Chapter 69: Penny
“As of this morning, you are cast as the lead in the upcoming Spring Gala.”
The words spin and loop inside my skull, reverberating louder than the heartbeat pounding in my ears. Did she really just say that? Madame Loretto–stoic, stern, immovable Madame–just said my name, followed by “lead.” Lead. Not understudy, not secondary, not background or ensemble. Lead.
I stare straight ahead, trembling, as her voice settles into silence. My knees give way before I can stop them. I collapse to the floor, gasping for air, my hands gripping the sides of my thighs, nails biting through my tights. I’m shaking so badly that I can barely process what’s happening. I feel like I might actually throw up. Or pass out. Or both.
I got it.
I got it.
The thing I’ve wanted since I was nine years old, when I first watched the gala with my mom on a scratched DVD she borrowed from the library. When I told her, with a mouth full of chocolate cereal, that one day I’d dance the lead. She laughed at the time. I remember. She smiled and patted my head and said. “Why not you?”
At nineteen, I just beat out girls from six different studios. Girls older than me. Girls with fancier leotards and private coaches and last names that sound like they belong in ballet royalty. And somehow, despite the odds, despite the stress, despite how much I doubted every single thing about myself after that -audition…
I got it.
I can’t stop crying. I’m still trying to figure out if this is some elaborate prank or if I’m hallucinating. Maybe my brain made up this whole thing to protect me from the sting of rejection.
Then I remember–Asher is here.
My head snaps toward the spot in from of me, where he’s still kneeling on one knee, arms crossed, face unreadable. His posture is locked on me. Dark and intense. I don’t know what he’s thinking. But he hasn’t moved.
but his eyes are
Without fully meaning to, without thinking at all, I rush toward him and throw my arms around his neck. He grunts a little in surprise as I slam into his chest, hugging him like I’ve never hugged anyone before. The contact is grounding–solid, warm, unshakable. I’m vaguely aware that he drops down to both his knees now, his balance shifting to accommodate me. At first, his arms hover awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
Then he hugs me back.
Strong arms wrap around me, steady and sure. One of his hands comes to rest on the small of my back and starts drawing these impossibly slow, calm circles. My head is buried in his shoulder. His shirt smells like fresh laundry, maybe his cologne. Or soap. Something clean and dark and distinctly him.
God, he’s warm. He feels like safety. Like gravity.
And then I remember–this is Asher Hayes. Tyler’s brother. My boyfriend’s brother. I’m practically draped over him in a public space, and he’s only here because I asked. And I didn’t ask for a hug. I didn’t even warn him. Oh God.
I scramble back, mortified, breaking the embrace so fast I nearly fall over. He keeps a hand on my hip to keep that from happening.
“I–I’m sorry,” I stammer. “Oh my God, that was so inappropriate, I didn’t even ask, it was the adrenaline, and the stress, and the tears, and I wasn’t thinking, and I basically just threw myself at you, which is, like, textbook sexual assault probably, and you were just trying to help and now you probably think I’m crazy-”
“Penny.”
His voice slices through the chaos in my head, low and rough.
I keep going. “And I know you probably hate being touched, and I could bet both my feet that you’re not even a hugger, and I need both my feet, and I just turned into a koala without warning and I didn’t even-
“Penny.”
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Chapter 69: Penny
He moves closer to me and puts a hand on my chin, gently but firmly, guiding my gaze up to meet his. His other hand is still resting on my hip.
My breath catches.
“Stop it,” he says, and it’s not harsh, but it’s final. “This is your moment. I’m happy for you. And I’m sure these guys,” he tilts his head toward the door, “will be even happier.”
My throat tightens again. One last tear escapes, slipping silently down my cheek.
He wipes it with the pad of his thumb.
“Go,” he says. “Go out there.”
I nod, barely able to move, but somehow my feet carry me toward the giant studio doors. My hands are shaking as I wrap them around the metal handles. I glance back one last time. He’s still standing there. Watching me. Not smiling, but his eyes are soft.
Then I pull open the doors.
And the noise is immediate.
A tsunami of cheers, applause, screams. Like someone dropped confetti into the air and hit replay on every celebratory sound in existence. Dancers rush toward me like I’m a magnet. Mila gets to me first, launching into my arms so hard we nearly topple over.
“You did it! YOU FREAKING DID IT!” she screams.
I don’t think I’ve ever cried this much in public before.
Others pile in–girls I’ve competed with, trained beside, even ones who were too mean or proud to talk to me before now. Right now, it doesn’t matter. Right now, the envy, the ego, the competition–they’ve all melted away.
Now, it’s just joy.
One giant circle of genuine happiness for something that only happens once in a lifetime.
People keep asking how I feel, and I think I’m answering, but everything is fuzzy and warm and a little unreal.
And all I can think is: I’m going to dance the lead in Swan Lake.
Penelope Vales. Lead.
God, I hope my mom cries when I tell her.
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