In the Air (The City Book 1) - By Crystal Serowka Page 0,1

father in an abandoned hospital.

Nothing could spoil this euphoric moment. My stomach flipped in excitement. If it wasn't for the noise erupting from the city, I could have heard my heart pounding in my ears. The New York air was humid, leaving my skin sticky. With each step I took, the sounds of crunching leaves and newspaper blowing across the busy sidewalks overloaded my senses.

Hopping off the curb and dodging the oncoming cars, I finally arrived at my destination. I strained my neck to read the bold text written on the glass windows.

Juilliard was finally my reality.

From this day forward, my life would change. No longer would I be in my mother's shadow, striving to fulfill her high expectations. I stared down at my feet, the things I cherished most in the world. The cracked sidewalk beneath them exhibited the wear and tear from students entering and exiting the building through the years. Smiling, I arched my foot, tapping my toes on the cement.

"Are you lost? Do you need some help?"

I heard a low-pitched voice from behind and felt a tap on my right shoulder. Turning around, I was met by light blue eyes and a crooked smile. He wore a white button-up shirt with black Ray-Bans hanging from the neckline, khakis devoid of wrinkles, and a pair of brown oxfords without a scuff in sight. His face, much like his clothing, was annoyingly pristine. His dirty-blonde hair was combed back, each strand in place. Perfect, pouty lips jutted out as he waited for my response. He was the ultimate pretty boy. The kind of guy I never imagined dating.

"No, I'm not lost," I stated. Did I stand out that much from the typical New Yorker?

"Oh, I suspected that was the reason you were staring up at the building in a daze."

The arrogance in his voice bothered me.

"Well, I'm not. I just happened to be admiring my new school," I said proudly. Why did I just tell him that? He most likely didn't care that this was my new school. The look on his face showed my speculations were correct.

"You go to Juilliard?" he asked, his tone hinting at surprise. He laughed while running his long fingers through his hair. "I assumed you were the kid I'm supposed to be mentoring."

I snorted at his ignorance and pointed my finger to the left of the building. "I believe you're looking for one of them."

He turned and noticed the group of children huddled together on the steps. They were all wearing bright orange T-shirts with black, bold lettering that said Big Brothers, Big Sisters. You could spot them from a mile away.

"Looks like we're both lost. See you around, doll." He nodded his head as he turned toward the children and walked in their direction.

Doll? I hate pet names and that is one of the worst.

"You're welcome!" I yelled, unable to control my frustration.

Since I was now a resident of New York City, I would have to become accustomed to bad manners. My family members had warned me that people from New York were rude and full of themselves. Since Preppy Boy and the people bumping into my shoulders every five seconds were the only examples thus far, I had a feeling my family was right.

As I regained my composure, I peered up at the building, effectively dismissing the jerk from my thoughts. The white lettering on the massive slab of glass stood out. I silently read the text over and over, hoping the repetition would be what I'd need to prove this wasn't just a dream.

My life had always been consumed by lifts, leaps, and pirouettes. Immersed in dance my whole life, the decision to become a ballerina was made for me. It wasn't until I was nine that I actually started to enjoy it.

My mother, Frances, was a ballerina until she severely tore her ACL. After months of physical therapy, she realized she would never be able to dance with the same grace. She gave it all up and bought a rehearsal studio. She's been teaching ballet ever since.

When she had me, she believed that she'd created a dancer. Since her own dreams of becoming a prima ballerina were out of the question, her dearest hope was that I would become one someday; that someday was now.

Pointe shoes held me high in the world. When I stood on the tips of my toes, my body spoke what my mouth could not. Dancing defined who I was. It was my own