I stop that thought dead. There’s no way I can ever
go home.
It was a last-minute thing. I came home to find my mom dragging my
suitcases out of storage, a determined look on her face. “Someone
dropped out of the touring company,” she announced. “I
pulled some strings and got you the spot. You leave for Rome
tomorrow.”
Rome?
I stared at her. “I don’t understand.”
“I was dancing solos at your age,” Mom reminded me, as if
I didn’t already know. “ The Black Swan , Coppelia ... But you’re still in the corps de ballet ,”
she said, referring to the lowest rung of the company, the nameless,
faceless group who dance behind the major stars, out of the
spotlight.
There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s where all dancers
start. I freaked out the day the letter arrived. I’d been
accepted into the American Ballet Company, the most prestigious dance
company in New York. All of my hard work, the years of training and
sacrifice, had paid off. Maybe now, Mom would finally give me a
break.
I could make her proud.
But the shimmer of membership quickly faded. Soon, just being one of
the company wasn’t enough. It was about moving up, getting
noticed, winning solos and larger roles. The training got harder, the
competition more fierce. For the past year, I’d felt like I was
running on a treadmill that only went faster: pushing myself harder,
just to stay in the same place.
“I’m trying, Mom,” I protested. “You’ve
seen how hard I’ve worked.”
“Not lately.” She gave me a cool look. “You’ve
only been at the studio late four nights this week. When I was your
age, I danced every night until my toes bled, and went straight back
in the morning for more.”
I felt a flush of shame as she looked me up and down, adding, “And
don’t think I haven’t noticed your weight creep up. We
need to cut back again.”
I can’t escape my mother’s legacy. She was one of the
best prima ballerinas of her era, and she still she has tons
of fans—and a long list of people she trampled on her way to
the top.
“But what does this mean about Rome?” I asked, confused.
“All the top dancers are staying here for the fall season,”
Mom added scathingly. “This is the only way we can get you
noticed. The other girls will be out partying, messing around. You
can beat them. That is, unless you want to throw away everything
we’ve worked for.”
For a moment, I thought about saying ‘no.’ The truth is,
I wasn’t so certain I wanted this anymore—the work, the
long hours, all the counting calories and missing out on normal
teenage life. But I knew only one answer would do. “I’m
ready,” I said quietly, and went to start packing.
But now, one week and a thousand miles later, I wish I’d been
strong enough to tell the truth. Because here, away from my usual
routine filling every hour of every day, I can’t help but hear
the whispers of doubt I’ve fought so hard to keep at bay.
What if you’re just not good enough?
“Make a wish.”
A voice interrupts my thoughts and I snap my head up. An old Italian
woman is hawking souvenirs around the crowd, carrying racks of
keychains and cheap jewelry.
I stare at her, confused. She nods at the fountain, already sparkling
with coins that shine through the clear waters. “You make a
wish in the Trevi Fountain, it always comes true.”
I dig a Euro coin from my pocket.
“Wish for happiness and love.” The old woman winks at me,
then moves off into
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