Free Pirouette by Robyn Bavati Page A

Sam and I. But I told you before, he’s not my type.”
    â€œHe’s mine,” said Simone. Her voice was dreamy.
    â€œ Yours , is he?” Hannah teased.
    Simone threw a pillow at her head. “My type , you idiot.”
    â€œI know that,” said Hannah. “That’s why I set you up with him. Tonight you’re going on a date.”
    â€œNo way!”
    â€œYes way. You’re meeting him at Koko Black at nine o’
clock.”
    Simone tried to ignore the flutter in her chest. “Don’t be stupid! You can’t go setting me up on dates.”
    â€œWhy not?” said Hannah, smiling sweetly. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”
    â€œWhat’s the point?” said Simone. “I’ll never see him again anyway once Candance is over. He probably lives in Queensland or Perth or—”
    â€œMelbourne,” said Hannah.

fifteen
    A little after nine that evening, Simone and Tom were sitting at a table for two in Koko Black.
    Chin propped in one hand, Tom was looking at Simone as if she were the most fascinating person he’d ever met. He kept up a steady stream of questions and Simone fumbled for intelligent answers under his gaze.
    â€œWhat do you think of the hip-hop routine?”
    A difficult question, considering she’d never seen it. Simone shrugged and didn’t answer.
    â€œDo you think the contemporary will come together in time for the concert?”
    Once again, she gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe,” she said, certain he’d think her an idiot incapable of forming a single opinion.
    Tom was watching her mouth as she spoke, and her lip trembled. Did she have a chocolate moustache? Simone wiped her lip with the back of her hand.
    Tom lifted his cup of Chili Hot Chocolate. “Try this.”
    Simone took a sip. That way, she could pretend her cheeks were flushed from the chili, not from the way he made her feel. She passed him her own, milder drink. “Here. Try mine.”
    Tom tasted Simone’s Italian Hot Chocolate. “It has no kick.”
    â€œIt isn’t meant to.”
    Tom began absentmindedly tearing a napkin. “You know,” he said, “you’re different tonight.”
    Simone almost choked on the spicy drink. “Different how?” She pushed Tom’s cup and saucer toward him.
    Tom studied her face and she blushed even harder. “You’re kind of … self-conscious. You remind me of the first time I saw you. You were sort of shy that morning. But by the afternoon you were already … I don’t know, much more outgoing and confident.”
    Simone covered her face with her hands and peeped through her fingers. “Do you think we can change the subject now?”
    Tom laughed. “Yeah, sorry. So,” he said, “how do you like the VSD?”
    Simone found herself shrugging yet again. She really didn’t want to talk about school.
    â€œIt’s supposed to be one of the best dance schools in the country,” Tom continued. “I guess that means you’ve got it made.”
    â€œDoes it?” she asked.
    â€œWell, yeah. I mean, once you’ve had that sort of training, you’ll definitely make it as a dancer.”
    Simone lifted her own cup and gently blew on the steaming
liquid. “First of all, that isn’t true. Dance is an oversupplied industry”—she was quoting Mr. Dixon from school—“and there just aren’t that many jobs around. Second of all, I don’t actually want to be a professional dancer.”
    â€œSeriously? The way you were in jazz today … I’ve never seen anyone dance with so much passion.”
    That was Hannah , she wanted to say.
    â€œHow about you?” she said instead. “Are you planning to be a professional dancer?”
    Surprisingly, Tom shook his head. “Dance is what I do for fun. I wouldn’t want to see it as something I had to do.