༺ EIGHT ༻

Before I know it, I'm doing my audition.

It's Friday. I practiced from noon to three, obviously not just tiring my body out but also thinking about techniques, and am currently dancing in front of Janson and a few others, at five. I spent the other two hours watching hockey.  

So I ate four hours before noon, at eight, and it's now five. At six, I have to work. From six to eleven on Fridays. Meaning I might just have to beg for some food there, because I won't skip a whole dinner and lunch.  

I finish my dance, give Janson a hopeful look, then sit down on the ground and drink my water bottle until it's empty.

There's a giggle beside me and I freeze. Did I do something wrong? Were my clothes sitting wrong? Did I do the wrong dance?

The thought make me turn to the girl and ask her straight to her face what it is, otherwise they would've consumed me.

"If you're gonna take the 'I can see your lunch' advice," she mocks, and her eyes over my body, "I wouldn't recommend drinking water before you dance either."

I frown to myself, but tell her my words, "I didn't drink anything before dancing."

"Oh." She moves back. Shrugs with a strange look. "Guess I made a mistake, then."

My good mood is ruined. I was bloated as I danced? I ate nine hours before, drank two hours before, and took multiple bathroom breaks.

Then, I shake my head. She must be playing with me, just like those other girls. It's not possible to be bloated with that many time between food and dance.

I look down. Or my stomach is just like that.

Must be why Janson said eight pounds off. That's it.

"Tomorrow, you'll get an email for the results,"
Janson announces. "Have a good day."

❤︎︎

"So, how'd the auditions go?" Thomas wonders, turning the wheel when we pass another street.

I keep telling myself that it went good. I had the feeling it went good until that girl told me about my stomach. So I don't even answer his question. "How'd you know I had auditions?"

"Newt shares basically everything," he says. "So how'd it go? You wanted Clara, right?"

"I guess good," I reply, shrugging. My eyes trail down to my stomach, which I can feel is upset because it hasn't been full for so long. I'm upset because I haven't eaten yet and it feels weird to ask.

"Tell me what happened."

I look back up. "Nothing. I said it went good."

"Rose, come on. You guess good? You're the most confident dancer I've ever met and now it's this. Also, Luca is already making dinner for you."

My eyes nearly spring out. "How does—"

"I have hockey on Friday and you have ballet. There's no time in between for food. I always eat dinner at Mamma Mia on Fridays. Now, you shall too." He pauses. "Did Janson do anything?"

"No," I say. "It's just... another girl said something about how she could see the water I drank. AKA, I was bloated during auditions. But I didn't even drink or eat anything before it."

"Ah, man. She's just jealous you had all those butterflies and nervousness balled up in your stomach during your dance, but they slowly started to fade, because you realized how good you were the more you danced and got into it. That's it, isn't it?"

"I- what?" My eyebrows scrunch, and so does my nose. "Do you seriously think that?"

"Stress can cause bloating," he says. "It's a fact."

"I waited so long to eat and drink just for nervousness to ruin it?" I bury my head in my hands.

I wasn't that nervous. It was the few more pounds I have to lose.

"It didn't ruin anything!" He taps my leg. "You definitely danced beautifully and I'm sure that girl was just jealous. The judges didn't even see anything. Mostly because you weren't even bloated."

"You don't know that."

"I know everything," he confirms. "And also, bloating doesn't matter. It's just that Jackass Janson says things about it. Ever heard any teacher complain about food? Nope. Just him. Told ya, he ruins lives."

"Or he's the first honest teacher that gives actual tips. I've said it, if it gets too bad, I'll quit taking his classes. But it's not too bad."

Thomas rests his head against his palm as he drives. "Would you tell me all the tips he gives you?"

"Why? That's kind of... weird to say."

I frown at my words. Yes, it's weird to say, but it's also weird to say that it is weird to say.

"Janson has his way of working and I am aware of his way of working. If I manage to dilatory his way of working and figure out the arrant company, I'll abjure it or something and make sure he doesn't ruin lives again."

"I only understand half of that, but— what?"

"Forget what I said. Just tell me what Janson's doing."

I throw my head back with a scoff. "So now you're a detective using bloody difficult words? What company? And why do you want to dilatory his way of working—I barely understand—and abjure?"

Thomas runs a hand down his face. "Forget all of that. Just take my advice. Be careful 'round him, tell me about the tips, and I'll make sure he won't ruin any lives again."

"As long as you're not going to give me any kind of explanation, I will not help nor make you abjure whatever company."

I feel like I'm turning into Newt. Newt doesn't do things without explanations and if he really wants to know something, his tone is just like mine is right now.

"You're in danger," he blurts out. "Horrible danger. You're literally—"

"You're crazy," I groan.

"He's a narcissist! He'll freaking ruin you through the show and I swear to god—"

"Thomas," I say, my eyes focused on his white knuckles. "Calm down. I said, I'll be careful. You don't have to worry about a girl you first of all, barely know, second of all, just met. Neither do I want you to crash us because Janson is driving you crazy for some reason. Watch the road."

He does watch the road better now, his eyes narrowed. "You can't trust—"

"I said, give me a proper explanation and then I'll help you," I repeat, sterner. "I'm not some doll you can control as if you're not a teenage boy trying to destroy a certified ballet teacher's career or whatever it is you're trying to do."

Thomas sighs. I sense him giving up, yet it doesn't satisfy me either. I need explanations on what company, the hard words he's using, and why Janson is so bad. If he won't give me them, I won't tell him any of the tips that man gives me.

"We're here," he says. Before I know it, he let me out by opening the door for me and we soon find ourselves in the kitchen.

"Gracias." Thomas nods: Luca hands us two plates of food straight after we enter and then, we're sitting back in the room where we got my apron and tray the other day, because the kitchen was too full and we can't waste a table where other guests might want to sit.

I stare at the plate. Spaghetti with so much sauce and cheese it for sure won't help me reach the goal of losing a little bit of weight. "Are you sure he still has enough spaghetti if I— we eat all this?"

He looks up. "Yeah. He always has leftover spaghetti. Makes extra for us, too. Don't worry about it."

Another silence falls. I notice I'm just pricking around in the food a bit, my mind going back between the conversation in the car and the tension now.

"Sorry if anything I said hurt you," I start. "I didn't mean any of that if I did."

"No, don't apologize." His eyebrows scrunch in an honestly adorable way. "You had all the right to reply like that. I do get a little too caught up sometimes and indeed, as long as I'm not sharing things you have no reason to help."

But I want to help, I wish to say. I'd love to help every person in the world who needs it, but it's always so different when it is about ballet, because then, it's also about my future.

"But," he continues. "I said I like working here because it keeps my mind off bad things. Which means that unlike in Ratatouille, you can't think about rats or sports or anything but fun things here."

I manage a smile at him. "I can live with that. Sure you don't got a rat pulling your sleeves so you don't drop the glasses, though?"

He looks inside his sleeves with raised eyebrows. "I don't think so, ma'am. Need to search me?"

A laugh escapes. "I'll take your word."

Thomas smiles back at me, the side of his head against the wall. His eyes are on my still full plate. "Come on, Blondie. It's professionally made Italian food! You must eat it up before a rat shows up and does it in front of your face."

I chuckle. Purely because by his words, I start eating the spaghetti. Then, I'm lost in it. It's bloody delicious. So nice I finish the whole damn plate in a while.

Thomas is still smiling. "Perfect. Tastes good, doesn't it?"

"It does," I assure. Before I know it, a sigh leaves my mouth. I'm never gonna reach eight pounds if I keep going like this. A plate full of spaghetti could represent who knows how many spoons full of sugar.

"Or who knows how many leaves of lettuce," he says.

My eyes widen. "I said that out loud?"

Thomas chuckles as he gets up and takes my plate. "No, but I saw you thinking it. Don't compare food like that." He holds my wrist as he puts our dirty plates in the dishwasher. "Still hungry? Want a dessert? Do I have to request one?"

"No, thank you." I blush. "But if you want it that's alright!"

"Oh, no." His eyes are shining again. "I'm full. Guess we've got to get to work, then. It's gonna be a long freaking night. There's a band coming in a while, people will dance, and there's people who come here by gift card, meaning some get unlimited drinks. We'll have to walk around the whole evening."

I tilt my head. "Well, then I can't wait for you to give me an awesome massage after all that."

"I'm the one who has worked here for a year, so I deserve that more, don't ya think?" His breaths blow against my face, and the twinkle in his eyes deepen as we're standing between the closed doors of the kitchen and side room.

"I dance. You know how much my limbs hurt after hours of work and then also having to serve?" I shoot back.

Thomas smiles triumphantly. "I can only imagine the horrible pain you must be going through, Blondie. I'd almost feel bad."

My eyebrows fly up and before I can control my feet, they step closer to him. I have to look up, but just a bit. I think there's like four inches of height difference.

"Bet I can serve more drinks and take up more orders than you in one night?"

His smile morphs into a grin. "I wouldn't start doin' that as a beginner. Not a fair thing, Rosetta."

"Or you're afraid you'll lose and take up less orders?"

"You wish." He's suddenly towering over me and I feel my lungs tighten because of the tight space here. "Loser gives the winner a massage for his hard work." He leans closer. "Already reminding you... his hard work."

I give him a push on the chest, then shake my hand. "Deal. Whoever has the most taken orders and brought orders on their device by eleven wins."

Thomas's handshake is firm. "Deal."

❤︎︎

The benefit of being a dancer is that you get to twirl your way around people or squirm your way through people just to take orders quicker than the other, or do some cute little dances and have people to order more from your device while a certain hockey boy thinks his dramatic words still work.

"You little narcissist," he hisses as he passes, and I can only smile.

"Just hoping you're a little talent at the massage part," I tease, then get back to work.

No joke, though. It's busy this night. People are streaming in and barely leaving and keep buying drinks as they enjoy the live band, who seem in the mood for a drink.

I walk over to the with a big smile. "Gentlemen! Nice work. After all of that hard crap, could I provide you of one of these cocktails right here?" I hold my tray up.

As a boy with a brown shirt, who's black hair is messy and skin either tanned or just darker, grabs a drink, I note it on the little device us servers have.

"What's your name?" I ask the one with the brown shirt.

"Winston," he announces.

My smile brightens. "Winston, if you need another drink, you know where to find me. Also, don't take that boy's drinks. They're poisoned!"

"That's my friend Thomas," he says dryly.

"Ha!" I throw my head back with a laugh, but it's actually just embarrassment. "Well, silly me. Have a good night!"

At eleven, the restaurant is finally empty and Thomas and I are getting ready to reveal the amount of orders we took and finished as some others clean up.

Turns out I got fifteen more than him.

I smile. "That's too bad your hands are gonna have to do little more work tonight."

He groans. "You're awful."

"Come on!" Laughing, I put our aprons away and sit back down in the car. We drive back with soft music in the background and ever after earlier events, I can't stop smiling.

"You know, you don't actually have to give me a massage," I say when we're parked in front of our houses. I hadn't expected him to do it in the first place and can't imagine how awkward it's gonna be.

"I will. You won. It was our deal."

"You really won't have to." I close the car door behind me, biting my lip at how much my feet hurt after moving them since freaking noon.

However, even if Thomas is gonna give me a massage, it won't be a feet one. I'd rather jump off a cliff.

"Nope. It was the deal. I keep my deals. Or did you lie and wouldn't have given me a massage if you lost?"

I tuck my hands in my pockets. "Would you have accepted that massage if you won?"

"I didn't win, so I can't answer that," he says. "Do you accept the massage at least? Even though you don't want it you must want-want it?"

"Like, 'I find it horrible but would love a massage' kind of want?" I ask.

"Exactly." He grins again. "So come on."

I yelp when he does the most random thing ever.

"Thomas! Put. Me. Down. You've met me two weeks ago!" But my laughs destroy the anger I'm supposed to show. "You can't lift me over your shoulder. I'm your friend's sister! I'm a stranger!"

When he does put me down, it's on a soft surface and I realize it's a couch.

I think I'm getting a heart attack.

And my face betrays my sudden panic. "This is not my couch," I peep. "Thomas, you're being very irresponsible."

"You're right, it's my parents' couch." He stands behind me. "No, I won't kidnap you or do anything weird. Just trust me."

I relax my muscles. Just... getting lifted into a boy's house who's also your age is... interesting.

"Now, you dancers dance crazy hours, so that might be the only reason I'm doing this right now." Slowly, his hands touch my shoulders and I breathe in sharply. "I've done it for Teresa before. Nothing weird. So you better not start thinking weird right now."

I can only think it feels incredibly good to have my shoulder massaged by such strong, rough hands as I—

Bloody. Freaking. Hell.

Strong, rough hands? Am I being serious?

Maybe I have a fever.

Whatever. He's making some good movements right on the points where my muscles feel like knots so it's awesome.

My eyes automatically close. "Wow. You're pretty good at it."

"Just told you I've done it before," he reminds me. "Bare minimum."

My hum comes out weakly. "Bare minimum... has nothing to do... with massaging," I mumble.

Closing my eyes leads to the tiredness of the whole day overwhelming me and now my words are slugging together while I try not to fall asleep to Thomas's touch or on his damn couch.

His thumbs rub circles close to my shoulder blades as the rest of his hands knead knots out of my body and whatever other magic.

Then the rest... I'm not sure.

I might've fallen asleep.

On his couch.

And I'm not sure what the consequences of that are.

Just hoping it doesn't involve a boy who's name starts with the N and ends with Ewt.