Unwrapped by Melody Grace Page B

book.
    “The Colosseum,” another voice speaks up.
Rosalie, our third roommate, pops her head over from the seat
behind. She’s clutching a clipboard and map, her long copper braid
already unravelling in the autumn heat. “Then the Spanish Steps,
the Forum, and St. Peter’s.”
    “In one day?” I exclaim. Rosalie just named
every major tourist spot in the whole city. “I thought we’d get
some time to wander, you know, really explore.”
    Rosalie shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, I just
wrestle with the copy machine until I’ve got ink permanently
tattooed on my hands.” She shows us the marks, smudged halfway up
her arms. Although she’s nineteen, like us, and part of the group,
Rosalie hasn’t danced an arabesque in her
life. She’s here as Mademoiselle’s long-suffering assistant,
running after her every minute of the day.
    “I’ve got some Oxyclean back in the room,” I
offer. “It got those smudges off my pointe shoes, so it might be
worth a try.”
    “Or your skin will peel off,” Karla adds.
“Either way, it’ll get the marks out.”
    Rosalie laughs. “Thanks, I’ll take it.” Then, as
if she has a sixth sense, Rosalie turns to the front of the bus.
Two seconds later, Mademoiselle’s voice rings out.
    “Rosalie? Where are you?”
    “Back to work,” she gives us a rueful smile.
“Some of us aren’t lucky enough to get the day off.”
    “Rosalie!”
    She makes her way obediently to the front of the
bus, just as the engine starts, and the bus pulls away. Rosalie
loses her balance at the sudden motion, and goes flying into the
nearest person’s lap.
    “It’s obvious who isn’t a dancer here.” The
girl, Lucia, shoves Rosalie upright, scowling. “Maybe you should
sit in on a class, learn something about being graceful.”
    “You can talk,” Karla yells down the aisle.
“Didn’t you get so dizzy turning fouettes you puked all over the Director?”
    Lucia glares. Rosalie blushes, and scurries on
up front.
    “She’s such a bitch,” Karla murmurs.
    “Yes, but her grand
jetés put us all to shame.” I watch Lucia plug in her iPod
and slouch lower in her seat, pointedly ignoring the beautiful city
passing by outside the windows. She’s Italian, and hasn’t missed a
chance to remind us, heaping scorn on our halting accents and
halfhearted requests for ‘ uno espresso, per
favore. ’ “You think she’ll get a solo?”
    Karla bites her lip. “There are only four to go
around.”
    “You’ll take one,” I say. Karla doesn’t
disagree. It’s not ego, it’s simple fact: she’s one of the best
dancers in the company. I wish I could be as fearless as her, in
life as well as dance.
    “So that leaves three …” I glance around the bus
at the other members, making sure to keep my voice low. “Julia had
that sprain,” I murmur hopefully, seeing one of the other best
dancers chat with some friends up front.
    “But she’s better now,” Karla gives me a
sympathetic smile. “I saw her in rehearsal before we left. The
Director said she was promising.”
    I inhale a breath. Coming from the Director,
that’s lavish praise.
    We both fall silent for the rest of the journey,
all our earlier joking forgotten. When it comes to ballet, there’s
no room to play around. Out of the full company of eighty dancers,
we all know, only a small handful will ever graduate to be
principals, dancing the big roles, and of them, maybe one or two in
a generation will become prima ballerinas ,
the best of the best, praised and adored by all.
    My mom’s words echo again. She’s right, when she
was nineteen, she was already a rising star in the company, wowing
audiences with her solos and perfect form. Sometimes I feel lucky,
having a mother who can understand my passion so well. She doesn’t
ask why I spend three hours a night practicing my arabesque lines, or tell me they looked fine to her,
like some of the other dancers’ families. They just shrug and smile
in a bemused way, and applaud