“Lucie.” Henri steps into the hallway.
I wait a count then another before turning toward him. “Yes?”
With slow, deliberate steps, he approaches me. No one else is in the hallway—they’re either waiting for Henri in the practice room or have gone to the dressing room to lick their wounds. Henri stops a respectable distance from me. “Are you angry?”
I tilt my head. “About what exactly?”
Henri’s steely-gray gaze holds mine. “Are you angry with me?”
Well. This is new. “I’m always angry with you, Henri—even if you did hold up your end of our agreement.” Faint music tinkles from behind the closed door. I tilt my head and study my tormentor. “But I should thank you. Madeleine is thrilled.”
Henri exhales, and his shoulders sag. The proud posture of a man who always gets what he wants disappears, leaving a sad, broken shell before me. “I’m trying.”
If this weren’t Henri, I’d almost feel sorry. “No, you’re not. You want us to leave Madeleine here, on her own. You want me to forget about her. But how do I do that?” I settle back onto my heels and cross my arms. “Do you have a forgetting spell?”
Without saying anything else, Henri stomps past me toward the rehearsal room.
What in the world?
Only two other girls are in the dressing room when I enter. Both have tearstained faces, and neither seems interested in conversation, which is fine by me. Madeleine’s shocked excitement is the best thing to happen to me in decades, and I don’t want to ruin the feeling by talking to depressed dancers.
Something in my locker buzzes, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s my phone and probably messages from Zig. Madeleine likes to text me, but other than that, I have little use for the technology.
—Hey! You up for tonight?—
I stare at Zig’s message and scroll to the next one.
—I’m going to be at the Opéra around eight—
It’s eight thirty. Is he still waiting? And if he is, how long will he wait? How many days will he come back? Zig is persistent if nothing else.
The two other dancers in the room are lost in their misery, completely unaware of me. My finger hovers over the callback button, and I take a deep breath before hitting it.
Zig answers immediately. “Hey, Madeleine. Are you done with practice?”
I hold the heavy, rectangular device slightly away from my face. “I am. Where are you?”
“Over by the Apple store.” He sounds a bit breathless. “I’ll come to you.”
“No,” I say sharply. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I hang up, and as I quickly dress, I run through different horrible things I can do to make Zig never want to see Madeleine again. Making fun of him is too easy, plus he doesn’t seem to mind, and being generally unpleasant wasn’t enough. I need to do something truly repellent.
Outside, the streetlights shine steadily. Once, they were filled with gas flames, but now light bulbs illuminate the night. It makes hiding in the shadows more difficult, but I do enjoy the illusion of daylight.
“Hey!” Zig pulls me into an embrace as soon as I’m close enough.
I stiffen. “What are you doing?”
Zig releases me. “Right. La bis.” He quickly kisses both my cheeks.
This is going to be a long night. “Bonsoir,” I say with ice in my voice. “I told you I had the audition tonight. Why are you here?”
Zig shrugs. “I thought I’d take a chance.” He widens his eyes. “So, did you get the solo?”
I try to look devastated. “Not even a role in the corps.”
Zig’s mouth drops open. “What does that mean? You didn’t get any role?”
“I didn’t, but don’t be sad.” I decide to be hot-cold with him and touch my fingertip to his lips. “We can see each other more now.”
His warm lips press against my finger. “That sounds not horrible.”
“Not horrible at all,” I say. At least not yet.
Zig takes my face between his palms, and I resist pulling away. “You seem different.” I turn my head when he tries to stare into my eyes. “Are you okay? About not getting any role?”
Can he tell us apart? No. Of course not. Even people who have known us for years can’t despite what John Campbell said.
I pull him down so that our faces are inches apart. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“Okay.” His peppermint breath washes over me. “Do you want to hang out?”
I bat my eyes and force myself to act flirty. “Yes.”
“Cool.” He drags his sneaker across the pavement. “I feel like I should pick tonight, but I’m at a loss.”
“Come.” I grab his freezing hand. “We’ll go to the Champs-Élysées.” What I don’t say is that I plan on humiliating him in front of a crowd of people, but I’m not sure what exactly I’m going to do.
We exit the George V station and pop up on the still-busy Champs-Élysées. I’m not a fan of the commercialized street, and I don’t understand why tourists flock to it, but it’s close to the Bois and will make getting back to the lake easier.
A brisk wind whips over us as we stand on the street. People weighted down with shopping bags lumber past us despite it being nearly nine.
“Where do they all come from?” Zig asks.
I turn up my nose. “These,” I say, “are all tourists. They buy things they could buy at home just to say they have shopped here.” Zig stares at me with surprise, and I quickly change my tone into something more Madeleine-esque. “Tourists are good. They keep Paris rich.”
I lace our fingers together. “Let’s walk a little more.”
We spend a good hour going in and out of shops, and every time he tries to engage me, I give him disinterested answers. And still—still—he keeps trying to impress me.
As we exit the Nike store, a girl’s voice calls out, “Zig? Zig Young?”
Zig tenses and doesn’t acknowledge her. He takes a step in the opposite direction of the girl. “Let’s go.”
Ah. Zig doesn’t want to see them. This is my chance to humiliate him. “You should say hello. It’s polite.”
I turn around, and a teenage girl with chin-length, mousey-brown hair waves. “Hi! Get Zig and come over here!”
Zig isn’t interested in going anywhere near them. In fact, he nudges me in the opposite direction and acts like he doesn’t hear the chorus of voices calling his name. It’s all very odd given that he has told me he doesn’t know anyone in Paris.
“They’re calling you,” I say. “Let’s go over.”
“No.” He quickens his pace.
“How do they know you?” There’s a clamor behind us, and I glance over my shoulder. The girl gets up from a table crowded with other kids and races toward us. “Is she your friend?”
“Not exactly,” he says under his breath.
“What are you doing here?” The girls speaks English quickly in a high-pitched voice. “I thought you were busy?” Her attention lands on me. “Maybe you are?”
Zig clears his throat. “Ah . . . I thought you were going to Bix? In Montmartre?” The uncomfortableness oozing off Zig is palatable. What is he hiding? And clearly he has friends, so why did he say otherwise?
“We did, but then we came here to people watch. I texted you.” The girl adjusts her glasses. “I’m sorry,” she says to me. “I’m Maria. I go to school with Zig.”
“Bonjour,” I say before looking at Zig. His normally tan skin has turned white. “I’m Lu . . . Madeleine.”
Maria squints at me. “You don’t go to our school, do you?”
“We have to go.” Zig tugs on my arm. “I don’t want you to be late.”
Now I’m even more curious. “I won’t be late. Let’s join your classmates.”
“Excellent!” Maria motions for us to follow her, but Zig stands firmly rooted to the sidewalk.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “She seems nice.” Maria’s made her way back to the group, and they all stare at us. “Zig, if you don’t go over there and say hi, they’re going to talk about you.”
“They already do,” he mutters. With a tight squeeze of my hand, he takes a step forward. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
He shuffles toward the table like a man headed for the guillotine. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I’ll be horrid around his classmates.
“Hi,” he says when we stop next to the table. “Maria wanted me to come over. I’m Zig Young, and this is Madeleine.” He glances at me. “My girlfriend.”
Girlfriend? I quickly compose myself. He’s making this so easy. If they think I’m his girlfriend, all I have to do is . . .
Flirt with the other boy at the table.
“Ian Rodgers. We have Calculus together,” says a posh guy with dark-brown hair and a crisp British accent. He extends his hand to me and says in perfect French, “Madeleine, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ian Rodgers just made my plan so much easier.
I abandon formality and kiss Ian on both cheeks. “Bonsoir.”
The other kids shift around the table to make room for us. Zig folds his tense body into a chair between Maria and me, leaving me to sit next to Ian. I couldn’t have planned this better.
Maria leans around Zig so she can see me. “Since Zig is being rude, I’ll introduce everyone,” she says in French. She points at a blonde girl named Natalie, a pointy-chin boy named Sam, and ends with Ian. “And I’m Maria, but I already told you that. We all go to school with Zig.”
“You are all students at the International School?” I ask in French, not caring that Zig doesn’t understand. “Do all of you speak French?”
“All of us except Zig.” Ian stabs a cornichon. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
Zig darts his eyes around like he’s trying to understand what we’re saying.
“It’s rather sink or swim, isn’t it? Being thrown into a different culture?” Ian says in English. “How did you learn English, Madeleine?”
“Choreographers.” I glance at Zig, who has turned slightly toward me. “I’m a dancer with the Paris Opéra Ballet. I speak Russian, Italian, French, and English.”
Ian raises his eyebrows and keeps his intense focus on me. “You’re a dancer?”
“I am.”
Natalie frowns and shifts so that her arm touches Ian’s. Her message is clear: Ian is hers. I resist laughing and instead lean closer to Ian.
“How did you meet?” Sam asks. “I thought dancers had grueling schedules and no social lives.”
“I get recovery days and a few hours off here and there. That’s how I’m here tonight.” I don’t know why Zig was reluctant to sit with his classmates. They are perfectly normal and welcoming. “And Zig and I met on the Métro.”
Ian gives a nod of approval. “I tried talking to a French girl on the Métro once. She nearly killed me with her icy glare.” He points his finger at Zig. “You’ll have to give a mate some tips.”
Natalie elbows him in his side. “You don’t need tips. You have me, remember?”
“Just making conversation.” Ian chuckles.
“Hey, Madeleine”—Zig pushes back from the table—“do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere just the two of us?”
“No.” I keep my gaze on Ian and say in French, “I’m perfectly happy here.”
“And we’re happy to have you.” Ian flashes his toothy grin at me, but Natalie narrows her eyes. Good. I’m creating tension. That’s exactly what I need to do.
The bistro doesn’t have space heaters, and the freezing wind whips over us. I pull my scarf tighter.
“Are you cold?” Ian asks.
“A little.” I reach for the open bottle of wine that’s on the table. “Can I? It’ll warm me up.”
Natalie grabs the bottle first. “Zig?” she asks. “Would you like some wine?”
“Red or white?”
“Red.” She pours a glass and reaches across the table to hand it to Zig. “Red is what we drink when it’s this cold out.”
“Let me get you a glass, Madeleine,” Ian says in French, and I bat my eyes.
As we sip and talk, Maria scrolls on her phone. Why can’t people be present in the conversation anymore? Why do they have to constantly whip out their pocket computers?
“So,” Sam says, his voice too loud from the wine. His cheeks are flushed red, and his eyes have a slightly glassy look. “You’re having a birthday party on Saturday, Zig?”
Zig presses his tongue against his lips, puffing them out. “Yeah. I can’t believe my mom invited the entire senior class.”
“It sounds fun,” Natalie giddily says. The wine has gotten to her, too. “Are you going, Madeleine?”
“I plan on it.”
She must not like my answer because she frowns before catching herself. “Well, it will still be fun. We’ll all be there.”
Maria taps on her phone and scrunches her brows together. “Madeleine? Madeleine Beauvais, right?”
I blink at hearing Madeleine’s last name. How did Maria know that? “Yes, that’s me.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Guys, Madeleine isn’t just a dancer with the Ballet. She’s a soloist, and one of the featured dancers in the upcoming ballet Lilah.”
How does she know that? My gaze lands on her phone. Her pocket computer. Of course. The program must have been announced already, and the bios of each dancer are up on the website.
Zig stares at me in confusion. “I thought you didn’t get the role?”
“I . . .” What am I supposed to say? How do I get out of this?
Maria turns her phone so that the screen faces the rest of the table. “You’re basically famous.” She giggles. “I’ve never met a famous person before.”
“Let me see.” Natalie takes the phone, and she huffs. “This is your first time as a soloist, and you lied to your boyfriend about it? That’s weird.”
This couldn’t be going better, but how am I going to explain being here? And why is my stomach in my feet? Why am I concerned about Zig’s reaction?
“Madeleine?” Zig’s brows are drawn tightly together. “Did you get the role?”
I inhale and gather my thoughts before answering. “Yes.”
“Don’t you have rehearsal?”
I keep a smile on my face. “We practiced during the day today.”
“But I thought you only rehearsed at night?” I can see his brain trying to puzzle everything together. Should I add to his confusion?
Think, Lucie. Think. “Normally, yes. But we have an English choreographer, and he prefers daytime rehearsals.”
“So, you lied?” Natalie asks.
“She didn’t lie. She just withheld info.” Maria takes her phone from Natalie. “I’d love to see you perform, Madeleine.” Maria glances around the table. “Who wants to come with me?”
Ian raises his hand. “I do. Sam?”
Sam shrugs. “I’m not a ballet guy. No offense, Madeleine.”
“Great! I’ll buy tickets for us.” Ian nudges me with his shoulder, but instead of flirting back, I want to punch him. They absolutely cannot go to any performance. “Opening night? Closing?” He looks at Zig. “You pick, mate. We’ll go with you.”
This has turned into a disaster. If they all show up at the Ballet, how am I going to keep Madeleine from seeing Zig?
“Are you sure she’s your girlfriend?” Maria whispers but loud enough for me to hear.
“Yeah.” Zig hangs his head, and I feel almost bad, but maybe this ends things between us.
Maria finishes her wine. “She’s very flirtatious.” She sets her glass down, and I pretend I can’t hear her. “But she’s French. They’re different than us, you know?”
Someone must have asked for the bill, because the waiter sets it down next to Sam.
I throw some cash down on the table like the rest of the kids. No one has actually looked at the bill, so I hope we’ve left enough. Like a trail of ants, our group winds through the chilly bistro and back out onto the street. As the other kids discuss plans, I focus on how to prevent them from going to any performance.
“We’re going to the Metrodome to dance,” Natalie says, sidling up to Ian and linking arms with him. Her gaze slices through me. “We don’t have school this week, and I’m sure you need to rest since you have practice tomorrow.”
“I can go,” I say. Maybe dancing will clear my mind. “I’m used to long nights and early mornings.”
Maria pipes up. “The Metrodome isn’t really all that fun. It’s pounding dance music.”
The Champs-Élysées is nearly empty now since it’s a weeknight, but the wind has grown more ferocious.
Madeleine loves nightclubs and pounding bass, but I hate it. None of these kids would know that, though. To them, I am Madeleine, a dancer with a solo who has practice in the morning.
“I love all kinds of dancing,” I say.
Zig shoves his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go to the Metrodome.”
Natalie huffs, and her glare could slice me in two. “Great! Let’s all go dancing.”
Zig’s body language mirrors Natalie’s. He’s not happy. Not at all. I grab his elbow.
“Come on, Zig!” I playfully pat his cheek with my free hand. “You only live once. Don’t be boring.”
He puts on a forced smile that looks like he’d rather be stabbed a million times than go anywhere with this group. Or maybe he just hates Ian. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go dance.”