First Position Read Online Free PDF Page B

you’d come.”
    I forget how to speak. I open my mouth, but no words come out. My
brain is too busy screaming with joy.
    I hoped you’d come.
    “Can I get you a drink?” Raphael doesn’t seem to
notice my brain freeze. “Beer, wine maybe?”
    “A soda would be great,” I murmur, hoping he doesn’t
think I’m a kid. The truth is, I’ve never drunk more than
a sip of wine at one of Mom’s dinner parties, or a sickly sweet
cocktail out with the other girls sometimes. With early nights and
practice first thing in the morning, a hangover was never worth the
risk.
    Now, I wish I could sound more adult: order a mixed drink, and sip it
like all the other glamorous girls here tonight. But Raphael just
nods, checking the table. “No soda here, let’s try
inside,” he suggests, nodding towards one of the open doors
leading off the courtyard.
    I follow him through the crowd, now even louder and more raucous.
Raphael places a hand on the small of my back, guiding me beside him.
It’s only a light gesture, barely pressing against my camisole,
but I feel the touch like a tidal wave, crashing through my body,
leaving me breathless and reeling on the shore.
    I want his hands everywhere.
    “So what brings you to Rome?” Raphael asks, leading me
inside. People are clustered here too, hanging out in the rooms that
we pass. He glances back at me. “Are you a student?”
    I pause. “Something like that,” I reply.
    It’s a white lie, I know, but I’ve found out the hard way
that people have all kinds of preconceptions about ballet dancers:
that we’re stuck up and prissy, prima donna rich girls
who don’t know how to have fun. Maybe some of the stereotypes
are true, but tonight, I can’t help desperately hoping that I
can be more than just a ballerina for a few short, sweet hours. That
with Raphael, I can be someone different: exciting, worldly, the
daredevil risk-taker I could never be back home in New York.
    “We just got here last week,” I add, moving on from my
fib. “Today was my first chance to get out and see the city.”
    “And what do you think of it?” Raphael ducks through a
doorway at the end of the hall, and I find myself in a tiny, crammed
kitchen. Every wall is covered with open shelves, jars and saucepans,
and a huge old range takes up half the room. Raphael goes to open the
refrigerator in the corner while I look around, not sure where to
stand.
    “I love it here,” I answer honestly. “It’s
the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. It almost feels too
beautiful,” I add, trying to explain the spell the city has
already cast on me. “Like everywhere I look, there’s too
much to take in. The buildings, the little squares, even the light
here has something magical about it...”
    I trail off, embarrassed to be gushing so much, not cool and removed
like Lucia, and all the other effortless Italian girls.
    Raphael turns back to me, and I feel a rush of relief when I see he’s
smiling in agreement. “There’s no place like it,”
he agrees.
    “Have you traveled much?” I ask. “Your English is
amazing.” I blush. “I can barely string a sentence
together in Italian. Uno espresso per favore, ” I mimic,
shamefaced.
    He laughs. “But that’s all you need. And uno gelato ,”
he adds.
    “Gelato?” I ask. “That’s like ice cream,
right?”
    Raphael clutches his chest and lets out a dramatic groan so loud, for
a moment I think he’s hurt. Then I see the glint in his eye and
realize, he’s just teasing me.
    “Like ice cream?” he repeats, shaking his head. “You
mean you haven’t tried it yet?”
    I shake my head.
    “We’ll have to fix that,” Raphael tells me,
laughingly handing me a cold can of soda. “It will change your
life, I promise.”
    Our eyes catch, just inches apart in the tiny space. My pulse kicks.
I want to tell him that I’ve already had one life-changing
experience this week: seeing him dance in the piazza today.
But it would sound ridiculous, so I bite my