Unwrapped by Melody Grace Page A

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 it’s not the director’s vendetta against
Mom that’s been holding me back? What if I can’t even win a solo
here, in the touring company, without the best dancers to beat?
    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 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 the crowd.
    I pause, turning the coin over in my hand,
feeling the smooth metal and unfamiliar ridges. Wishing for
happiness … I give a wry smile. The women has clearly never met a
ballerina. We could never waste a wish on that, not with a lifetime
of hard sacrifice behind us, training for hours every day, dancing
until our toes bleed and our limbs ache.
    We don’t dance to be happy. We dance because we
must.
    I flip the coin into the air, watching as the
sunlight reflects on metal: a dazzling beam in the bright
afternoon.
    Please let me win the solo. Please let me be
good enough. Please let me make her proud.
    The coin slips into the water with a ripple,
lost in the bed of other coins, other hopeful wishes.
    I just pray that mine comes true.
     

     
    “Is it just me, or are these ancient Roman
guys kind of on the small side?” My roommate, Karla, scrolls
through her photos as we wait in line to board the tour bus. She’s
the closest thing I have to a friend in the company, a street-smart
girl from Chicago who danced her way into a full scholarship for
school, and then straight into the Company.
    “You can’t say that!” I protest, laughing.
“Those things are religious relics.”
    “So?” Karla grins, unconcerned. “Look at him.”
She zooms in on a statue from the Trevi Fountain, a gorgeous
sculpture of a man wrestling with a wild horse. “You would have
thought he’d slip the sculptor a fifty to make sure he was, you
know, immortalized the way he’d want.”
    “Maybe he slept with the artist’s wife or
something, and this is his revenge,” I suggest, giggling.
    Karla smirks. “Or maybe the ancient Romans were
growers, not showers—”
    “Ladies.” She’s interrupted by someone clearing
her throat. Our chaperone, Mademoiselle Ninette, appears behind us,
so fast I jump. “Everything good, ladies?” she demands, her French
accent thick.
    “Yes, Mademoiselle.” Karla gives her best
innocent smile. “We were admiring the statue. The work is
magnificent.”
    Mademoiselle doesn’t look like she believes us.
“Don’t hold up the line,” she barks. “We have a tight schedule.”
She moves to herd up some stragglers, her trademark silk scarf
fluttering in the air behind her.
    “Karla!” I break down in giggles the moment
she’s gone. “You know she heard everything.”
    “Oh relax.” Karla grins, climbing on board.
“I’ve seen her, perving over the male dancers in their tights.”
    “Eww!” I cry, following her down the aisle. “I
do not need that image in my head.”
    “And you know what they say about dancers, even
the old ones. That flexibility never goes away!” Karla gives me a
wicked grin. “Just ask your mother.”
    “Double eww!” I cry, pushing her down into a
spare seat and sliding in next to her. “Never talk about my mother
and … that . Just, never!”
    Karla laughs, settling in her seat and pulling
out her tour guide to Rome. “What’s next?” she asks, flipping
through the