Page 45 of Your Echo
“Vodka cran,” she shouts near my ear, “without the vodka.”
We circle the room, sipping our drinks as Jacinthe searches for the agent while simultaneously trying to pretend she’s not looking for anyone. I spot plenty of people who aren’t hiding the fact that they’re looking atus. I feel like I’m playing pretend, swanning around this room full of powerful, beautiful people. I used to dream about life as a professional dancer. I used to think about coming to parties just like this.
It sounds conceited, but I know if my path in life had only been decided by my skill in dance, I could have had whatever I wanted. As a child, I pushed myself harder than any other kid at the studio. What held me back were the competition fees...and the costume fees...and the class fees, the application fees, the price of new shoes, the travel expenses, and my lack of parents who could drive me all around the province every weekend. They make movies about dancers who come from nothing and somehow make it to the top just because they believe in themselves, but the truth is that’s just not enough.
It takes a village to raise a prima ballerina. All I had was a tiny apartment and a mom in a wheelchair who had to glue herself to a call centre headset just so we could eat. I think it took both of us years to realize just how much we lost that day she lost her legs, in an accident that never should have been allowed to happen.
“C’est lui! That’s him!”
Jacinthe’s eyes light up. She lifts a hand to point out the agent to me, but then thinks better of it and drops her voice to a whisper.
“In the grey blazer, talking to the guy in the leather jacket.”
The agent looks more like heisa model, not someone who represents them. He has a perfectly coiffed mop of dark curls and black-framed glasses that compliment his face too well for me to believe they’re not worn solely for fashion purposes. The guy he’s talking to looks like he just walked off the set ofIndiana Jones.
“Are we going to say hi?” I ask.
Jacinthe vehemently shakes her head from side to side. “Non, non, non.Certainement pas. We’re going to stand near him, and thenhe’sgoing to say hi tous.”
I let her carry out her devious plan, and soon enough the agent lowers his glass and flashes us the hint of a smile. Jacinthe glances at him, then leans in and tells me to pretend like we’re talking to each other for a moment before we head over.
“Bon soir,” the agent says. “Parlez-vous fran?ais?”
Jacinthe and I nod, and we continue the conversation in French. There’s some small talk exchanged about how we all know Léon, and then the agent asks us if we’re models.
“Dancers, primarily,” Jacinthe answers, “but I model on the side, and I’ve done a bit of acting.”
“That’s a relief,” the agent comments. “Tom here is looking to cast a dancer for a new music video, but this place is crawling with models.”
He jerks his head towards Indiana Jones, who smiles at us. “I’m shooting a Sherbrooke Station video, and we’re on a tight schedule. We even brought the band out tonight to try to lure some talent in. Are you fans?”
“We love them!” Jacinthe interjects, as I feel my head start spinning.
“Sherbrooke Station is here?” I ask.
“In the flesh,” Tom assures me. “I could introduce you if you want.”
“That would bemerveilleux!” Jacinthe chirps, but I feel her hand wrap around my wrist and squeeze as she spares me a concerned look.
“You’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes,” I find myself saying.
Jacinthe doesn’t let go of me when I turn to leave.
“Are you okay?” she murmurs, tilting her body away from the men.
“I’m fine. I just need to use the bathroom.”
After another squeeze on my wrist, she releases me. I wander through the party. I finished my vodka-less vodka cran awhile ago, and I set the glass down on a side table I pass by. The music is just a dull throb in the back of my head. The faces around me are a blur.
Ace is here. Ace is here. Ace is in this room right now.
I don’t need the bathroom. What I need is air, and there doesn’t seem to be any of it left in here. I aim for the door we came through, and I’m just about to push past the last group of people separating me from the quiet of the hallway when he appears by my side. I sense him more than I see him. I don’t even have to turn my head.
“Stéphanie.” I slow down but don’t stop at the sound of his voice. “Wait.”
If I look at him, I’ll never leave this room. I fling the door open and draw in a huge breath the second I’m out of the apartment. I take a few faltering steps down the hallway and hear the door close behind me. I spin around to find him standing there.
He’s wearing black, like he always does: black skinny jeans and a thin, clinging black t-shirt. Black ink on his skin. He doesn’t bother asking what I’m doing here. He doesn’t bother with small talk or greetings or jokes.
