“Well, second to Paris Opera Ballet, it’s the best,” I retort, confused by his questions. “What does it matter if I’m happy? Or were you hoping I was ready to throw it all in and come crying back?”
“You’re a Spontagio,” he replies, his voice gruff. “If you quit, I’d disown you. No, Lucia, I know you’re happiest when you dance. I just worry about you being so far away. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Of course I can,” I say quietly, feeling bad for having a go at him. “I’ll come back and see you as soon as I can. I promise. Listen, Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for trusting me enough to let me do this. It means a lot that I have you behind me.” I force the words out. I don’t let him know often enough how much he means to me. Sure, he can be the world’s biggest pain and constantly smother me with attention, but I know he means well and I love him for it.
“I’m just happy that you’re happy.”
After speaking with my father, I call Pietro. I’m worried about how different my father sounded. I’m not used to him being so supportive. I laugh and shake my head at how stupid that sounds.
“Hey,” Pietro says, answering on the first ring. “I was just going to text you.”
“Well, I saved you the trouble.” I grin. “Dad just called me. He sounded weird.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know—happy?” It’s the best word I can think to describe it. Pietro chuckles. “I know, I know. But you know what he’s like. Happy and bubbly doesn’t suit him.”
“Maybe he has himself a girlfriend?” he suggests, and I gag.
“What?” He laughs. “He’s a man, probably one with needs.”
“Please for the love of God stop talking about my father’s needs.” I groan, covering my face with my hand. “Forget I said anything. Ugh.”
He laughs again. “You’re so easy to wind up, Luce. I love that about you.”
“Yeah, well, stop it already or you’re going to give me nightmares,” I joke.
We keep talking as I ready myself for bed. He tells me about his days—which he mostly spends writing, and I tell him all about mine. It’s close to midnight when I realize we’ve
been talking for hours.
“I didn’t mean to take up your entire night,” I apologize, suddenly feeling shy.
“Honestly, I didn’t even realize how late it was,” he replies. “You better get some sleep. No doubt you have to be up at some ridiculous hour.”
“Five.” I laugh. “It’s not so bad. I get to see the sunrise.”
“Lucky you,” he grumbles. “Night, Luce. Sleep well.”
“Night.” I grin as I end the call and place the phone on my night table.
Rolling over onto my stomach, a twinge of sadness hits me. I hate being so far away from everything. I thought I’d relish the freedom of being here, but I miss the constant interaction I had back home. Something Pietro said to me earlier floats into my mind. If you’re feeling homesick, focus on the things you love about New York.
Smiling, I close my eyes. The thing I love most about New York right now is my nightly talks with him.
—
I arrive at the studio half an hour early the next morning to get in some extra practice. I stand in front of the mirror and work on my pirouettes until they are perfect.
As class begins, students filter into the room, most huddled together in their little cliques, giggling and whispering as they walk. I look around for Ana, who isn’t here yet. A group of three girls glance over at me and start whispering. I stare straight ahead, ignoring their laughter as I try to focus on myself. I know I’m not here to make friends, but these girls are getting on my nerves. Just at that moment, Ana waltzes in, her long auburn hair rolled perfectly into a bun. She spots me and waves.
“Have you noticed how many bitches are in here?” she whispers to me, and I laugh. It’s like she’s reading my mind. The bitches giggle and whisper again. Ana rolls her eyes.
“Seriously though, I wish they’d get a life.” She groans. “I’m so glad you’re normal.”