Paris mumbled a series of goodbyes to the dozen or so students who made up his afternoon dance class, watching as they each made their way to the door, laughing amongst themselves, discussing their evening plans, smiling and carefree after a successful afternoon of practice. The studio was mostly empty once the last hopeful danseur or ballerina left, save for Paris and their instructor, who watched him as he watched his classmates. He could feel the disapproval in her eyes, the disappointment, and only when he lost sight of the last retreating back did he turn to face it.

Madame Irina Volkova was an austere woman, her dark hair streaked with gray and forever bound high and tight atop her head. There were still traces of beauty in her aged face, heavily lined as it was now, and shadows of the moderately successful dancer she had once been in her posture, in her movements—fluid, if not occasionally stiff with arthritis. Somehow, despite how cumbersome her ailments could be, she managed to make walking with a cane look graceful.

Paris met her gaze, still in his short unitard and tights, his hair bound in a similar style but not as neat, and though he tried to keep his expression as impassive as hers, he knew he would never have the sort of control she possessed. There were old pictures of her in the front of the studio, decorating her office, on the advertisements that occasionally made their way in the paper or on flyers when she was of a mind to take on new students. All showed a young woman—nimble, talented, striking—the sort of dancer to inspire admiration in those who strived to follow in her footsteps. Back then she had been nothing like the older woman that faced him now. She had been vibrant and lively. Now she was made of steel.

“How would you judge your performance today?” she asked him, her speech, even after all these years, still accented by her native tongue.

Paris wanted to pretend as if he’d done nothing to deserve this interrogation, that he’d gone through the motions just fine—better than most of his classmates—but he knew what Madame Volkova expected to hear, and he knew what the truth was. “Mediocre,” he said.

She frowned severely, deepening the lines that framed her mouth. “I do not spend hours training students each day because I wish for them to be mediocre.”

“It won’t happen again.”

She eyed him, looked him over as if trying to decide whether or not to believe him, whether he was truly worth the effort she put into training him, before speaking again. “What are your plans for college?”

“I’m not exactly the type to go to college,” Paris responded, taking the change of subject in stride, “and I can’t really afford it.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed, and then continued, like his future had already been decided for him, “You will get a scholarship. Or your mother. She pays for your lessons. Why would she not pay for your college?”

“She probably would. That doesn’t mean I want to go.”

“Then you will go to New York.”

Paris’s mouth thinned just as hers did, forming a straight line he hoped betrayed few of his thoughts. “I don’t think I’ll be going to New York either.”

“Where is your ambition?” she asked, quickly growing impatient. “Where is your passion? I do not train dancers who do not wish for success!”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.”

“Then express it!” she shouted, taking a stab at the wooden floor with her cane. “Get it out!”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“All the more reason!” she insisted. “You are more than a mediocre dancer, Paris. You are a good dancer. You could be a great dancer.”

“I will be.”

“Not if you insist on being so unexpressive.”

Paris fell into momentary silence, tearing his eyes away from her so that she could not see the emotions on his face, though he suspected she knew anyway.

“I express plenty,” he muttered.

“You express what you have to! Nothing more!” she said, and then lifted her cane to wave it at him, directing him. “Look at yourself now. You are angry. You accuse me, think me unfair. You are always angry, Paris. If you are sad, you are angry. If you are upset, you are angry. If you are uncomfortable, you are angry. If you are afraid, you are angry. Anger is not the only passion, Paris. It is the easy passion. It is safe. It requires little to feel and little to express. You rely on it too much! Dig deeper! Get below the anger! You will not find greatness until you do!”

Silence again, excruciatingly tense. Paris kept his eyes averted, his head lowered, the picture of a chastened child. Madame Volkova never once looked away from him, eyes boring into him as if with nothing more than the firmness of her gaze and the demands written across her stoic face she could drill this private lesson into him, drive her lecture home. Paris swallowed and did what he could to prevent his fingers from curling toward his palms into fists of fury.

There was the anger again, just as she’d said, masking the pain he felt inside when he knew that she was right.

“You will practice more,” she decided for him, lowering the end of her cane back onto the ground, where it thudded softly. “You have become neglectful.”

“I have more going on in my life than dance,” he argued, muttering again, lacking the confidence and the resolve to speak any louder.

“Then express it,” Madame Volkova shouted, “or I have nothing left to teach you!”

She turned and strode to her office then, shutting the door and leaving him to his own devices.

Paris lifted his head to watch her go, floundering in the middle of the room. It was the first lecture he’d received from her in a very long time—months, maybe; years. He had been seeing her since he was much younger, and had gone much of that time hearing nothing but praise from her. The sudden change was difficult to swallow, however much he knew he deserved it.

He had no excuses, save for distraction—expectations and obligations and changes in his life that had nothing to do with dancing.

Frowning still, Paris turned away as well, approaching the barre to begin his exercises anew.