Page 7 of The First Taste

Offering her my elbow, I waltz out of the room. Not excited about tonight, but excited about getting this whole thing over so that I can spend some much-needed quality time with my little sister.

Unfortunately, the second we step out, we are split up. My mother has a stick up her butt about getting to the hotel for reasons unknown.

“Hurry up,” she says, her expression irritable. “Malcolm, you don’t keep Ella out too late, you hear?”

Daddy puts his hand on my back, propelling me out the front door. It’s everything I can do to grab my tiny black over the shoulder purse.

“We’re already late,” he grumbles. “Taxi!”

I try to play it cool, but inside I’m growing nervous. What does my dad have planned? And why does he keep impatiently checking his watch?

I can only wait and see, I guess.

Three

The gala is exactly like every other ballet fundraiser I’ve ever been to. It’s at someone’s opulent penthouse apartment that they probably don’t actually live in, the lights are dimmed, the music is bland and tasteless, the food and drinks passed by servers who mostly look like my peers. They seem to give me quizzical glances whenever I encounter them; they’re probably wondering why I’m dressed up to attend this old peoples’ party.

I am also wondering that, seeing as how I am one doctor’s visit away from being permanently retired from the New York City Ballet.

“Look sharp,” my father whispers, digging his elbow into my side.

I gawp, experiencing a blinding flash of pain that shoots down my right leg.

“Ow!” I whisper. “Jesus!”

“You had better be glad that your mother can’t hear you taking the Lord’s name in vain like that,” he hisses. “Now I need to circulate. You keep your head up and look like you’re having a decent time.”

“What? You haven’t told me why we are here!”

But my dad is already moving away, his dark skin sticking out like a sore thumb amongst a sea of white people. I touch my hair, conscious that I, too, am the exception that proves the rule.

“Ella!”

I turn and see my former colleague Clarissa, clinging to the arm of a much older man. Her smile widens, turning sharklike.

“I thought you would have flown back home by now. Where is it? Mississippi? Alabama?”

I glance around, trying to decide if I should engage her or whether I can just find a bathroom and hide. But no, out of the corner of my eye, I can see more ballerinas take notice.

Like my me-maw always said, sometimes it’s better to kill them with kindness. I smile at Clarissa, showing every one of my teeth.

“Clarissa. How’s the arabesque? Is it still proving too hard for you? You know, I bet that there are probably some classes at the YMCA that would be helpful. I know, they are basic and for little kids?—”

She sneers at me, tossing her head. “You got what was coming to you?—”

“Ella! Omigod!” My best friend Kaia screams, pushing Clarissa aside gently and throwing herself at me. She is heavily pregnant and glowing, looking chic in all black.

“Kaia!” I say, genuinely overjoyed. “I had no idea that you would be here!”

As she grabs me around the waist and hugs me hard, I laugh.

“My name is still on the guest list. For now, anyway.”

“Not for long,” Clarissa gripes.

Kaia’s head swivels toward her. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

Clarissa glares at Kaia. “I’m new to the company. I was brought in to replace all the dancers who got hurt or…” She looks down at Kaia’s heavy belly. “Dropped out. That’s who I am. Who are you?”