Heartbreaker - Julie Kriss Page 0,20

relaxed a little, listening to me. “That is so cool, going for Broadway. Like, just doing it.”

I laughed. “I haven’t done it yet.”

“But you’re trying. At least you’re trying something instead of sitting around, complaining that nothing happens.”

I smiled at her, but I looked away. The truth was, I was speeding toward thirty, and nothing in my career really had happened. The theater business was all about optimism, and that optimism was harder and harder to find the older I got.

I should probably quit. That was the realistic way to see it. But if I quit, what did I have? An empty apartment and a job I hated. And not much else.

At the studio on 91st Street, Tess and I changed into our dancing clothes—which were basically the same as yoga clothes. Tess didn’t have yoga clothes, but she had a soft pair of slim joggers and a tank top, which worked just fine.

There were only ten of us in class today, because it was a new studio. The instructor, Bonnie, had only opened it six weeks ago. I knew Bonnie from some tap classes we’d taken together. Tap was one of the first dances I learned, when I was Tess’s age, and I could do it in my sleep, but I liked to take a refresher every once in a while. Bonnie was the same. When she told me she was going to open her own dance studio, I signed up.

I stood next to Tess at the back—the only place Tess was comfortable—as Bonnie led us in some stretches, then outlined some simple jazz moves. She put on music and told us to practice as she came around and coached us one on one.

“This is stupid,” Tess said as she did the move, crossing one foot behind the other, executing a simple turn and slide.

“You’re a natural,” I told her. “Just don’t forget about your hands. Raise your left like you’re going to lift the ceiling.”

“Totally stupid,” she said, but she did the move again, raising her hand this time. Her cheeks were flushed and her ponytail was swinging. In a few minutes, we were both laughing.

“See?” I said after Bonnie had taught us another move. “This is better than sitting in the library.” The library down the street from our building was the only place Tess was allowed to go on her own while her sister and brother-in-law were at work.

“You’re supposed to encourage me to go to the library,” Tess said. “So I’ll read and stuff.”

“The library is for weekdays,” I said. “Saturdays are for dancing.”

We executed the moves imperfectly, our rhythm was off, and sometimes we lost our balance, but like I’d promised Tess, no one cared. What mattered was that we did it. In celebration, I put my arm around Tess’s shoulders and we took a selfie as class emptied out, sweat and all.

“I’m going to put that on Facebook,” I said, just because I knew it would drive her crazy.

She rolled her eyes, like I knew she would. “Mina, no one uses Facebook.”

I was still laughing as I changed my clothes.

Ten

Holden

Our unit was based at our headquarters, the place where we gathered to wait for calls. It was a low, boxy building of brown brick in east Brooklyn, surrounded by a gravelly parking lot and weeds. Aside from the large garage where the ambulances were parked, the headquarters contained a room with bunk beds, a work room with computer stations, a kitchen, and a common room with a sofa and TV. On a twelve-hour shift, you might spend hours in at headquarters, checking supplies and doing paperwork. Or you might not spend any time there at all as you went out on back-to-back calls. No two days were ever the same.

This Saturday, I was on shift with Grim. The other units were out on calls, and Grim and I were at headquarters, Grim inside doing charts, me in the garage, washing the ambulance and checking the supplies. I might have an hour to wash the ambulance; I might have thirty seconds. You never knew how it would go.

As I sprayed the side of the ambulance with the hose, I thought about Mina. We hadn’t set up another meeting yet; our schedules hadn’t synced up. I wanted to take her out again tonight, but I was on a long shift.

Still, that didn’t stop me from thinking about her. A lot. The way she’d looked at dinner the other night. The way her blouse dipped in