Girl Through Glass by Sari Wilson Page A

drop at her side.
    I open my mouth and close it again.
    Then she laughs. “OMG, I didn’t know you still did ballet!”
    â€œI don’t—that was just—” And I am deeply embarrassed.
    â€œYou still have mad skills! You were killing it!” Has she been watching me dance before she turned the lights on?
    I stand, blinking in the harsh light. I finally have discovered my voice, remember who I am. “Sioban, did you sign this studio out?”
    She nods. “I have it starting at eight, but I can take A. No one is in here.”
    â€œNo, I’ll move over to A,” I say, walking over to get my things.
    â€œOr—” she says. “We could share it. I’ve been working on my contact”—she drops and does a sudden roll and then springs up—“the act of trusting, like you said, or letting go —.” She flushes. “Would you—could you—do some contact with me before you go?” Her face is deeply red now. She moves toward me.
    I don’t know why, but—and this is really inexcusable—I nod my head.
    I think I’m grateful for the lack of speech between us. Our movements together are surprisingly seamless. But her body is too rigid and moves in parts, from the center outward. It avoids its own mass. For all her skill, she doesn’t know how to flow and release into another body. She’s using too much muscle and not enough bone. “It’s not like partnering,” I say. I bend again and she lays her spine along my spine. “Good,” I say. Now she’s allowing herself the help of gravity. “Follow the point of contact,” I say. “Very good!” How grateful I am to be the teacher again.
    â€œOh!” she says, and I see that she has the feeling of doing less, how liberating this can be for bunheads. I’m pivoting and taking her weight and then she goes stiff again. “It’s okay,” I say. “Let yourself be heavy. Don’t worry. I can take it.”
    â€œI can’t,” she says, and her voice catches. I turn and spiral up, still in the grip of the motion, and then I am facing her, she’s breathing hard, and her face is pale. “I—” she says, and she kisses me boldly, sloppily in a rush, and I don’t pull away. “Shit,” I say. She doesn’t move and neither do I. We’re both just breathing. Then she kisses me again with more confidence this time. It’s a strange sorrowful kiss, too old for her years, and it scares me.

CHAPTER 10
NOVEMBER 1977
    Rehearsals for The Wounded Prince begin the first week of November. On Saturday morning, Mira has her first rehearsal with the boy who plays the prince. His name is Christopher, and he comes on loan from ABT, where they have whole classes full of boys. (At The Little Kirov, boys appear and quickly disappear from classes like supermarket circulars from apartment building vestibules.) The first time Mira saw Christopher walking down the hallway, she was eight, in just her first year of taking classes. In the dressing room, she heard mounting whispers. She listened. It seemed to have to do with a boy. The boy who played the Prince. He was coming to rehearse with the Flower Princess.
    She ran out into the front hallway with the others. They practiced splits against the walls as they waited. For once Mr. Feltzer did not shoo them away. Every time the elevator door opened, they grew still. Finally, he arrived. He exited from the elevator wearing a green scarf, a black wool blazer, and a white untucked oxford. His hair was thick and honey-blond. She had never seen a boy so beautiful. Christopher’s hard blue eyes reflected back all their gazes.
    Now here is Christopher, leaning in the doorway of the rehearsal studio. A year since Christopher has last been at The Little Kirov. A year is a long time. He wears a loose sweater over corduroys, no coat, even though it’s cold outside. His