Page 33 of For Your Eyes Only
The music fades away, and I drift to the floor. My arms and legs are wilted, and I’m in mermaid pose, leaning my head forward as I fold into myself.
Loud clapping startles me, and I lift my head to see Bianca walking into the empty room on the bottom floor of our high-rise. It’s attached to the fitness center, and I think it’s intended for yoga classes or group fitness. Mirrors line the walls, and the wood floor is padded. It’s perfect for dancing.
“What are you doing down here by yourself?” She walks over to where I’m sitting, now with my legs crossed.
“Oh, you know.” I shrug. “What I love.”
Her lips press into a tight smile and she sits on the floor beside me. “Sorry it didn’t work out for you. You’re an amazing dancer.”
“Spilt milk.” I push off the floor, walking over to where I left my water bottle.
“Have you thought about applying to the Miami City Ballet? I’ve heard good things about them.”
“Not accepting applications at this time.” I recite the notice on their website as I return to where she’s sitting. I sit on the floor again and untie the laces on my pointe shoes and slip them off my feet with a groan. “I’m out of shape.”
“I don’t know how you’re ever in shape for those shoes.” I rub my toes as she watches me, and a curious light is in her eyes.
“What?”
“I heard you met someone in town today.”
I sit straighter. “How did you hear about that?”
“Franco.” My brow furrows, and she continues. “Apparently Mr. Alexander is worried about you. He said you won’t tell him where you live, and you were shopping at Valentino? Not the first choice for a poor little seamstress saving every penny to get home to Italy.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I don’t think I played it up that much.”
“Maybe not, but now he thinks you’re mixed up in the Miami underworld. He’s worried you’re being trafficked.”
“What the…Trafficked?”
“It’s not that far-fetched. Large city, access to an international port, undocumented immigrants. How does he know you're not slaving away in a sweatshop sewing designer jeans for ten cents an hour, being kept by some evil mob boss who dresses you in designer clothes?”
My nose curls. “Good lord, is that how I come across? I have a student visa.”
“You’re still acting suspicious, and he’s a rich white man determined to save you.”
“I said it was my birthday.” Propping my elbow on my bent knee, I collapse my face in my hand. “I’m lying so much. I hate it.”
“So tell him the truth!”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“But?”
We stand, and I collect my shoes and my bag, sliding my feet into flip-flops for the walk upstairs. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“Have I ever made fun of you?”
“I want him to like me for me, and maybe if he does like me, he won’t care about Glitter Girl anymore.”
“But you are Glitter Girl.”
“Not really. She’s a character, a fantasy. A mask.”
The elevator opens, and we have the small space to ourselves. Bianca presses the button for the twelfth floor. “Maybe… But she’s a part of you. You wouldn’t be able to do what you do if she weren’t. What if she’s a bridge helping you get where you want to be?”
The bell dings, and we cross the short foyer to the door of our condo. I think about Bianca’s words. When I’m on stage at the Rhino, I zone out and let my persona take control. I let the sexy music and the costumes and the wigs and masks transform me, and I do what I imagine she would do. I’m fearless because of her… Or is Bianca right? Does she help me see who I really am?