Bunheads Read Online Free Page B

fresh enough to look around themselves in amazement and awe. And I envy that.
    But I envy Zoe, too, who was born to all this. She grew up practically around the corner from the Met, and she started at the MBA when she was eight years old. She’s as ambitious and as jaded as a nineteen-year-old possibly can be, and the attitude seems to be working for her.
    I wonder if it’s the city or the ballet world that toughens you up. It seems that either could do the job.
    “Seventeen forty,” says the cab driver, jolting me back to reality.
    The receipt prints out noisily as I fumble for a twenty. “Keep it,” I tell him, and dash into the warm dimness of my cousin’s restaurant.
    Trudy, the bartender, waves in my direction and starts pouring me a glass of red wine, even though she knows I’m two years away from being legal. I look around nervously, just in case there’s someone who might ask for my ID, but there’s only a group of silver-haired old men drinking wine and arguing about baseball in the corner and a young, laughing couple in the back.
    I sit down at the bar and take out my copy of
Frankenstein
, which I’ve been trying to finish since July. But I’m still amped from the performance, and I can’t concentrate. I’m watching the couple without thinking, and then suddenly the guy turns and catches my eye. He has dark hair and pale skin with the shadow of scruff along his jawline, and he’s incredibly cute. He holds my gaze for a moment as his blond date texts on her phone, and then he smiles at me—a big, warm, surprising smile.
    I duck my head and feel the blush climb up my neck to my cheeks. I’m too embarrassed to smile back.
    “Here you go,” Trudy says, passing me a large goblet of wine. “Drink up.”
    “Thanks.” I take out a few dollars to tip her, but I don’t pay for the wine. Eugene gets mad if I do; this, plus his laxness around the matter of drinking age, is one of the reasons he’s my favorite cousin.
    I want to look at the young couple again. Because I wonder, are they actually a couple? They seem like they should be—they’re in a romantic Italian restaurant together, after all—but the look the guy gave me would seem to suggest otherwise.
    “Haven’t seen you for a while,” Trudy says, interrupting my thoughts.
    “Yeah, it’s hard to get away,” I say. “Otto doesn’t approve of ‘field trips.’ ”
    “Field trips?”
    I laugh drily. “It’s what he calls any sort of activity that takes place more than ten blocks from the theater.”
    “Yikes,” Trudy says. Then she eyes my clavicle as she sets aplate of breadsticks in front of me. “Eat, eat. You’re too skinny, my dear.”
    “Really?” I ask. Actually, I’ve been feeling sort of bloated lately, but I haven’t weighed myself because I don’t own a scale—and because I don’t really want to know.
    “Well, compared to me you’re skinny,” Trudy says. She pinches her stomach. “I’ve got enough gut for both of us.”
    “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” I say, smiling. “Can I have a bowl of the pesto rigatoni?”
    I tell myself I won’t eat the whole thing—and anyway, I missed lunch, so I need some calories.
    “Sure thing,” she says, giving me a little salute. “Coming right up.”
    As I sip my wine, I look to the back corner of the restaurant, but the guy and girl are gone. I can’t help feeling a little disappointed; even if he was on a date with someone else, he was good scenery. I open up
Frankenstein
and stare blankly at the pages. Then I open my journal, which I always have with me, and do the same.
    I’m still sort of spacing out when I hear the strumming of a guitar. I turn around and look to the small stage that Eugene installed against the far wall of the dining room. Sitting on a stool, holding a battered old Sigma acoustic, is the cute dark-haired guy.
    From this angle I can see him better, and I can tell that he’s my age, or maybe a year or two older. He’s wearing faded Levi’s, a