Audition (North Security 4)

“Nah, I thought I might get hungry.”

She grabs for the bag, but I hold it out of reach. “Say you’re sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“‘I’m sorry for making you traipse all over the goddamn city looking for me, when all you were trying to do is protect me, Joshua.’”

“You’ve never traipsed anywhere in your life.”

I shrug and start walking toward the theater. It’s only a few minutes away from the brownstone. “Suit yourself. I’m hungry after all that traipsing.”

One step. Two steps. Three.

“Fine,” she says.

That’s not good enough so I keep walking. Her footfalls catch up to me.

“I’m sorry.” Her teeth will turn to dust if she keeps grinding them that hard.

“What was that?”

“I said I’m sorry,” she says, stopping in front of me. “I’m sorry for skipping out on you when all you were trying to do is protect me.”

“And?”

Her nose scrunches. “And I accept your offer of security.”

“Was that so hard?” I ask, handing over the bag of beignets.

CHAPTER FIVE

The first ballet school was established in 1661 by King Louis XVI, who danced in the ballets, sometimes in multiple roles in the same ballet.

Bethany, five years earlier

I dodge cars and tour buses and horse-drawn carriages across the street.

The dance studio dots the edge of the French Quarter, which means it’s packed with tourists day and night. Between those times, there’s an uneasy quiet, a softer hum anticipating the night ahead.

Humid air boils the city. I’m wearing sweatpants and a loose T-shirt because they’re easy to throw over my leotard and tights. I don’t like lingering in the studio after class.

The shop below sells cigars and maybe other things. Illegal things.

A group of men always seems to gather on the street in front of it, smoking and swearing. More men as the night goes on. They give me looks as I go by, no matter what I’m wearing. Once, practice ran late. A man cornered me behind the cracked stone column.

He kept me there for hours, or maybe only seconds, before I kneed him between his legs. Curse words followed me into the cemetery as I dashed away.

Now I make it a point never to be outside when it’s dark.

The cracked sidewalk pulls me along the outside of a cemetery. Sunlight peeks around statues and monuments, the structures that house the dead sometimes grander than the ones we live in. In the corner, wrought iron curls away from its crushed-stone corner. A hundred years of vagrants have worn away the rock. I pull my messenger bag close to my body so I can squeeze through. Damp fills my lungs, that familiar scent of rot and sickly sweet flowers. A trail of dirt guides me through the cemetery—the shortest distance through without stepping on graves.

I’m focused on the scrubby toes of my sneakers.

A shadow is my only warning. It moves. My heart rampages through my chest, and I look up suddenly, blinding myself. A large male body swings into view. Someone strong. Someone holding a white paper bag with the words Café du Monde.

“A peace offering,” he says, holding it out.

I make myself breathe deep and slow. Calm down, Bethany. The scent of fried dough makes my mouth water. I can almost feel the powder dissolving on my tongue. “No, thanks.”