I take a bite instead and close my eyes while I chew. It’s no pizza, but the flavors burst on my tongue and I almost cry tears of joy as I swallow the bite into my grumbling stomach.
“What is this shit?”
I’m jolted out of my food worship and my eyes dart to his.
“Don’t get me wrong, I like it,” he adds, still chewing as he speaks.
He’s on the last bite already and it makes me nervous, so I tear into mine with renewed vigor, hoping he doesn’t ask for my half.
“It’s salty, and what the hell is this grass?” He’s on the last bite.
My eyes bulge in response, and I rip another huge bite with my teeth. “Watercress,” I reply, food still in my mouth.
“It’s a fucking trip. And black bread? This is some gourmet shit. How come you don’t sit with the demi-Gods?” he asks me. “I’m Dash, by the way. Awesome of you to share your lunch. Is that like your culture or something?”
He’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he chews and swallows his last bite.
“Or something,” I say. Chew faster, swallow harder.
“Are you first year or second?”
“I’m second, but I’m only thirteen,” I croak. I wish I’d gotten the stupid milk. My throat is dry and now it’s on fire.
“What’s your major?”
“Dance.” My face feels bright red, which probably means that it is. “What’s yours?”
“Same.” He kind of raises his eyebrows like he’s not sure what to make of it. “What’s your specialty? I’m guessing ballet, but you don’t sit with the bunheads.” He reaches out toward my waxed paper setting and snatches a piece of watercress that’s fallen out of my sandwich and puts it in his mouth. He must be really, really hungry.
“You’re right.” I turn my head side to side to showcase my telltale bun. It’s tight and slick, every wisp except for my perfect bangs. Mother still does my hair. She doesn’t bend an inch on this arrangement. “What about you?” Only one bite left.
“Street. Freestyle. I’m a break-dancer.”
“They’re gonna make you take ballet. Everyone gets classical training,” I tell him. I hate it when I remind myself of my mother. I clamp my mouth shut, swallow, and ball up my garbage.
“No sweat,” he says. His smile is dangerous. It’s rebellious and flirty and something else too—maybe challenging. This guy is kind of fearless.
“Wait till you have Vauganova. You’ll be sweating. Probably crying. I had her for preballet.” I almost trip climbing out of the picnic table seat, my hands glued to the side of my tray.
“Thanks for the sandwich,” he says.
“No problem,” I reply. But my stomach growls because it still wants more. “See you in Vauganova,” I tell him, backing up.
He lifts his hand off the white table in some semblance of a wave.
Even if I only helped his hunger a little bit, I’m glad I could do it.
Chapter One
Dashiell
If the kids in my neighborhood knew I was in black tights and a short white t-shirt about to take a ballet class, they’d have my ass in a headlock so fast, I wouldn’t know what hit me. But none of those shits got a whopping fifty-thousand-dollar scholarship to go to the Haverton Arts Academy, so they can chew gravel.
It’s weird as shit walking around in a pair of tights with no underwear on, but I read the dress code handout like four times when my mom kept saying all I wear underneath is this dance-belt-thingy.
Fuck it. Mom is so proud of me, so fucking over-the-moon, got her glow back, and is telling the mother fuckers at the deli checkout that her son landed a coveted dance scholarship to the rich kid’s school.
Besides, all the other dudes pouring out of the dressing room are dressed exactly like me. I bump fists with Becker, who I know from auditions. He’s lower-income like me, being bussed in from a different neighborhood.
“Fudge, dude. Ballet?” he says incredulously. He’s as tripped out as I am.
“First time in tights?” Some blond-haired, blue-eyed prep-school prototype asks us. He’s probably a pro danseur and will laugh his ass off at our technique.
“I went as Spiderman one year for Halloween,” Becker says.
Becker is the kind of guy who can insult you about wearing tights while he’s freaking standing there in tights himself. He makes it work.
“Good luck with Vauganova. She makes you do eight-count fouette turns,” the preppy guy tells us. He joins the crowd filing into another studio.
Becker looks at me and shrugs. We have no idea what the hell he just said.
“At least we know zero people in this school,” Becker says.
I nod in agreement as we file past a group of students already inside the studio. Looking up, I see the girl from lunch standing apart from a large group of girls. She’s in pink tights and a black leotard and chewing on her lower lip like she’s about to draw blood. The group of girls are all talking at once, catching up on whatever they missed over the summer, probably swapping talks of expensive European vacations, while sandwich girl is so hungry, she’s about to eat her own lip. I feel momentarily bad about scarfing down her lunch so readily. She looks hella thin.