Calore Dance Academy// Red Queen AU

Chapter 7

Like all dynasties, the Manhattan Dance Academy shimmers artfully in the summer sun.

Grumbling my complaints to nobody in particular, I clench the poster in my left hand and shield my eyes with my right.

Years and years ago, the descendants of whoever owns this dance empire—family business, I've heard—decided to base operations out of a building nestled into Times Square at the corner of Forty-Second and Broadway. Not in the heart of Times Square, but close enough for there to be a steady stream of people and cars and those wonderful electronic billboards. I've passed by this place plenty of times before, but never paid it attention, deeming it just as marvelous as the rest of the block. But now—now it takes my breath away, knowing what it is and who the people are inside of it.

Dancers.

Eleven stories tall and more than wide enough, the building must be ancient compared to the skyscraping glass and steel monuments overhead. But along with the hints of its age, modernness has taken over a good part of it, making it . . . classically advanced. The long panes of glass creating beautiful windows have a golden tint to them, like Cal's eyes, and there's nothing on the other side of them, just the reflection of the city street and cars and the revolving doors across the street, where I stand. Or so it appears. One-way mirrors for the dancers' privacy, I suppose.

It doesn't follow the code of the shimmering blue skyscrapers that litter the city. It's composed of warm colors, rather than icy gray and blue, but manages to loom nonetheless. Where the stretching panes of glass aren't, rows and columns of red brick and steel stand out to create a tidy and elegant grid.

The stories about entire glass walls are nearly true. The last two stories at the top are older, not adorning that same polish the others have. They have more brick to them, coupled with cement that alternates between red and beige. Balconies too narrow for actual use are sewn into every other window,—an eighth of the size of the ones below.

On the ground level, a single revolving door sits under a black marquee, and embedded into its front are the words, Manhattan Dance Academy, red and silver in a large and ornate font.

Seeing the traffic light turn red at the intersection, I make a move to cross. Now or never, I told myself with an exhausted and near-shattered body last night. After dancing for hours atop the roof.

The dancing helped, whether or not my body says so. Made me forget about Kilorn and the Street Fighters, Cal and my sister.

At a closer look, the windows are trimmed with ebony frames, and hooked lanterns protrude from the thin brick margins.

Exquisite.

The street beneath my feet is hot in the midday sun, but what's new. I opt out of taking the sidewalk, instead cutting across Forty-Second and edging past waiting cars. I don't bother winking at the drivers as I so often do.

Not when the security guard under the marquee takes note of me before I finish my crossing, his dark eyes watching and in wait. Though I wouldn't consider myself terribly threatening, I'm flattered that he takes me seriously as I approach him, the poster steadfast in my hand.

I keep my eyes trained on him the entire time, his mouth twitching when I come within five feet. Not overly large or threatening himself, wearing his simple security uniform. A relatively plain man, aside from his near-black eyes.

"This poster," I say finally, unraveling the darn paper, "was taped to my local grocery store window. I'd like to be interviewed for the job."

He looks me up and down, from the light makeup I bothered with to the rundown sneakers I've worn every day this summer. "Great. Just go inside and they'll set you up."