“Who’s Dash Cunningham?” Katerina asks.
Of course, Mother has appeared to investigate who might be stealing the spotlight from her protégée.
“Aren’t you two the perfect picture?” Mother’s cold, clammy fingers wrap around my hand as she pulls the two of us together like she’s trying to connect two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that don’t fit.
She had a special red carpet and photo backdrop set up at the entrance of the building. Mother made me and Lance pose for a thousand pictures as soon as we were dressed.
“Go downstairs and see if you can get a shot,” she clips at me.
“Mother, you already got a million shots,” I protest. I let my posture go slack and stomp my foot like a brat.
“I’ll take her down, Mrs. Koslova,” Lance says.
He grabs me by the forearm like I’m his property. I hate being a showhorse. I’ve done it my whole life for Mother, and I’m not about to do it for Lance.
“Not with Mr. Cunningham, you haven’t,” she says. She points a long, blood-red fingernail at me. “Lance, you stay here and continue greeting the guests. Natayla needs to get a shot with this new dancer. I’ll take her down myself.”
She grabs her skirt like she’s willing to scale mountains and walk through waist-deep water to get a photo op of me with a budding star. What she doesn’t know is that he’s the same boy she bent over backward to get kicked out of his scholarship program at Haverton. A scholarship program that, at the time, was the only thing holding his broken world together.
“Listen, this guy is low-class, Katerina. You don’t want them associating,” Lance warns her.
“That young lady said Cunningham has two million followers!” Mother defends her position.
I grab another coupe and down it, arching my brow at Mother and Lance arguing over my Instagram feed that I’ve never even looked at. I step into the elevator alone and press “lobby” before either one of them notices I’m gone.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes on the long ride down. At least I’ll be two minutes ahead of them. All I can do to survive is stay one beat ahead of her.
I step off of the elevator into the lobby. It’s as empty and frigid as an ice cave, so I cross my arms and walk toward the main exit, where I can see the fans gathered through the glass. News vans line the street among all the luxury vehicles awaiting valet. I push open the single emergency door next to the large revolving glass ones and step out into the evening. I spot Lizzy Stewart on the sidelines, looking proudly on while her only son gets hounded by the paparazzi.
She turns when I approach, and her jaw drops in recognition.
“Sam!” she exclaims.
I smile because no one else in this world besides Dash and his mom knows me as Sam. We hug tightly and my eyes fill with tears. I want to tell her I’m sorry, but my inadequate words can’t fix the scars Mother has caused for this family.
“I’m so glad you came. You look beautiful,” I tell her.
She does. Lizzy is dressed in a green sequined dress and her eyes are glamorously lined in coal-black eyeliner.
“I’m happy you’ll be dancing together again,” she sniffs. “He’s surrounded by all this, all this—” She’s at a loss for words. “I think he could use a good friend again, Sam. That’s all.” She squeezes my arm affectionately and we both watch as Dash swaps one cute girl for the next clamoring to get a shot with the newest prince of the indie dance world.
Like vultures, Mother and Lance descend on the scene, ready to milk every person for their talent, their fame, and their spirit.
“Let’s get a shot of Dash with the host,” Mother declares above the din.
“Excellent idea,” the paid photographer says.
The backdrop says Ballet Arts Studio Company, and if I were Mother, I’d feel dumb standing up there posing with the new company members like a washed-up clinger-on. But not Mother. She marches up to Dashiell with no idea who he is, or even worse, no idea who she is to him. Mother is a fame-whore, and she’ll do anything to get in with whoever’s the latest it-person.
I watch Dash react and see the wicked glint in his eye as he opens his arms to greet my mother like a perfect gentleman. He’s a charmer. Mother is putty in his arms. She gloats and hangs all over him while her diamonds flash in the spotlight.
“Let’s get a shot of you with Natayla, the other company star. The two of you are guaranteed to reel in all the solos this season. I’d get ready for an epic partnering dynamic. You two are sure to be the media’s darlings,” Mother exclaims to Dashiell, loud enough for all the press to hear.