“Chloe…”
His tone is agonized. Apologetic.
“Don’t,” I tell him. “Don’t tell me it’s wrong.”
My eyes move to his trousers. And he shifts his body away to hide himself, scrubbing a hand
through his hair.
“I’m your professor. This can never happen.”
“It already did,” I reply. “It’s happening every day. You can’t look at me right now and tell me that
isn’t true.”
“I’ve never been inappropriate with you,” he answers.
“But you wanted to. And I wanted you to.”
His eyes move back to me, and I can see he wants to argue. But the words don’t come.
“I shouldn’t have come up here,” he says. “I just wanted to check on you.”
And then he moves away from me. Down the fire escape and out of my sight.
Leaving me to the cold and bitter night.
Chapter Seven
Chloe
For the next seven days, he uses avoidance to deal with what happened between us.
I continue to dance. And I continue to decline. It is not even intentional on my part. But the
pressure. I can’t handle the pressure. The ceaseless ticking of the clock above my head. My shelf life
as a dancer. The repression of the one thing I want most. Isabel is on my case. My father is calling me
incessantly. And I am spending more time than ever up on the roof.
My figure drawing for the class has not improved either. But it doesn’t matter. It never matters what
they think.
That’s what I tell myself.
Until today’s group critique. When Mr. Vaughn sees the piece and frowns.
It’s another dancer. Graceful and elegant and the perfect picture of the same thing you could buy on
a canvas at any chain store. The ones that little girls hang in their room when they dream of the ballet.
It is not my best. It is just an imitation of my best. A shadow.
And before any of the other students can even jump in to give their thoughts, Mr. Vaughn makes his
loud and clear with a simple word.