Page 43 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“We have an assurance from Piper and Pearson, one of the biggest law firms in the city, that you’ll have a work visa in every destination on our itinerary by the deadline. We’re pulling Daneen off of rehearsing your part. She’ll still be your understudy, but clearly your papers aren’t going to be a problem.”

“Great!” I say.

Annie clutches my arm and squeezes. “Paris, here we come!”

“Do you have some rich uncle we should know about?” Rosemary asks.

“It’s just a friend helping out with a bit more firepower than needed,” I say.

“Nice friend to have,” she says and heads off.

Friend is a definite stretch. Friend suggests a person who likes you and doesn’t use you as a prop against your will while finding you annoying.

And you don’t moon over his lips and want so bad to kiss him. And you don’t inappropriately fantasize about artless yet passionate sex with him.

I sit back down and go back to fussing with my knee wrap.

The billionaire brings a gold-plated sledgehammer to kill a mosquito, I think reflexively, but a second later I’m thinking how Benny alwayswasgood for his word; he always did follow through on things. Back at Beau Cirque, the director sometimes asked for things that seemed impossible, and Benny would receive the request in his sullen and antisocial way, and the next thing you knew, he would have created some little robotic wonder of ingenuity. People would compliment him on it, and he would just be all grumbly.

Now here he is, pulling out the lawyer big guns.

It’s amazing to see Benny in this incarnation. Yes, he’s become harder and more wolfish and conventionally hot where he was more nerdishly hot, but it doesn’t surprise me that he’s become so effective in the world. Like the end of a story that you finally get to read and you kind of knew what would happen, but it’s satisfying all the same.

Another dancer, Shasta, settles in next to Annie and me. “How is it?” she asks. We’re all really aware of each other’s ailments, and mine is one of the company’s worst, though people don’t realize how much worse.

“I think it’s better,” I say hopefully.

A few other dancers wander in from lunch, depositing phones and water bottles around the edges of the rehearsal space.

Sevigny comes out in his usual outfit, which is a really tight black shirt and black workout pants that have white lines down the sides. He claps twice to let us know that there is to be an announcement before practice begins.

Phones get shut down. Snacks get put aside.

He tells us that ticket sales have been exceedingly strong and we’re nearly sold out in Berlin and getting there in Paris. There’s also been some amazing pre-tour press coverage. He tells us where to find links. Annie grips my arm. Shasta does a little dance from where she’s sitting. We are all incredibly excited.

Even so, I feel this twinge in the pit of my stomach. The responsible thing to do would be to let people know the direness of my knee injury, and that it’s not getting better. If only so that Daneen can really apply herself to rehearsing my part. I love my company so much. I don’t want to let them down, but I don’t want to screw myself out of this role of a lifetime.

“Now…” He delivers a couple more swift claps and lays out the schedule for the day, starting with the crazypants allegro the dudes had trouble with yesterday. We go through that and other trouble spots, cheering each other on.

An hour later I’m back in Hell’s Kitchen, gearing up to teach the girls’ class, the 42ndStreet Twirlers. I rush up three flights of steps and in through the door and the screams erupt as a dozen little girls all run toward me jumping and punching in the air. “Miss Francine!”

Kelsey eyes me darkly from across the room where she’s setting up the iPhone speaker, but she’s just kidding. It’s a big joke with us that the kids like me the best, but one thing’s for sure: I’m crazy about them. Especially this ten-to-twelve age group.

“Okay, slackers, circle up!” I clap my hands and extend them out to either side. A flurry of girls in colorful leotards gather around, holding hands in a circle. I wait for them all to hush and stop fidgeting. I start them on warm-ups, painting a picture of the amazing class we’re gonna have. One of my favorite things is to connect with the girls this way, on the level of the magic of ballet.

We watch the kids go through their paces to the music, hanging back.

“How goes it at posh central?” she asks, because of course I texted the full photo array to our girl-gang-plus-Antonio text loop.

“Kind of weird,” I say under my breath. “I just don’t know what he wants from me.”

“Do you need a hint?” Kelsey asks. “I can give you a hint.”

“No, it’s not what you think. It’s almost like he’s angry at me, or like he’s punishing me or something, but then we’ll have a fun or sexy exchange and I feel connected with him, but then he does something to shove me away…”

“Interesting,” Kelsey says. “If he can’t have your love, he’ll flex his power over you.”

I roll my eyes.

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