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Chapter 11

With a sigh, Bryn put in his earbuds, cranked up heavy metal, and began to stretch in a corner of the room he had all to himself. Nobody tried to talk to him. Nothing separated the soloists and the principals from the corps until rehearsals, when they’d all be divided up. But it wasn’t the fame, or whatever passed for it, that kept the dancers from being friendly. They knew Bryn’s routine and understood Bryn didn’t want to chat. No dancer dared to interrupt Bryn in any way, except of course for—

One of Bryn’s earbuds was unceremoniously yanked out of his right ear. “Hey, asshole,” said Medea Curincaw. All one hundred pounds of soloist dancer plopped in front of Bryn in full warm-up gear. Her long, curly, dark hair was piled on top of her head in a knot, and last night’s makeup wasn’t quite gone from around her eyes.

“You,” Bryn said dully.

Medea grinned and flashed molars. She looked positively evil when she did that. “Somebody’s grumpy. Must be a day ending in ‘y.’“