Hold Me (New England School of Ballet #1)

Prologue

Zoe

It all starts with a game. I’m with my friends at our high school spring formal, and at first it’s the perfect evening.

That is, until my best friend Charlotte sweeps into the ballroom two hours late with a radiant smile on her face. She looks drop-dead gorgeous, but then, she always does. She’s absolutely perfect.

“Hey, I have to tell you guys something!” she squeals, reaching first for my hand, then Amber’s, and pulling us onto the dance floor. I’m too surprised to pull away. I just let it happen.

Scarlett is watching us, rolling her eyes.

She’s the quietest of our group. It’s not that she’s shy; she just doesn’t have a very high opinion of most people.

Sometimes I think she’s only hanging out with us because of Amber.

The two of them have been best friends since kindergarten.

They’ve known each other for as long as Charlotte and I have.

“What’s going on?” I ask, trying to ignore the queasy feeling that’s growing fast in my stomach.

Charlotte is never late. Not without a reason.

And she always tells us everything immediately.

The fact that she just arrived and didn’t text any of us about her news ahead of time can’t be a sign of anything good.

Her smile grows even wider as she dramatically tosses her shiny black hair, which falls over her shoulders like a silky curtain.

“My mom went out to dinner with Monsieur Duval tonight, and guess what? I get to dance the role of Aurora in The Sleeping Beauty!” She squeals again, the sound shrill enough to be easily heard over the music.

I want to cover my ears, but I can’t move.

I’d give anything at this moment to be able to block out the sound of her voice.

I get to dance the role of Aurora.

My stomach turns. This can’t be true. It can’t.

“Oh my God, that’s awesome!” Amber’s eyes go wide, and she throws her arms around Charlotte.

I, on the other hand, stand frozen and watch in disbelief as Scarlett also hugs Charlotte, smiling. I can see their lips moving, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. I try desperately to hold back the bitter tears threatening to overflow.

That was my role. The role I’ve been working toward for years. Ever since I started ballet, I’ve dreamed of playing Aurora.

And I got it. Up until a few hours ago, I was Aurora. Monsieur Duval gave the part to me. He told me last week that I was going to dance the lead in The Sleeping Beauty.

How could this happen?

I know there’s a simple answer: Charlotte’s mother is involved. She would never go out to dinner with our ballet teacher if there weren’t something to be gained for Charlotte. Ever since Charlotte’s dad became the mayor of Boston, she and her older sister, Adaline, have gotten whatever they wanted.

A rush of sharp disappointment floods my brain. I never would have believed that Monsieur Duval could be manipulated like that. Not after he constantly drilled into us how important talent, discipline, and sacrifice are for our careers.

“Zoe?” Charlotte reaches for my hand, and it’s only when her fingers wrap around mine, warm and a little too tightly, that I realize I’m cold as ice.

I look up to see her smiling, a flash of sympathy in her blue eyes.

Not real.

Nothing about Charlotte is real. Not her sympathy, not her smile, not her friendship.

This is the first time I’ve been completely aware of that, though there have been signs for a long time.

I’ve just ignored them, stubbornly repressing what my intuition told me.

I didn’t want to know. But now, ignoring them has become impossible. I can see it all.

“You’re not mad at me, are you? I know you wanted the role too.

But we both know that you’re not ready yet, don’t we?

” She blinks at me innocently, and I have a strong urge to slap the faux-pitying expression off her face and shred her pale blue dress that matches her eyes so perfectly.

I didn’t just want the role. I already had it. I was chosen. Not her.

She stole it from me.

Because she couldn’t stand not being in the spotlight. Because she can never stand anyone being better than her.

Her betrayal hurts. It hurts so much that it’s hard to breathe. For a moment, I’m gasping for air and get the feeling that I’m about to lose my composure and just start screaming at her. And maybe I should. Just let it all out.

“Come on, Zoe, tell me you’re not mad at me,” Charlotte pleads. She begins to pout.

I know what I should do. I should tell her to stick the role up her ass, and our friendship with it. I know that I should man up and tell her what I think of her.

But of course, I don’t. I’ve known Charlotte my whole life, and she, Amber, and Scarlett are my only friends. It’s crystal clear to me what will happen if I don’t say what she wants to hear from me right now.

I’ll become an outcast, ending this school year and starting the next one without any friends.

Finding new ones as a senior will be impossible, and Charlotte will make my life hell.

As opposed to now, when she at least pretends that we’re friends.

In her eyes, maybe we are friends—as long as she gets what she wants, and I stay safely where I belong. In her shadow.

“I’m not mad,” I say, almost choking on the lie. Something inside me breaks. Maybe my heart. Or my dream of making it to the big stage. I feel it and hear the shattering sound so clearly that I wonder why no one else does. “You deserve it.”

If you can’t imagine any other way to get the role than to have your mother buy it for you, maybe you really do deserve it.

“I really do, don’t I?” Charlotte says, beaming at me. My eyes burn with unshed tears. She continues her chatter, but I don’t understand a word: My ears are blocked by an awful buzzing sensation. My heart races, and my breathing becomes too fast and shallow.

I have to get out of here. I murmur an excuse, something about going to the ladies’ room, but my friends don’t react at all. Amber and Scarlett are totally focused on Charlotte. I can suddenly see so clearly how our world revolves around her. It’s enough to make me sick.

I walk away on shaky legs, staggering across the dance floor in my high heels and looking around hectically for my brother. I’ve got to find him so I can get out of here. Go home, where no one can watch me fall apart.

But I don’t see Caleb anywhere, even though I know he’s still here. He would never leave without telling me and making sure I had a way home.

At some point, I stop caring and give up on trying to find him. Tears pour down my face as I lurch out of the ballroom and rush outside. I’m greeted by a wall of pouring rain, but the last thing I want to do is go back in there and get my coat. It would be just my luck to run into Charlotte again.

No thanks, I can really do without that.

I angrily scrub the tears off my cheeks. They feel too hot on my cold skin and mix with the heavy raindrops that are falling from the dark sky as I hurry home.

It’s not far, only fifteen minutes. But I’m soaked to the skin anyway when I finally reach the wrought-iron gate to our yard, which opens with a soft squeak.

The houses on Beacon Hill may be big, but the yards are almost nonexistent.

Ours is just big enough for my mother’s beloved terrace and a small patch of grass where two beech trees are growing.

Dad built a treehouse for Caleb and me in those trees years ago.

I’ve always loved it, even more so since Caleb decided he was too cool for it.

Since then, the treehouse has been mine alone. It’s my own personal haven, my hiding place.

A light is still on in the living room, and I slip out of my high heels and tiptoe as silently as I can through the garden.

While it’s unlikely that my parents will hear me, I don’t want them to catch me climbing the ladder to the treehouse instead of going inside to bed.

Then they would want to know what happened, and I don’t want to talk about it.

I’m shivering when I finally crawl inside, my dress sopping wet. It’s no wonder, since I did just run through the March rain without a coat, like a living cliché.

Swearing quietly, I feel for the switch of the battery-powered fairy lights, and a moment later the warm light of countless tiny bulbs floods the treehouse.

I pull the sticky, wet dress off my cold skin and reach for the old Harvard sweatshirt that I keep up here.

It belonged to my dad; I rescued it months ago from the Goodwill box.

Mom tends to get rid of anything that we can’t save in time.

I sigh with relief as I cuddle up in the cozy hoodie, which is so big it reaches my knees.

The material is soft, and it’s coming apart at the seams, but that doesn’t bother me.

I collapse onto the cushions that almost completely cover the floor, pull two wool blankets over my legs, and reach for my notebook.

My racing pulse finally slows as I open it and gaze at the empty pages. Pages just waiting to be filled with my thoughts and pain. As I set pen to paper, I hear a familiar voice that makes me start with shock.

“What are you doing here, Pixie? Aren’t you supposed to be at the dance?” Jase is standing at the door to the treehouse and doesn’t seem to care one bit that he’s just as wet as I am. Rain drips from his messy blond hair onto his shoulders, and for the thousandth time, I notice how beautiful he is.

More beautiful than an eighteen-year-old should be. Plenty of boys his age could be described as cute, maybe hot. Not beautiful. But with Jase, beautiful is the only word for it.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” I say sharply, without answering his question. I hope he doesn’t notice my face turning red, or that I’ve clearly been crying.

He grins. “Until I fall down dead someday from your constant complaining.” He leans casually against the doorframe.

The door hasn’t closed properly behind him, and I can hear the rain, but I don’t tell him to shut it.

The sound is peaceful, different somehow from the sound of the drops that rattle on the roof.

“Then I should probably try a little harder,” I tease, only just managing to hold back a smile.

He thinks that I hate the nickname he gave me, and at the beginning I might have.

Over the last four years, though, it’s grown on me.

Not that I would ever admit it. Jase is Caleb’s best friend, and they spend so much time together that sometimes it feels like he’s moved in with us.

He laughs softly, and my heart skips a beat. Jase doesn’t laugh often, and it’s nice to hear it.

“Maybe,” he replies with a grin as he steps into the treehouse.

The door closes behind him with a barely audible click, and all at once the room feels too small.

He takes another step and kneels down in front of me on the floor so I’m looking directly into his eyes.

They’re much too green. “So what are you doing here?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say with a sigh, plucking a wet strand of hair off my forehead as my thoughts wander back to Charlotte. For a few seconds, I almost forgot I left the party because of her.

Jase just tilts his head and looks at me. He’s staring so intently that it makes my skin tingle. Then he takes the notebook and pen out of my hand, tears out a page, and puts it on the floor. He sits down with one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent.

“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously as the pen scratches across the paper.

Without saying a word, he hands me the piece of paper.

What happened?

I raise my eyebrows. “What are you doing?” I repeat, my question still unanswered.

He smiles and shrugs, holding the pen out to me. “Answer the question.”

Part of me wants to push him out of the treehouse, crumple the paper up into a ball, and throw it out after him. But there’s another part that’s curious about where this all will lead. So I take the pen out of his hand and do what he asked. I answer the question.

Charlotte stole the leading role in The Sleeping Beauty from me, and I hate her for it. I really hate her. But I know that tomorrow I’ll pretend I don’t care. That makes me hate myself even more.

I really don’t know why I trust him. Maybe I just want to find out if he’s making fun of me. Maybe it doesn’t matter anyway.

He reads what I wrote, folds up the note, and puts it in the inside pocket of his jacket. But before I can ask him what he’s doing again, he points to the notebook. “It’s your turn.”

I hesitate for a moment and then put aside my doubts. The paper rustles softly as I tear my own sheet out of the notebook, write down my question, and hand it to him. He scans the question, then scribbles a quick answer on the paper and gives it back to me.

Why are you here?

I was bored.

I stare at his answer incredulously. He’s here because he was bored? I’m about to ask him more, but I bite back the question and follow his example. I fold the note and stick it under the pillow I’m sitting on. Then I give him one of my blankets.

“Here. So you don’t catch your death.”

“You know you’re just giving me the chance to keep calling you Pixie for years, don’t you?”

I roll my eyes, but I have to smile. “If you don’t want it . . .” I start to pull the blanket back, but Jase is faster.

He grabs the thick wool, slips out of his wet jacket, and wraps the blanket around his shoulders. Then he holds out his hand for the notebook. I don’t hesitate to give it to him.

Questions are followed by answers. We don’t speak another word to each other that night, making a silent pact that an answer must not lead to deeper questions on the same subject.

Two days later, I find a crumpled piece of paper in the treehouse. The handwriting is messy and already familiar.

Tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine.

—J

That’s how our game begins.

We play by rules that neither of us ever talks about, and we each play our own way.

I leave notes in the treehouse whenever something is on my mind.

It doesn’t matter what it’s about. If I need to get it off my chest, I write it down.

Jase, on the other hand, needs to be asked questions.

I don’t know why, and I never press him about it.

But I learn quickly that if I don’t ask him questions, nothing comes back. No note, no secrets, nothing at all.

It’s like he wants to confide in me, but at the same time something is holding him back. Like maybe without my questions, he would lock everything up inside.

Jase keeps my secrets, and I keep his. Until I change the rules three months later.

Kiss me tonight.

—P