Dance With Me (Kian Lawley & Ricky Dillon / O2L) * ON HOLD *

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“Last time through!”

There was a general commotion as everyone hurried over to the left side of the room and lined up against the barre, trying to find the trio they were going to dance with.  I chose my usual partners—Yasmin and Hailey.  As the only seniors in this class, we were at the top of the dog pile and had a reputation to uphold.

Our instructor, Miss Val, started the music—Bruno Mars’s hit Marry You—and counted off the first group.  The groups circled through, many of the girls messing up or stumbling a few steps, but everyone continued to push through.

“Final group!”  Miss Val shouted over the bridge of the song.  “Brooke, Yasmin, Hailey, show us what you got!”

“Can we do hair-ography?”  Hailey asked, her hands cupped around her mouth.

Miss Val shrugged.  “Sure!  Why not?”

“Yes!”  Hailey cheered, pulling out her tightly-coiled bun.  Her blonde waves cascaded over her shoulders.  I removed my own ponytail and shook out my straight auburn hair with my fingers.  Yasmin kept her dark braids in, not wanting to smack herself in the face with them.  I moved to the center point of our triangle and Miss Val counted us off:

“Five, six, seven eight!”

And off we went.

The three of us danced across the floor, releasing and contracting, twirling, leaping, and kicking our legs in time with the music.  Since we had been dancing together for almost fifteen years, we were able to travel across the floor without worrying about bumping into each other.  We held our perfect triangle through to the very end, where we chasséd as one into the final grand jeté of the routine.

“Excellent!”  Miss Val clapped as the three of us grinned at each other.  “Great work today, everyone!  See you next week!”

Miss Val shut off the music as the girls in the class left the room in small groups, chattering loudly.  I followed Hailey and Yasmin out to the hallway where our bags had been stored in wooden cubbies.  We tossed our dance shoes inside, put on our streets shoes, and slung our bags over our shoulders.

“Panera?”  Yasmin asked.

“Obviously,” Hailey replied.

Yasmin threw her hands up in the air.  “Just checking!”

Ever since we reached high school, the three of us had basically lived at the dance studio.  Whether we were taking lessons, teaching younger students, or working at the front desk, we were always there.  When a Panera had gone in across the street, we felt as though we had won the lottery.  For the past four years, we had made it our Monday tradition to eat there between jazz and ballet.

The three of us left the studio and were greeted by the warm September air.  We crossed the parking lots towards the Panera—Hailey skipping and singing Lady Gaga at the top of her lungs—and entered Panera.  The smell of freshly-baked pastries filled our nostrils the moment we opened the door.  We inhaled sharply at the same time, our stomachs growling loudly.

We approached the register, where a young boy with thick, dark hair and dark eyes greeted us.  Yasmin placed her order first, followed by Hailey.  While they went to go fill their cups at the soda fountain, I ordered my own meal (half a Caesar salad and half a turkey sandwich).  The employee gave me a buzzer that would signal when my order was ready.  I thanked him and headed to go get my own drink.

I found Hailey and Yasmin at our usual booth in the back corner, laughing about something.  I slid into the seat next to Yasmin.  “What’s so funny?”