Hooked (Hooked #1)(17)

I pulled my head up, tugging at my bright, blonde hair. “Langston came. The guy who owns the building.”

Mel nodded. “Does he need his payments? We can’t pay them yet. We haven’t generated enough revenue this month.”

I interrupted her. “No, honey. He has decided to—to—to sell the building.”

Mel’s eyes grew wide. “He can’t do that,” she hissed. “This building is a historic landmark. It was built at the end of the 19th century! He can’t just sell it; he has a responsibility to it! To us!” She was breathing rapidly. She stood up and began pacing.

I shook my head, positioning my face back in my hands. “What am I going to do,” I murmured. “I had already given up on my dream. But then I found this new dream. I thought maybe this one could work, you know. That this one was it for me.”

Mel leaned back down and kissed my head. “Now. Don’t despair,” she said. “Please. We’ll find a way out of this mess.”


“In the next few weeks?” I screeched at her.

“Did you say that that guy—that Drew—is a very rich man?” Mel asked.

I pulled my head up, blinking brightly. “He is, Mel. But what are you saying? Are you saying I should ask him for money? Like I’m a gold-digger?”

Mel held up her hands. “No. Just. Just a loan. Or. Or you could get a loan, like—from a real bank. What do you think?”

I shook my head. “I have so many student loans that I still haven’t paid back. I’m backed up, so they say, in pretty much every capacity. And.” I paused, swallowing deeply. “And I don’t feel comfortable asking for money. Not from Drew. Not from anyone.”

“Then we’ll go under,” Mel whispered.

I nodded into my hands.

Suddenly, the bell started jangling. A few of the girls had begun to filter in from the cold street, waving good-bye to their mothers and fathers who had walked them there on the Monday morning. Frightened I would be deemed as “off my rocker,” I bounced up from my seat and called to the girls. “Don’t step on any of the shards, ladies! I had a little accident. Not to worry, not to worry.” I began to brush all the precise, simple shards into the dustbin.

“Miss Atwood, are you crying?” one of the girls asked me.

I looked up at the angelic face, at the slim body of the tiny, blonde ballerina who often reminded me so much of myself. I swept another shard into the dust pan, remembering the golden days of ballet; when all I had wanted to do was wear my leotard every day, to stretch, to feel my body’s great strength.

I hadn’t realized that the body’s strength doesn’t communicate in the real world. You have to have inner strength; strength of mind and strength of heart in order to truly get along in this world. I shook my head at the young girl. “No, Laurie. Of course not. I mean. You know how I get about old mugs.” I sniffed, explaining the tears to her. “Why don’t we all start in First Position!” I called out to the girls who were prepared, already laced up. Ready. They lined up on the bar in first position, dutifully looking at me for their next instructions. They were like my warriors, my army. I longed to hold each one of them in my arms. They were my girls!

I took the full dust pan to the large trashcan in the back and dumped the shards into the wastebasket. Mel came up behind me and whispered something in my ear. “It’s going to be okay. Do you need me to run class today?”

A sense of coolness had overtaken my heart. I shook my head quickly, thinking of all the strength, all the power I had felt the evening before, naked on that Four Seasons’ bed. I thought of all the joy I had felt. And yet here I was, in the dumps, in the grey area of my life once more.

I clapped my hands three times as I spun around to acknowledge the girls. “All right, ladies. Let’s start in plié.”

And so we did.



CHAPTER NINE

The class got my mind off my problems, which was wonderful. I was able to laugh with a few of the girls, to bring myself into a sort of emotionless happiness in which I was continually smiling and joking. I had often wondered if all of the great comedians were like that, as well; always in a state of unhappiness but able to make people laugh on a dime. I smiled at the girls as they gathered up their things.

“Don’t get any F’s at school, all of you,” I warned them like a crazy aunt. “And don’t you dare go running off with any boys.” I mostly said this to the youngest girl, Bernice, who was an eight-year-old Chinese girl already reaching the height of her ballet career. I would have to ultimately send her to a better ballet soon. Her talents were useless in my place, where I could only get people to a certain point.

Mel had already wrapped herself up in her coat when all of the girls had left. I began humming as I put things away. I found all of my spreadsheets there, on the desk, and started running them through the shredder, taking deep pleasure as every 9, every 5, every personable number was ripped in half.

“Do you think that’s necessary?” Mel asked me, rubbing her hands together. “I mean. What if we need those later.”





I shrugged my shoulders. “In a few weeks, I won’t be a ballerina teacher anymore. Who even knows where I’ll be, you know? But I certainly won’t be here, with these documents, for the rest of my life. And I’d just assume get rid of these documents immediately, to quell my aching mind. Do you have a problem with that?”