Page 3 of The Perfect Mistake

Mac pulls the car to a stop outside the New York Ballet Academy. It’s in Midtown, an innocuous stone building, with trees flanking the entrance.

“Idle or park?” Mac asks me.

I want to answer idle. This should be a quick errand, but judging by the firm noes my assistant has been getting, it might take a while.

“Park,” I say and get out of the car. I button my suit jacket as I walk into the Dance Academy and prepare for a fight.

My daughter wants to start ballet.

It’s her latest obsession, and after a week of trying to get her into dance lessons at the school my assistant says is the best in New York, we’ve gotten nowhere. They don’t take students midterm, classes are full, and—if she’s a beginner—she’ll have to start with the other freshies in January…

They’ve run us through with excuses. But I’m good at finding ways around obstacles. People always want something, and most of the time it’s money. There are very few individuals who won’t ask how high if you’re willing to pay them to jump.

The lobby of the Dance Academy smells like sun-warmed dust and something else, something like pine or tiger balm. A receptionist gives me a bored look. It’s a young guy, couldn’t be more than nineteen, with a wiry build.

“I’m looking for the head of the kids’ classes,” I tell him.

“Down the hall on the fourth floor,” he says and flips the page of a magazine.

I take the stairs and emerge in a corridor that looks exactly like the lobby. Worn wooden floors and the scent of… is that pine? hangs even stronger in the air here.

I head past the half-open doors to empty studios. It’s lunchtime. If this is New York’s largest school for children interested in ballet, no wonder it’s deserted at this hour. They’re in school, just like Willa, who will surely ask me about ballet lessons tonight. Again.

When she decides she wants something, she’s ruthlessly determined. It’s one of my favorite things about her.

I hear the patter of movement inside a studio. Footfalls against the floor, rhythmic and soft. Someone’s dancing. I glance toward the sound as I walk past.

And stop short.

A solo ballerina is dancing in an otherwise vacant studio, leaping through the beams of sunlight flooding the room. She spins, faster than should be possible, her leg rising and falling.

It’s… mesmerizing.

She springs across the floor, her long black ponytail swishing in the air behind her. She’s dressed in tights, a short skirt, and a skintight top. A ballerina’s outfit. It makes her look elongated and tall, like the twirling ballerina on top of my sister’s jewelry case, all those years ago. Connie would take it out so often that the melody still lingers in my mind.

The dancer’s slim arms move fluidly, but there’s muscle beneath her skin. Still, it looks effortless. Like she’s flying or swimming through the air. She kicks her leg up, and for a brief second, it’s perpendicular to her torso.

I catch sight of the woman’s profile.

It’s Isabel.

What? My hand tightens at my side, and I know I should leave, but I can’t. What are the odds? She’s my sister’s best friend, and I’ve met her a few times over the years, but not once have I seen her like this.

Connie must have mentioned that Isabel is a ballerina. But I hadn’t known it was… this. She’s dancing like this is her passion as much as her profession.

Her movements speed up, accentuate, and I know I should walk away. This moment feels private. Dancing alone in a studio, without music.

But I can’t move.

There’s a focus on her craft that I can feel, even out here in the hallway. She’s pouring everything she is into her motions. In all the times I’d briefly met her… I hadn’t known she could do this. Become a living flame, the embodiment of grace.

I’d noticed Isabel’s beauty the first time I met her, outside Connie’s apartment, years ago. She was Connie’s neighbor and then became her friend. Young, only in her twenties. She’d always been full of shy smiles and polite manners. Big, dark eyes. Long hair. I shouldn’t have noticed back then. But I did.

Like this, she’s incandescent.

She spins, faster and faster and faster. My eyes track the graceful movement of her leg, kicking out around her as she twists. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Halfway through a turn, her standing leg gives out.

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