“Tell us everything! Was he
there? Was he hot? Did you make sweet, sweet love all night long?”
“Karla!” I throw a pillow at her, blushing. “I only
just met the guy!”
“Never stopped me,” she winks.
“We’re going to miss breakfast,” I deflect, leaping
out of bed.
Karla pouts. “Fine, but I want all the details. Leave nothing
out.”
We dress and grab our things, and head down the street to the
cafeteria we’re sharing with students at an American college
here.
“Is that bacon?” Karla moans pathetically, as we shuffle
down the line. “Oh God, it’s bacon. And eggs. And
sausage.”
She lets out a little whimper, looking like a puppy-dog eyeing a
treat as we pass the steaming hot food station. I don’t say a
word, taking my usual plate of fruit and fat-free yogurt, but I can’t
help but give an envious look to the other students around us,
loading their plates without a thought.
I was twelve when my mom first set a small silver scale on the
kitchen counter and showed me how to weigh the portions of food,
right down to the handful of almonds she gave me as an afternoon
snack. A dancer had to be slender, she told me. I had to leap and
soar as if I weighed nothing at all, and I couldn’t very well
do that with an extra ring of padding around my waist.
I remember looking in the mirror that night, anxiously pinching at
the baby fat still on my small body, imagining my partner straining
to lift me up onstage. She was right—a dancer’s
instrument is her body, and mine had to be perfect.
I had to be perfect.
And for a few years, I was. My baby fat melted away, and with
training, and our careful diets, I hit my teens with a perfect
dancer’s build: lean, muscular, and lithe. I remember
overhearing my mom, talking smugly with some other dance moms after
rehearsals. “Of course, we don’t have to worry about
Annalise’s figure,” she said proudly. “She has
discipline, she doesn’t let herself go.”
I thought it was simple. Then puberty hit, late for me, and suddenly,
all the willpower in the world couldn’t stop the weight
creeping on, new curves developing where once I’d been so slim.
The scales went back on the kitchen counter, mom designed me a brutal
diet plan, I cut out everything except the most necessary fuel, but
it made no difference. Now, I feel like I’m always ten pounds
away from my former body; ten pounds between me and the effortless
grace I used to know.
Ten pounds from perfection.
“Tell me how it tastes,” Karla is ordering Rosalie,
watching her bite self-consciously into a sugar-dusted pastry as I
take a seat beside them. “I want you to describe it, every
piece.”
“I thought you wanted to know about last night,” I
interject, changing the subject the only way I can.
“Ooh, yes,” Karla whirls around to me. “Spill!”
I take a breath, trying to find a way to describe the night. “It
was... magical.”
“So you did do it!” Karla announces triumphantly.
“Keep it down!” I hush her, panicked. “And no, as I
said, I only just met the guy. We talked,” I add. “And we
danced. And... we kissed.”
I blush, certain she can see through me. But maybe Karla doesn’t
think I’m the kind of girl to stumble back against the wall and
surrender to pleasure, because she doesn’t press me.
“So what now?” Karla asks, biting into her apple. “Are
you going to see him again?”
I deflate. “I don’t know.”
In the bright light of day, reality comes crashing in. I’m here
in Rome for a reason, to dance. To be the best. Sneaking off to meet
Raphael again would risk everything, and besides, where could it
possibly lead? I’m only here for six weeks, then it’s
back to New York and my life filled with classes and rehearsals.
There’s no future for us—even if he wanted there to be
one. Which I don’t know. Because I barely know anything about
him at all.
I realize with a shock that we barely even had a conversation. What
kind of girl
there? Was he hot? Did you make sweet, sweet love all night long?”
“Karla!” I throw a pillow at her, blushing. “I only
just met the guy!”
“Never stopped me,” she winks.
“We’re going to miss breakfast,” I deflect, leaping
out of bed.
Karla pouts. “Fine, but I want all the details. Leave nothing
out.”
We dress and grab our things, and head down the street to the
cafeteria we’re sharing with students at an American college
here.
“Is that bacon?” Karla moans pathetically, as we shuffle
down the line. “Oh God, it’s bacon. And eggs. And
sausage.”
She lets out a little whimper, looking like a puppy-dog eyeing a
treat as we pass the steaming hot food station. I don’t say a
word, taking my usual plate of fruit and fat-free yogurt, but I can’t
help but give an envious look to the other students around us,
loading their plates without a thought.
I was twelve when my mom first set a small silver scale on the
kitchen counter and showed me how to weigh the portions of food,
right down to the handful of almonds she gave me as an afternoon
snack. A dancer had to be slender, she told me. I had to leap and
soar as if I weighed nothing at all, and I couldn’t very well
do that with an extra ring of padding around my waist.
I remember looking in the mirror that night, anxiously pinching at
the baby fat still on my small body, imagining my partner straining
to lift me up onstage. She was right—a dancer’s
instrument is her body, and mine had to be perfect.
I had to be perfect.
And for a few years, I was. My baby fat melted away, and with
training, and our careful diets, I hit my teens with a perfect
dancer’s build: lean, muscular, and lithe. I remember
overhearing my mom, talking smugly with some other dance moms after
rehearsals. “Of course, we don’t have to worry about
Annalise’s figure,” she said proudly. “She has
discipline, she doesn’t let herself go.”
I thought it was simple. Then puberty hit, late for me, and suddenly,
all the willpower in the world couldn’t stop the weight
creeping on, new curves developing where once I’d been so slim.
The scales went back on the kitchen counter, mom designed me a brutal
diet plan, I cut out everything except the most necessary fuel, but
it made no difference. Now, I feel like I’m always ten pounds
away from my former body; ten pounds between me and the effortless
grace I used to know.
Ten pounds from perfection.
“Tell me how it tastes,” Karla is ordering Rosalie,
watching her bite self-consciously into a sugar-dusted pastry as I
take a seat beside them. “I want you to describe it, every
piece.”
“I thought you wanted to know about last night,” I
interject, changing the subject the only way I can.
“Ooh, yes,” Karla whirls around to me. “Spill!”
I take a breath, trying to find a way to describe the night. “It
was... magical.”
“So you did do it!” Karla announces triumphantly.
“Keep it down!” I hush her, panicked. “And no, as I
said, I only just met the guy. We talked,” I add. “And we
danced. And... we kissed.”
I blush, certain she can see through me. But maybe Karla doesn’t
think I’m the kind of girl to stumble back against the wall and
surrender to pleasure, because she doesn’t press me.
“So what now?” Karla asks, biting into her apple. “Are
you going to see him again?”
I deflate. “I don’t know.”
In the bright light of day, reality comes crashing in. I’m here
in Rome for a reason, to dance. To be the best. Sneaking off to meet
Raphael again would risk everything, and besides, where could it
possibly lead? I’m only here for six weeks, then it’s
back to New York and my life filled with classes and rehearsals.
There’s no future for us—even if he wanted there to be
one. Which I don’t know. Because I barely know anything about
him at all.
I realize with a shock that we barely even had a conversation. What
kind of girl
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