Turning Pointe Read Online Free Page A

I’m out there, my time in front of an audience is the best dancing I’ll do all week. “Seriously?”
    “Yeah.” He laughs. “I know, you can’t believe it because you’ve never known what stage fright is—”
    “I have this irrational fear that my pointe shoes are going to come off in the middle of a variation,” Aly bursts out, and then sucks in a breath so hard, it takes her off my shoulder. Her blue eyes quiver, bouncing between Adrian and me, like she’s revealed this deep-seated secret.
    “So what do you do? Superglue them to your feet?” Adrian leans forward, actually interested in hearing about Aly’s neuroses. Next she’s going to talk about how she can’t be on the end during a class but she likes to have a straight path to the emergency exit.
    “I usually have a double elastic in my shoes for performances,” she admits. She glances at me. “You used to think I was crazy to do that.”
    “I think the superglue isn’t a bad idea, to be honest,” I tell her with a straight face.
    She smacks my arm. “See? You do think I’m crazy.”
    “If I didn’t love your crazy, I would have left years ago.” I close my eyes and settle back against the seat again. “Your crazy doesn’t scare me.”
    “So superglue for our pas de deux?” she teases, and when Adrian and I tell her to do it, she says, “I’m not. Because then what happens if I’m allergic to the Dutch version of superglue?”
    “That’s the most toxic and paralyzing phrase in all of human language,” Adrian says, elbowing me. “‘Because what if.’”
    “Evaluating a situation and knowing the possible outcomes is kind of how people survive,” I point out.
    “Yeah, but some risk is necessary, right? I mean, as artists, isn’t that what we do?”
    I turn to him as he repeats my words from last night back to me. Aly’s frozen like a deer in headlights. Realizing that we’re both gaping at him, I clear my throat and say, “Yeah, of course. And I get that, as a dancer. But sometimes it feels like—” I hesitate, and then pick my words carefully, “—sometimes it feels like I use up all my risk on stage and in class. Then I have nothing in reserve for the rest of my life.”
    Adrian stares at me so hard I’m convinced he knows exactly what I’m playing at and he’s trying to figure out how to play along. His reply is so slow it’s obvious that he’s picking his words with caution. “Yeah, sure. That makes sense. Putting yourself out there takes something out of you. It can be exhausting. Our job is putting ourselves out there for eight hours a day every day, maybe more. That’s draining. You gotta recharge the batteries, you know what I mean?”
    Now I’m lost. I nod. “Sure.”
    The seat belt light switches off and the pilot tells us that we can move about the cabin freely, which sounds like a terrible idea. So, naturally, Aly unbuckles her seat belt immediately, kisses my cheek and scurries down the aisle toward the bathroom—and to Sakura, I’m sure.
    Adrian kicks me. “I do not speak in code. What the fuck is going on?”
    I shouldn’t say anything, because even I don’t know what’s going on, but I check around us and we’re the only dancers in this section, so I sigh and say, “Aly.”
    “Duh,” he says. “So did you and Alyona do it or something?”
    “That sounds so weird.” I rub at my face. “No, we didn’t do it. But I stayed at her place last night—shut up, we stay over all the time. Move past it, McKinley. Anyway, we had this late night talk, about In the Middle, and at some point, I think we stopped talking about dance. Started talking about us.”
    “The us that is not an us, but is always an us,” Adrian says with a straight face.
    I roll my eyes. “Yeah. That.”
    “This is why we’re talking about taking risks right now?” He glances down the rows of navy blue seats. Aly’s still way back by the bathrooms, waiting in line and chatting with Sakura. “Dude, if you’re