༺ FIVE ༻

"You." Newt grabs my arm. "Come with me and don't be a little girl."

I frown. My ballet bag is in my hands because I just packed it; I have lessons in an hour. "Sorry?"

"We're gonna meet some people at the ice rink, because Tommy wants me to meet them."

"I— what? If he wants you to meet them, why do I have to come with you?" He's walking so fast that I'm half running behind him. "And don't be a little girl... what's that supposed to mean? I'm eighteen!"

"You're like a golden retriever stuck in the body of a smiling girl," he says. "We're gonna meet his teammates so don't drool or anything."

Meet his teammates. My furrowed eyebrows loosen until they're high up. "Aha! Newtie's nervous to meet some boys his age! And you want your 'golden retriever' sister to help you."

"That is not true." He scowls, but the blush on his cheeks says enough.

"Then why else are you bringin' me? I could tell them all the shameful things you've done in your life," I say. "I could ruin your life! I can say you're an awesome skater while you're not... that you cried when you fell on the rink! And you were fifteen!"

"Stop yapping."

"I'm not— well, maybe." I lower my head, then stare at the bikes. "Come on! I hope it's not too windy because I'm wearing a skirt but—"

"I got a driver's license, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." I exhale. "Do I need a helmet? Do you know the way to the—"

"You'll be fine. Come on. Cut the questions." He sits me down in the car, commands me to put on my seatbelt, and then starts driving.

The helmet really was a joke. He's a perfect driver.

"Is Thomas a good hockeyer?" I wonder. "I've seen him at the rink but never saw him play."

"He was."

"Was?" I repeat. Again, the frown forms on my face. Man, I've got to stop doing that or I'll get wrinkles. "What do you mean? How do you even know he was good?"

"Sent me some videos before we lived here," Newt explains, his eyes focused on the road. "But there was an accident and since that, he hasn't been able to go back on the ice properly."

"He went back when I was there. So it's all good now, right?"

I nearly throw up at the thought of me getting into an accident and not being able to dance. Now, I obviously don't know if hockey means as much to Thomas as ballet means to me, but I already feel bad for him.

"He's trying to get back into it," Newt corrects. His hands tighten around the wheel. "But it takes a lot of work to get back at such a high level and his coach doesn't have enough time to constantly help him. Neither do his teammates. They got their own school things and studies."

My bottom lip disappears behind my teeth. "Oh. That's sad. Is he alright?"

"I think so." Newt looks behind us and through his own window to park the car, then we get out. "This way."

"I know." I smile. "I've been here. Have you been here before? How do you find this town, by the way?"

"It's great. Nice stores and people," he says. "Nice school."

"Good." I make a jump over a threshold, smiling. "Thanks for bringing me, by the way. Mom won't have to drive me to class. Will you wait for me?"

"How long does it take?"

"Two hours," I reply. "I start in forty minutes. You can just look around here or go to shops. I need cotton pads and Bobby pins. And would you bring some tampons? Also, we're running out of shampoo. Could you buy that, please?"

"Sure," he agrees with a grunt, clearly not motivated, but also not complaining.

I wrap an arm around him. "Thank you."

"Don't do that," Newt hisses. He removes my arm. "Not in front of everyone."

"It's no big deal." Once I see the rink, I sprint toward it so I can watch a boy score. "What number is Thomas?"

"Twenty four." My brother points at someone on the rink just as the same time a whistle peeps in my ear.

"Break!" The same man as the other day, their coach, yells.

Three seconds later, number twenty four is skating over to us, a boy with a big seven on his back following behind.

"Jorge's moody today." Thomas takes off the helmet he'd been wearing. I can see the beads of sweat on his forehead, and his lips part as he looks at us, breathing heavier. "Minho, I'd like to introduce you to my friend and neighbor, Newt, who I've mentioned before." A pause. "And Rose."

My eyebrows shoot up as the boy who's still wearing his helmet shakes Newt's hand. "Am I not your neighbor?"

Thomas leans over the wall that aparts us. "You're plenty of things. My neighbor, my coworker, my friend's sister, my window mate, and you're a ballerina—"

"Window mate?" I almost bite the words out, confused.

"Yeah." A smile forms on his face. "If you ever need to see a very handsome man, just look through your window and you'll most likely see him." There's a pause. "He's shirtless past ten. Every evening, Blondie." And he winks.

I roll my eyes, but feel the blush spread on my cheeks. Just when I'm about to reply, someone pushes Thomas aside and jumps in front of me.

Now the boy with the seven pulls his helmet off, revealing nearly styled hair, likely Asian features, and a grin. "He's been hanging out too much with me. I don't blame him. I'm awesome. He's a copy cat."

I smile at their friendship already.

"Name's Minho." He holds out his hand. "Keeper of the hockeyers."

I shake his hand. "Rose." Now, only one of my eyebrows is up. "You must be proud of your place."

The way he said 'keeper of the hockeyers' was enough.

"Oh, certainly." He smiles some sort of grin. "What do you do?"

"I dance. Ballet," I tell him.

"Well, are you good at it?"

I tilt my head. That's always a hard question, besides the fact that it's awful. "That depends on how good you think good is."

"I'm not experienced with ballet." He leans forward. "Little demonstration?"

Thomas nudges him in the side. "You're a real show off, Minho."

He only glares at the brunette for a second, then turns back to me. "Just asking."

"I don't do demonstrations," I say, mostly because if I'd agree every time someone asks, I'd be doing demonstrations the whole day. "But ten dollars might change my mind."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not rich." And looks at Thomas. "Imma go through some things with Jorge. See ya."

Thomas nods at him.

I have a million questions about his accident, but I don't ask them because it must be rude. I don't even know how much that accident really affected him. I barely know anything about the boy in front of me.

There's a silence between us and suddenly I catch myself unaware if Newt's still next to me or not. My head doesn't want me to turn away from Thomas, so I can't find out either.

I just... stare into his eyes because they're quite admirable, and light makes them twinkle.

"Your class starts soon," Newt announces, breaking the spell. "I'll spend those two hours in the store, then. What did you need again? Was it tampons or pads, and shampoo or condi—"

"Newt!" My voice comes out high-pitched and my face gets so red I can feel the color burning into hot embarrassment.

Thomas chuckles. "Don't worry. I buy those things for my mom all the time. Gotta raise you with respect, Thomas," he mimics the last words. "But yeah, I've learned that it's normal."

I manage to smile, but the redness stays there. "Okay, I'm gonna head of now! Was nice to meet ya friends, Thomas. Well, friend."

"I have more friends," he says, almost as if it's a competition or he's trying to impress someone with the amount of friends he has. "You just haven't met all of them."

"I'm sure I will in the future. Bye!" With a last smile, I leave again.

✵

Janson is walking around and giving either compliments or tips to girls, inspecting all of our movements.

He already walked past me a few times, so I think I'm fine.

"Charlotte, good, but legs have to be straighter. Luna, you've got to raise your chin." He stares at the girl next to me.

"Isla, your leotard is getting old. Consider taking a new one before it rips. Movements are great." And I feel his eyes burn on me. "Rosalind, I can see your lunch. Eat it more hours before lessons." Then, he's gone again. "Brianna—"

But the rest of his words fade away. The I can see your lunch is the worst thing a teacher can say, especially because I ate at least three hours before ballet. I'll try four next time.

For the rest of the lesson, I hold my stomach in and dance the best I can. It's hard with the words repeating and repeating, but I manage to keep control.

"There's two more lessons 'till auditions. You practice in those two, but you're free to show up and practice any time. Don't hesitate to practice at home, too. Fight for the role you want." Janson spends an equal amount of time to look at all of us. "Have a good day."

Twat

I'm waiting outside in the car.

On my way !!

I almost immediately see the car when I exit the building, and open the door to the front seat, only to see a boy who I hadn't expected to sit there, nor saw because I was busy repeating Janson's words again.

"Guess you've got to sit in the back," Thomas says, grinning. "Unless you want—"

"Back it is," I cut him off before he can finish whatever he was about to say, which probably included the word lap. "So, what brings you here? Are we going somewhere?"

"Well, Thomas lives next door so I thought to give him a ride so he doesn't have to suffer from Minho's horrible driving."

"True," he confirms. "Although we had to wait two hours for you, so I'm not sure if it spares any time."

I stare out of the window. "If it doesn't, that's your own problem."

Thomas turns his head to look at me. "How did Janson act?"

"Fine. This was Teresa's last— oh, my god." My eyes widen, and panic speeds up my pulse. "Newt stop the car. I haven't told Teresa bye or anything because I was too busy thinking about what Janson said— I have tell her bye." I bury my head in my hands. "I'm her friend!"

"Teresa is also my friend. I often see her." Thomas's gaze hardens in some kind of worry. "I can tell her goodbye for you... or I could say you live next door and are open to a friendship."

"Please!" I hadn't even thought of that. "It would be awesome if you did that! Thank you, Thomas."

"It's no big deal." He nods. "But, what do you mean, thinking about what Janson said? What'd he say?"

"No big deal," I say, just like he'd done. "Just that I've got to eat lunch earlier. It's not neat to be bloated."

Newt tenses up, and Thomas looks up and down at me, his eyes narrowing. "That rat doesn't have a single word in what or when you eat. Don't listen to him."

"He's my teacher. I listen to him. You listen to your coach, I listen to mine. It's not like I'm gonna skip my lunches."

Thomas sighs as he runs a hand down his face, then turns back around. "Just be careful around that man."

"You haven't even met him. You don't know—"

"I have met him," he says, his tone suddenly sterner and louder than before. "I've met him and he's an asshole who'll always find a way to ruin someone's life."

Suddenly, I'm not so sure if I like Thomas that much. It's my business and I'll gladly take advice or have people to help me, but after mentioning it's my teacher and not theirs and I don't want them to say things about Janson, I'm done.

"Just because he might've ruined yours doesn't mean he will do the same to mine," and I regret the words before they even finish leaving my mouth.

Maybe this is why I can't make friends. I can't take it when people try to change my opinion because I already know I'm gullible and I don't want to get so gullible I'll believe every single thing someone says. Especially not when it comes to ballet.

I don't want people that aren't teachers to give me tips on ballet because they're not experienced, I don't want people criticizing my ballet skills if they're not teachers or students better than me, I don't want people who have never danced to tell me what to do because they don't understand.

A non-dancer will never understand that a ballerina has to be perfect and has to take every tip a teacher gives and will do anything to reach her goals.

"Sorry," I gasp when Thomas remains silent, his head averted. "Sorry. I— I truly didn't mean to say that and it wasn't personal. I just— I can't explain it.. just please don't—"

"I understand," he says. His voice doesn't contain any emotion. "Don't apologize. I went too far."

Guilt. It crashes into me and makes me want to cry. What is wrong with me and why have I been saying the rudest things since we moved?

I look down. Fidget with my hands even though I'm not supposed to. "Sorry," I say again, softer and less panicked. I know that if I don't make it up and don't see him smile again today, I'll overthink the whole night. "I'll watch out around Janson."

"Just be careful."

"You don't have to worry," I tell Thomas. Mostly because you barely know me. "I'll be okay."

"Good."