Chicago (City Trilogy 1)

Chapter One : Fino

Chapter One

"Emerson! How many times have I told you?!" I hear Fino scream over the loud music track playing. "You prep to fourth position plié on count three, not on two!" Suddenly, the track stops. "Do it again. You're rushing everything."

I nod my head, wiping the sweat from my brow. I feel my dark chocolate hair clinging to my sweat covered forehead, and I can't help but find myself utterly disgusting. As I take a deep breath to calm myself, I can't help but think about Michael.

I haven't thought about Michael in nearly eleven years, and yet here I am almost eighteen years old, thinking about the boy from my childhood.

"Do you remember what I keep telling you?" Fino asks me.

I nod quickly. "Find my happy place, and the dance will come to life."

"Good. You're trying too hard, and it's making you rush every bit of choreography I've given you. You are Odette, not Odile. You are carefree and in love. One doesn't think when they feel like this, they just do. If you get out of that pretty little head of yours, then you will bring Odette to life before our very eyes." He motioned behind him where the rest of the Joffrey company sat in the audience, taking a break as I practiced my solo. "Go again. Find your happy place, Em."

I nodded, though I felt like gagging as Fino called me 'Em'. Only one person in my entire seventeen years of life had ever called me that, and he was the only one allowed to do so.

Fino Paolini was the best ballet dancer in the world. He was raised in Italy, but after moving to Russia for some reason or another, he became interested in ballet. At age twelve he began taking ballet lessons in Moscow and seemed to have a natural talent for the art. His instructors quickly moved him through the classes and within five years he was dancing as the lead male roles in the Moscow Ballet Company productions of The Nutcracker, Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella, and even our current ballet production, Swan Lake. Of course, because of his age, his career only lasted a short time of about six years, so by the time he was twenty-three he was traveling the world choreographing and teaching some of the best ballet companies in the world. On this very day, he was in Chicago, choreographing the Joffrey Ballet's production of Swan Lake, and here I was making a fool of myself in front of him.

Despite his prestigious title, Fino was not the most pleasant person to be around. He stood taller than I by only a few inches, so he seemed to be just under six feet. However, he was a gaunt, lanky, and particularly awkwardly proportioned man. His long, slender arms and similar legs seemed to belong on a swimmer's body rather than that of his short and stout torso. His shoulders were wider than his hips, and they were far too muscular for the rest of his scraggly body to compare to. His head was too large for his shoulders, and not just in the figurative manner. He had a forehead practically the length of a bicycle's kickstand. His eyebrows were large, dark and bushy, and they only seemed to shadow the pale blue eyes that were often hidden away by his squinting lids. His nose was long and hooked down at the end, covered in freckles that could be seen from a mile away. His cheekbones were angled sharply, and they often reddened far too quickly. He had dark brown hair that often appeared nearly black in color, and it was in a constant state of greasiness. It seemed as if he never brushed the fairly long locks, and if he were to do so he hadn't put in the effort of washing it.

Not only in a physical manner was Paolini unpleasant company, but also in attitude. He would often begin conversations himself, in his high pitched whine of a voice, making sure to keep them on the topic of his own life and accomplishments. He was a miserly man, usually taking teaching jobs not to better the next generation of ballet dancers, but to gain more wealth and popularity than necessary.