Bunheads by Sophie Flack

dance was always my favorite.”
    Everyone
loves Snow. Or I should say, everyone who’s never danced Snow loves Snow. The Snowflakes get showered with fifty pounds of white paper precipitation. This “snow” is swept up for reuse after each performance, so all the dust and dirt and lost earrings that are gathered up with the snow pour down on us in the next performance. The snow slips down into our costumes and gets into our hair and our mouths. It’s flame-retardant, and it tastes like permanent marker.
    “Oh, of course,” I hear Bea say obligingly. “Snow is very popular.”
    While Bea is occupied with the bejeweled woman, I snack on olives and start drinking a second glass of champagne. I’m contemplating finding a corner to sit in, when a tall, well-dressed guy appears in front of me. He leans against the wall and crosses one ankle casually over the other. “You look less than thrilled to be here,” he says, gesturing to the room at large. His voice is a deep baritone. “And you’re doing a terrible job of mingling.” His dark eyes sparkle when he smiles.
    I give him a quick up-down, the way I would if he were another dancer. With tanned skin and dark bangs that he has to push out of his eyes, he’s better looking than anyone else in the room. He’s wearing an expensive-looking charcoal-gray suit but no tie. His smile is dazzling, and I can’t help smiling back.
    “I’m Matt,” he says. “Matt Fitzgerald.”
    “I’m Hannah,” I say. I hold out my hand, but instead of shaking it, he brings it to his lips and kisses it.
    “Pleased to meet you,” he murmurs.
    Matt is probably about Jacob’s age, but that’s where the similarity ends. Jacob looks like a college student: He wears vintage T-shirts and corduroys, and he waits a few days between shaves. Matt, however, looks likes a Hollywood actor—or at the very least, like the kind of person who shops at Jeffrey and vacations in all the fabulous parts of Europe.
    “I’m a huge fan of the Manhattan Ballet,” Matt says. “I’ve been watching you since you performed in the student workshopat the academy. You’re a fantastic dancer. You look like Grace Kelly onstage.”
    “Wow,” I say, blushing. “Um, thanks—that’s really nice.” I look down at my champagne. I like compliments as much as the next girl, but it’s a little strange to meet someone who already seems to know me. Matt goes on to say that he never misses a performance unless he’s in Paris. In other words, he’s a balletomane, which is what we call a rabid fan. (The
mane
comes from
mania
.)
    “I’m in the front row every night,” he adds.
    “Wow,” I say. It’s one thing to dedicate your body to ballet every single night. But to just watch, to merely dedicate your eyeballs and your sitting butt—that’s a bit obsessive. I try to push aside these thoughts, though, because I’m pleased he seems to be interested in me; there are soloists and principals he could be talking to. “That’s really dedicated.”
    “I take my extracurricular interests very seriously,” he says, smiling.
    “Lucky for you that you have time for them,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “I don’t even have time to do my laundry.”
    He takes my elbow and leads me to a pale blue sofa, where we both sit. “You need an assistant,” he says.
    I brighten at the thought. “An intern!” I say. “Aren’t high school and college kids always trying to gain work experience? Maybe I could get myself a straight-A student from Nightingale-Bamford. She could dust my shelves and take my laundry to the cleaner.”
    “Excellent idea,” Matt says. “She’ll be gaining real-worldexperience in multitasking and proactivity. She could do your grocery shopping, too.”
    “Yeah, and if she’s really good, she can be promoted to writing letters to my grandmother in Florida.”
    Matt laughs. “Allowing her to opt out of English 101. See? We’ve solved your problems.”
    I grin ruefully. “If