Beautiful Americans Read Online Free Page B

should be a shoo-in, but when I see the other girls, I’m nervous. They are teeny—the size of twelve-year-olds—and each of them wears a simple, long-sleeved leotard with pink tights and pink toe shoes. Since I abhor pink (I always have) and hate the way bright colors take away from the technique I’m cultivating as I practice, I always go to ballet class in all black. And being from California, long sleeves feel binding and hot. I immediately see, however, that my cute halter leotard, my black leggings, and black pointe shoes make me stand out, even before I’ve had a chance to show off my dancing.
    I smooth my bun and take a place in the front of the group. I relax my face so that I’m smiling—just a little—and cock my head to the right, and to the left, so that my body draws a clean line through space. I keep my fingers soft and never let my face show how tightly I’m hanging on to keep my center.
    The ballet matron’s face is stern while she watches my dancing. She finally breaks into a grin when I leap into my final grand jeté, my legs doing a full split in the air before I land softly onto the wooden floor of the studio, chalky with ballet resin.
    When the music ends, I mop my forehead and wait for the matron’s decision. Long ago, in my auditions for everything from The Nutcracker to the avant-garde student productions at San Diego State (my mom never lets me miss an opportunity to perform), I learned to keep still while waiting to see if you’re in. One tiny movement, the tiniest bit of fidgeting, and the other girls know how badly you want it, how unsure you are that you really deserve it. Let them crack into your insecurity once, and it takes forever to get it back. I wait, frozen, my face impassive.
    “ Oui !” she calls as she points to me and has her assistant check off my name on her master list. Mme Rouille, fanning herself on the sidelines of the hot studio, gives me the first smile I’ve seen yet from her. Happy to have pleased her, I finally let myself beam back. A huge flood of relief and elation warms my whole body.
    I can’t wait to tell Vince how I nailed it. Two years from now, I’ll be at UCLA right alongside him, just like we’ve always planned. It’s real now. It’s happening!
     
    Back at the apartment, the first thing I do (after stretching and cooling down my muscles, of course) is adjust the time on my travel clock. As soon as the numbers change to 5:00 P.M.—8:00 A.M. in California—I want to run out and call Vince from one of the payphones on the Champs Elysées. Driving down the famous boulevard on the way to the Opera earlier, I saw a large block of France Telecom phone booths just across from the Arc de Triomphe, and as far as I can gauge, that’s a quick walk from Ternes. I’m not yet comfortable enough with my host mother to ask if I can use her phone, even if I’m using a calling card. Besides, I want to talk to Vince in private.
    The second thing I do is hang my Martha Graham Dance Company poster on one of the bare walls in my new room. It’s an old black-and-white photo of Martha Graham herself, her skirt swirling around her, her face lit up with exhilaration. Then I hang up all the photos I brought with me, until my little bedroom is covered with images of Vince, my mom, my dad, and my little brother, Brian.
    There’s only one photo I don’t hang up—a close-up of Vince taken on the Fourth of July this year. I put this photo in my purse so I can look at it whenever I want to.
     
    It takes a few tries for Vince to answer his phone. I impatiently stand up on my toes, then down again as it rings, looking through the smudged glass of the phone booth at the bustling, crowded Champs Elysées. The wide avenue, with busy traffic lanes going either direction, is flanked on either side with every major retailer (Gap, Sephora, Prada, and dozens upon dozens of others) and large cafes with tables and crowds spilling onto the sidewalk. It’s oddly comforting to be