Dark Turns (8 page)

T
he cell alarm buzzed beside Nia’s head. She slapped at the phone, face still pressed to her pillow. After a minute, she rolled up to a sitting position and glanced outside the window. A blue sky sparkled outside. The late morning sun had chased away the rain clouds.

She felt more tired than before. The taste of the sleep had made her hunger for a full eight hours. That was the problem with naps. Sometimes they refreshed, but if you were really exhausted, they just wiped you out.

She rose from the bed, body cracking like popping bubble wrap. The time on her phone indicated that it was 11:40 a.m. She had to get to the lunchroom.

She splashed water on her face and slipped into leggings and a tunic. The outfit worked outside of dance class and would be fine for later when Ms. V and Battle wanted her to demonstrate choreography suggestions. Her toe shoes were still in the studio.

Her ballet flats sat beside her door, as sad and soggy as a wet newspaper. Sneakers would have to do. She pushed her feet into a pair of tennis shoes and stepped out of the room.

“Hey, Nia.”

Aubrey smiled as she locked her door. With all the running around, Nia hadn’t realized that her own student lived next door. She made a mental note to introduce herself to the girls on her floor.

“Hi, Aubrey. I didn’t know we were neighbors.”

“Yeah. I’m always next to the RA.” She snorted. “Guess my mom likes people keeping their eye on me.”

The mom that never came to see her? Nia listened for any bitterness or sarcasm in Aubrey’s tone. The girl sounded nonchalant, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care. Teenagers made it their business to sound as though everything was no big deal.

“You have a minute?” Aubrey asked.

In truth, no. She had to get to the cafeteria, all the way on the main campus, before lunch started at noon. But Aubrey was her student.

“Were you heading to lunch? I have to be at the student cafeteria but would love company on the walk.”

“We all have to eat.”

Aubrey led the way down the steps and out into the courtyard. In her uniform, the schoolmarm skirt shortened a few
inches to show off ballet-sculpted legs, the girl was a walking advertisement for prep school. Aubrey continued to walk a few steps in front of Nia as they crossed the crowded quadrangle. Whatever she wanted to discuss, she didn’t want to do it during the walk. Maybe she figured they would talk over lunch.

Nia guessed that Aubrey wanted to ask questions about auditions. She’d have to decide this year whether to sign up with a major company or go to college. Maybe she wanted to know why Nia hadn’t been accepted into the New York City Ballet. What better way to learn than from others’ mistakes?

Aubrey veered suddenly off the cobblestone path and onto the grass. She called over her shoulder. “I know a shortcut.”

Nia followed her into a narrow area behind the girls’ residence. She smelled garbage. A large dumpster sat beneath a square hole in the building, its contents broiling in the sun. This was where the trash chute let out.

Aubrey turned to face her. “So you found Lauren’s body?”

The girl had brought her here, away from other students, to ask about Lauren’s murder. Stirk’s warning replayed in Nia’s mind. But she couldn’t pretend not to have seen the body. She’d already confessed to half the class.

“The dean doesn’t want me to talk about it.”

“The cops arrested Theo, though. So they think he did it. Do you know why? Did the police find anything near the body—hair or skin—to tie to the murderer?”

“You mean, did they find DNA?”

“Or anything else.”

The intensity of Aubrey’s stare bothered Nia. She tried to guess what was fueling it. Had Aubrey known Lauren? She had, apparently, been with Theo. Did she think he was innocent?

Aubrey’s mouth twisted. She covered her eyes with her hand and sobbed, suddenly. “I’m sorry to have to ask.” Her
hand fell to her mouth before reaching out to Nia. “I was, um, kind of involved with Theo over the summer. Things didn’t end well. It’s frightening to think he might have hurt Lauren and that maybe, if I’d stayed with him, he would have hurt me instead.”

Aubrey bit her bottom lip. She looked up and scrunched her brow, as though struggling to hold back tears.

“I’m sorry, Aubrey. I wish I could help. I don’t know whether or not Theo did it.”

“So you didn’t see the police gather any evidence to indicate Theo did it? They didn’t collect anything?” The girl blinked rapidly. “It’s just, I need to know. I can’t sleep thinking I might have come so close . . .”

Nia tried to put herself in her student’s shoes. How would she feel if police had accused Dimitri of murder? Of course she’d want as much information as possible. Stirk had said the RAs should help the students. Aubrey didn’t need platitudes. She needed answers.

“I heard that the cops think he did it because he sent a text message asking to meet Lauren at the boathouse and that he doesn’t have a good alibi for his whereabouts Saturday. I didn’t see anything by Lauren’s body that they could tie to anyone, but I didn’t stay that long.”

Aubrey sniffed. Nia didn’t see any tears, but if Aubrey were anything like her, she wouldn’t cry in front of a stranger.

“Even if he did do it, he can’t hurt you. The police have him.”

The girl exhaled. “Thanks. I better let you go. Lunch already started. The cafeteria is up that way.” She pointed to the road. “I’m going to wait for Joey. I just feel better when he’s around.”

Nia recalled the boys’ lewd remarks from breakfast that morning. The poor girl probably didn’t want to eat alone.

Aubrey hurried back toward the quadrangle. Nia watched her go, wondering whether she’d helped her student or just hurt herself by spilling her guts. She turned in the opposite direction and headed up the road.

*

Nia pushed the pasta on her plate with her fork. The acidity of the marinara sauce reminded her of the garbage. Nerves had squelched her appetite. She’d disobeyed Stirk’s multiple warnings to keep quiet. The dean could fire her for insubordination if word got out.

She needed the health insurance to fix her foot. If she didn’t get the shot, she wouldn’t be able to get back in shape in time to audition in January. Even worse, her condition could deteriorate further. She was already walking, running, and dancing on an injured foot. What if the tendon burst? Her career would never recover.

The prospect made her physically ill, and the cacophony in the cafeteria wasn’t helping to calm her nerves. She withdrew her phone, looking for something to distract her.

She hit the search application. A blank, rectangle box appeared beneath Google’s multicolored icon. What could she search for? She answered the question with another. Would Aubrey tell the dean? She knew a little about the girl. The search engine would know more.

She typed in “Aubrey Burn, Wallace.” The all-knowing Internet giant refined her query: “Did you mean Aubrey Byrne, Wallace?” She selected the corrected spelling.

A row of pictures topped the page. In each, Aubrey held a different plaque of some kind. A dozen links followed. Nearly all appeared to be press releases about awards and accolades. Aubrey had won a national science competition. She’d been accepted into Mensa for an IQ of 152. And she’d
been admitted to American Ballet Theatre’s summer intensive for the second year in a row.

One link read, “Dancers do IT best.” What was
it
? Nia could guess, but she clicked on the link anyway. She wouldn’t watch the video. But she did want to see if it was still up. Maybe she could help Aubrey get it removed.

A site opened with a large media player. Instead of a still image in the box, a message sat stamped in the center. “This video has been removed due to violation of the site’s policy on nudity and sexual content.” Beneath the video was a counter. It had 25,000 views.

For a noncelebrity, the number was massive. The school only had about a thousand students.

Nia hit the back button, returning to the page of Aubrey links. More awards, pictures of beaming teachers with arms draped around the sloped shoulders of their prized pupil. Aubrey’s parents were not pictured or, judging from her scans of the articles, even mentioned. Wasn’t Aubrey’s mother alive?

Nia clicked the “next page” button. One link stood out from the list of academic societies, a
New York Times
article from nearly nine years earlier titled “Lifesaving Surgeon Dies in Crash.” Nia clicked.

Nia stopped reading. Many teenagers lost parents, but Aubrey’s father had died in a particularly sudden, horrible way, right in front of her. Nia scanned the article for survivors. His daughter, Aubrey, and a two-year-old son were listed along with his wife, Nicole Withers, an attorney with Bingham, Meyers, and Young in Manhattan. No uncles. No aunts. No grandparents.

Nia typed in Aubrey’s mother’s name into the search box. A headshot of a striking blond woman topped several pages of links. Most were related to Philip Byrne’s death. Several, from before the father’s accident, linked to precedent-setting bankruptcy cases. Aubrey’s mother either hadn’t done anything notable since her husband’s death or had ceased working altogether.

Nia tried to imagine the woman in the photo: privileged, successful, unaccustomed to tragedy. What would a woman like Aubrey’s mother do after losing her husband? Would she become drunk and depressed, barely able to care for her young children, forcing her genius daughter to mature early? Or would she remarry and ship her eldest to boarding school, starting a new life free from painful memories?

Nia put her phone on the lunch table. Poor Aubrey. Her father dies in front of her. Her mom abandons her. And, after all that, her ex-boyfriend is arrested for murdering his last girlfriend. No wonder teachers tried to look out for her.

Tragedy stalked Aubrey Byrne.

N
ia shoved half a protein bar into her mouth as she walked across the girls’ quad to her apartment. Her lips could barely close over the volume of food, but she already wanted another one. Why hadn’t she bought more bars at the faculty cafeteria? She needed the calories.

Grueling didn’t begin to describe the choreography session with Ms. V and Battle. The pair consistently disagreed on the moves the students would be capable of performing. They’d demanded she run through variations on dozens of combinations, arguing all the while.

Ms. V championed less intense choreography. The instructor envisioned a stage filled with pretty ballerinas performing facile positions that, when in sync, looked impressive. Battle wanted to push it. He imagined each girl showcasing a mastery of intermediate and advanced techniques. The parents,
he’d maintained, donated to the dance program when they saw their kids performing like professional soloists, not members of the corps.

In the end, the pair had struck a compromise. The majority of the students would execute pretty, synchronized steps; two female students would perform challenging pas de deuxs with Alexei and Joseph; and one star pupil would command the stage for five minutes with a dance filled with bravura: pointe work, fouetté turns, petite allegros, grand jetés, and an arabesque penchée.

Her sneakers squeaked up the stone steps leading to her building. It had rained again sometime that evening, painting every surface with a slick of water barely visible beneath the dorm’s outdoor lights. She slowed. One bad slip could do in her Achilles for good. A dancer’s feet were her prized possession. She’d sooner lose a hand than a toe.

Her pocket buzzed. She’d forgotten to call her mother back. Her thumb swiped the screen as she pulled it from her pocket. She’d inadvertently answered.

“Hello? Nia?”

Dimitri’s voice slipped from the speakers. The sound of it stopped her breath. She wasn’t ready to talk to him. But what could she do? Hang up?

“Nia?”

Her stomach felt hollow. She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“It’s Dimitri.”

“Hi. Um, it’s been awhile.” She forced air into her voice. She needed to sound light and preoccupied, not sad and shocked.

“Yeah. Too long.”

She couldn’t murmur agreement. She wouldn’t show any sign that she’d pined for him for the past year. She needed
to continue climbing the steps. The motion would make the conversation more casual.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Good. Good.” She added more conviction to the second word.

“I saw that the Janet Ruban troupe would be in New York City. Your mom had said that you were performing with them. I thought, maybe, we could get dinner while you’re in town and talk.”

Nia bit her lip. So he’d called to catch up because he’d seen that her small, former dance company would be in his neighborhood. He’d probably wanted to boast about his great life working with the New York City Ballet.

“I’m not with Janet’s troupe anymore.”

“Oh. Where are you?”

She surveyed her surroundings. Moonlight reflected off of the magnolia trees lining the courtyard, making their broad, wet leaves shine like crystals. The girls’ dormitories resembled a sprawling, gothic castle. She was teaching at a beautiful, prestigious school. But she was still teaching. At her age, not dancing was failure.

“I’m actually an instructor at Wallace Academy. You know, the boarding school in Connecticut? They—”

“Are you okay?”

The concern sounded genuine. She didn’t care. She didn’t want his sympathy. Above all, she didn’t want him to feel sorry for her. Pity was worse than rejection.

“Yeah. Of course. They just offered me a really great deal to teach for a year. Anyway, I was a bit tired of all the traveling with Janet’s troupe, so I thought, why not? The students are very impressive. Most of them will go on to major companies, and I’m really involved in the choreography of the biannual shows, so I’ll be able to add that to my résumé. Plus
I’m getting to work with Ted Battle. It’s been great, like having a master class on grand jetés every day. When I go back to audition next year, I think all this experience will really put me in a better position.” She spat out the sales pitch in one breath, afraid that a pause might sap her courage to go through with it.

“You should be here. You’re better than these girls.”

The compliment needled her. If she’d been better, then she would have gotten picked for NYCB’s company.

“I’m sure they’re just fine.”

“Yeah, well . . . I thought you were still traveling. I miss you.”

The three words sounded stale. She’d waited to hear them for months after their breakup. She’d imagined him surprising her at a show with roses and a teary-eyed apology for caving to his parents’ lectures about the perils of settling down young.

“I could drive up to Connecticut. Saturday, maybe?”

“They keep me pretty busy.”

“I want to . . . We should talk.”

“We are talking.”

“In person. I want to see you.”

No. He would have the advantage in person. The sight of him would weaken her. She would let her attraction to him blur the only fact that mattered: he’d wanted to see other people. He’d said he wanted her, only her, forever. Then he’d changed his mind.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

“Do what?”

“How about I come up Saturday? We can go to brunch. I’ll take you—”

“I don’t think I’ll have time. There’s so much choreography to—”

“So you don’t ever want to see me again? Is that it?”

Panic gripped her chest. They’d never said anything that final. “No. It’s just they keep me busy. And—”

“I’ll come up Saturday. Say, ten o’clock?”

Dimitri wouldn’t give up. When he wanted something, he kept after it. She’d admired his persistence in dance school. Now it overwhelmed her. “Okay. I guess it will be good to catch up.”

“Yes. I’ll see you Saturday. I love you, Nia.”

The dial tone rang in her ear. He’d hung up before she could reply. She was glad that he had. She was afraid of what she might say.