I collapse onto the couch beside Izzy with a dramatic sigh, still feeling the frustration from my walk home with Bryan. Izzy, in her pink coffee-mug pajamas, looks at me curiously.

"Amber!" she exclaims, her eyes lighting up. "You survived babysitting! But seriously, what happened to you? You look like you got caught in a storm of rage."

I groan, covering my face with my hands. "Oh, you have no idea," I say, my voice muffled. "Bryan walked me home."

Izzy's jaw drops, and she immediately bursts into laughter. "Wait, what? Why would Bryan walk you home? Are we talking about the same guy? Tall, baseball-playing heartthrob with the attitude of a grumpy cat?"

I lift my head from my hands, my cheeks still red from the whole ordeal. "Yes, that Bryan," I say, sighing. "And get this—Lily, the girl I babysat, is his sister. I had no idea until tonight."

Izzy's eyes go wide, and she nearly drops her popcorn. "What?" she shrieks. "Lily is Bryan's sister? Oh my god, that's... that's actually hilarious!"

I can't help but give her a weak smile, though I'm still fuming. "Hilarious for you, maybe. For me, it was the most awkward, infuriating walk of my life. He called me 'Ballerina' and acted like I was ruining his entire existence."

Izzy clutches her stomach, laughing even harder. "Amber, this is amazing. You and Bryan? This sounds like the start of a terrible rom-com. Please tell me you sassed him to oblivion."

I throw my hands up. "Of course I did! But he just kept smirking like he found it entertaining, which made it even worse!"

Before I can continue my rant, I notice Blake sitting at our small dining table, watching the whole thing with a bemused smile. My face turns bright red. Oh, great. More witnesses.

"Uh, hi," I say, waving awkwardly. "I didn't know we had company."

Blake grins. "Hey, Amber. Nice to finally meet you. Izzy invited me over to 'study,' but clearly we're just here for the popcorn and the drama."

I turn to glare at Izzy, who looks entirely too pleased with herself. "You didn't tell me Blake was here," I whisper, and she just shrugs.

"Surprise!" she says, grinning mischievously.

Blake chuckles. "Don't worry, Amber. I already heard about your graceful ballet adventures. Izzy's been telling me some pretty legendary stories."

I groan, hiding my face behind a throw pillow. "This night just keeps getting better and better," I mumble.

Izzy pats my back, still giggling. "Come on, Amber, it's not so bad! And we're about to start our thriller movie marathon. Blake's only staying for one movie, I promise."

Blake raises his hands in mock surrender. "I swear, no more embarrassing stories from me. And no more Bryan talk."

I peek out from behind the pillow, finally giving in with a sigh. "Fine," I say, though my face still feels warm from all the embarrassment. "But seriously, no more surprises. I don't think my heart can take it."

Izzy and Blake both laugh, and as the movie starts, I feel myself finally starting to relax. At least the night is ending with friends, even if it's been one wild rollercoaster.

—---

The morning sun filters through the blinds, casting soft golden stripes over my bedding. I yawn, sitting up and stretching, feeling the grogginess of another busy week. September has flown by, and with all the dance classes, babysitting, and the endless planning for The Little Prince project, my days have been a blur. But even as everything speeds forward, one thing hasn't faded: the simmering frustration I feel toward Bryan.

I groan as my alarm buzzes, reluctantly rolling over to shut it off. It's Wednesday—halfway through the week but still with plenty to do.

I sit up, stretching and trying to shake off the grogginess. My hair falls over my shoulders in a tangled mess, and I sigh, knowing it'll take a bit of work to look presentable today. I grab my phone and scroll for a moment, catching up on the flurry of notifications from our lit project group chat. It's mostly Celeste and Kyle going back and forth about when to meet next. I make a mental note to deal with that later.

Dragging myself out of bed, I walk over to my dresser and start pulling out my outfit for the day. I decide on a white cable-knit sweater—it's cozy and soft, perfect for the crisp fall weather—and tuck it into a black skirt. I add a pair of black tights and my favorite black loafers, slipping white leg warmers over my tights for extra warmth. I leave my hair loose, carefully brushing it until it falls smoothly down my back. I keep my makeup simple: a touch of concealer, a hint of blush, some mascara, and a swipe of tinted lip balm. Cute, but still low-maintenance, I think, giving myself a final once-over in the mirror.

Satisfied, I head into the small kitchenette to grab some breakfast. The space is tiny but familiar, with Izzy's collection of quirky mugs hanging from a rack and a half-empty jar of Nutella sitting on the counter. I toast a slice of bread, leaning against the counter as I wait. The quiet of the morning is soothing, the only sounds being the gentle hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of leaves outside the window.

The toast pops up, and I spread some butter and honey on it, munching thoughtfully while checking my phone. I realize I haven't called my mom in a couple of days, so I decide to catch up with her before I leave for class. I dial her number and wait, listening to the line ring.

She picks up on the third ring, her familiar, warm voice coming through. "Allô, ma chérie!" she says, and I can't help but smile. We always speak in French, a little nod to our roots in Quebec.

"Salut, Maman," I reply, leaning against the counter. "Ça va?" How are you?

"Ça va bien," she says, her voice tinged with laughter. "Mais toi? Tu as l'air fatiguée. Tu dois dormir, c'est important, tu sais?" But you? You sound tired.You need to sleep, it's important, you know?

I laugh softly, nibbling on my toast. "Oui, je sais, mais j'ai tellement de choses à faire. Les cours, les répétitions de danse, et maintenant ce projet de littérature qui ne finit jamais." Yes, I know, but I have so much to do. Classes, dance rehearsals, and now this never-ending lit project.

She sighs, the sound warm and motherly. "Je suis fière de toi, mais n'oublie pas de prendre soin de toi, d'accord?" I'm proud of you, but don't forget to take care of yourself, okay?

My heart squeezes a little at her words, and I feel a pang of homesickness. "Je ferai de mon mieux," I promise, even though I know my schedule is packed. I tell her about babysitting Lily and how I haven't seen Bryan on those nights, conveniently leaving out the fact that he's her brother—I'm not ready to explain that whole mess just yet. We chat a little more before she has to go, reminding me, as always, to eat well and rest.

"Je t'aime, Maman," I say, feeling a bit more grounded after hearing her voice. I end the call, rinse my plate, and grab my bag, ready to tackle the day. Okay, Amber, I think to myself, adjusting the strap of my ballet bag. You've got this. One step at a time.

I head out the door and into the crisp autumn morning. The air bites at my cheeks, and I breathe in the smell of fallen leaves and the faint hint of coffee wafting from a nearby café. The walk across campus is familiar, but the bustle of students always makes it feel alive. My boots click against the pavement, and I adjust the strap of my bag as I make my way toward the Spanish building, feeling both determined and, admittedly, still a little anxious.

Just get through this class, I remind myself, thinking of how I'll have to face Bryan again. The irritation bubbles up, and I roll my eyes at the memory of his smug face. Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be him?

But for now, I push that thought aside, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as I head toward what I'm sure will be another whirlwind of a day.

—---

The Spanish classroom is buzzing with the usual mix of chatter and rustling papers as I step inside, clutching my books tightly against my chest. It's one of those old lecture halls, with rows of worn wooden desks arranged in tiers that slope gently upward. The walls are a pale, uninspired beige, and the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glare on everything. Posters in Spanish line the walls, showing verb conjugations and motivational quotes like, "El que quiere, puede." The air smells faintly of stale coffee and dry-erase markers, a scent I've come to associate with impending panic.

Students are settling in, some laughing with friends, others hunched over their notebooks trying to cram in a last-minute review. I find a spot near the middle, dropping my bag onto the chair next to me. As I take my seat, I can't help but glance toward the back of the room. Sure enough, Bryan is there, lounging with the kind of casual arrogance that somehow takes up twice as much space as anyone else. He's got one leg stretched out and his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes sweeping over the room like he owns it.

Our eyes meet for a split second, and his smirk deepens. He raises an eyebrow, a silent taunt, before turning to say something to the guy next to him in rapid Spanish. I roll my eyes, biting my lip to keep from snapping at him across the room. It's way too early for this, I think.

The professor, Señora Álvarez, walks in, her high heels clicking against the tile floor. She's a formidable presence, with her perfectly coiled hair and sharp glasses that make her look like she can see straight through your soul. She sets her bag on the desk and claps her hands once, signaling the start of class. The room quiets down instantly.

"Buenos días, clase," she says, her voice carrying authority. "Today, we'll be doing a bit of a reality check on your projects. You and your partners should be making progress, because at the end of class, I'll give you the details on what needs to be included in your first outline and progress report. And trust me, you'll need to be prepared."

I feel my stomach drop. Progress report? Outline? My heart starts racing, and I glance over at Bryan again, hoping he looks equally concerned. But of course, he's just leaning back in his chair, looking infuriatingly relaxed, as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

Señora Álvarez begins her lecture, and I try to focus, scribbling down notes even though half of the rapid Spanish words are flying over my head. I steal another glance at Bryan, who's busy doodling something in his notebook, and my irritation flares up. How is he so calm when we're so behind?

When Señora Álvarez finally announces that it's time to discuss our project with our partners, I grit my teeth and reluctantly start gathering my things. I look over at Bryan, but he hasn't moved. He's not even pretending to get up and come over to me.

"Really?" I mutter under my breath, stalking over to where he's sitting. "We have to talk about this, you know."

He looks up at me with a lazy smile, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. "Relájate, Lee," he says, dragging out the words in a way that makes my blood boil. "We've got plenty of time." Relax, Lee.

I cross my arms, trying to keep my cool. "You heard Señora Álvarez. We're supposed to have a detailed outline. And let me guess—you haven't done a single thing."

Bryan's smirk widens. "Aw, don't worry. I figured you'd take care of it, Ballerina." The nickname comes out like a taunt, and I clench my jaw so hard it's a miracle I don't crack a tooth.

"I'm not doing this whole project by myself," I snap, my voice shaking with frustration. "And stop calling me that."

He laughs, the sound low and infuriatingly genuine. "Why? It suits you," he says, switching back to English. "Besides, you're the one who cares about grades so much. Wouldn't want to disappoint."

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "Just because I care about my grades doesn't mean I'm your personal homework assistant," I hiss. "And if you're so fluent in Spanish, maybe you should start contributing."

He finally sits up a bit, the amusement fading from his face. "Claro," he says, his voice turning cold. "Maybe if you actually understood what's going on in class, you wouldn't be so panicked all the time." Of course.

I feel my face flush with embarrassment, but I refuse to let him see how much it bothers me. "Well, maybe if you didn't spend all your time acting like you're too cool to care, we wouldn't be in this mess," I fire back.

Señora Álvarez walks by, giving us a sharp look, and we both go quiet. When she's out of earshot, Bryan leans in, his voice a low whisper. "Fine," he says. But don't expect me to be at your beck and call, Ballerina."

"Trust me, that's the last thing I want," I mutter, stepping back to put some distance between us.

Señora Álvarez stands at the front of the classroom, her hands clasped in front of her as she surveys us all with that no-nonsense look she's perfected. The chatter in the room quiets down instantly, and I feel the tension in my shoulders tighten even further.

"One more thing before you all leave," she announces, her voice cutting through the remaining whispers. "I've noticed that some of you are still struggling to keep up with the pace of this advanced class, which is understandable. Language is challenging. To help with this, I am implementing a tutoring component for those who need extra support." Her eyes sweep over the class, and I swear they linger on me for a moment too long.

My stomach drops, and I glance over at Bryan, who's still slouched in his chair, looking as relaxed as ever. Please, please don't let this be what I think it is, I beg silently.

Señora Álvarez clears her throat, and I know my fate is sealed. "Bryan Munzo," she says, her voice crisp, "since you are fluent in Spanish, I expect you to assist Amber Lee as her tutor. It will be a graded component of your participation, and I want monthly reports detailing your progress and the work you've done together."

The entire room seems to hold its breath, and I can feel every pair of eyes turning to look at me, then at Bryan. My face flushes hot, and I grip the edge of my desk so tightly that my knuckles turn white. Tutor? With Bryan? It's like the universe is playing the cruelest joke on me.

Bryan sits up straight, his casual demeanor evaporating as his eyes narrow. "Wait," he says, his voice thick with disbelief. "You want me to tutor her?"

Señora Álvarez raises an eyebrow, her expression firm. "Yes, Bryan. Since you seem to have time to spare, I'm sure you can handle it. I expect professionalism and commitment. And Amber," she adds, turning her gaze to me, "I trust you will make the most of this opportunity."

I can barely find my voice. "Uh, yes, Señora," I manage to choke out, feeling my face burn with humiliation and frustration. I can't even bring myself to look at Bryan.

Señora Álvarez gives a satisfied nod. "Good. Your first report is due at the end of next month. Make sure you both keep detailed records of your sessions."

The bell rings, signaling the end of class, but I'm frozen in my seat. Bryan stands, shoving his notebook into his bag with more force than necessary. When he turns to me, his jaw is clenched, and his dark eyes are full of barely contained annoyance.

"This just keeps getting better and better," he mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now I get to spend even more time with you, Ballerina."

I glare at him, my own anger flaring. "Trust me, this is the last thing I wanted," I snap back. "But if you're going to make this worse for both of us, you might as well tell Señora Álvarez now."

He steps closer, his voice low and sharp. "Don't tempt me," he says, his tone menacing, but there's a spark of something else there—maybe amusement or disbelief. "Looks like you're stuck with me."

I grab my bag, throwing the strap over my shoulder and refusing to back down. "And you're stuck with me," I retort, pushing past him. "So I suggest you try to be useful for once."

I storm out of the classroom, my heart pounding in my chest.

—-

The cold air feels like a distant memory as I make my way into the familiar warmth of the dance studio, ready to shed the horrors of Spanish class and that soul-sucking encounter with Bryan. As soon as I step inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint traces of rosin wrap around me like a comforting hug, and I let out a sigh of relief. Finally.

In the locker room, I quickly change into my new dance outfit: a fitted lavender leotard with delicate mesh detailing around the neckline and a pale chiffon skirt that makes me feel like a fairy—if fairies had chronic stress and a GPA to worry about. As I pull on my pink ballet slippers, I give myself a quick pep talk in the mirror. "You've got this, Amber. No Bryan. Just pliés, pirouettes, and pretending your life is way more put-together than it is." My reflection, thankfully, doesn't argue back.

I twist my long black hair into a loose bun and head into the main studio, feeling a bit more like myself. The polished floors gleam under the overhead lights, and the mirrored walls reflect the bustling energy of dancers stretching, chatting, and attempting splits that should probably come with a warning label. I spot some of my friends from the dance program, people who've been putting up with my ballet meltdowns since our first year. We exchange exaggerated groans about our sore muscles and laugh about how none of us are ready for today's class.

Mrs. Lawson, our ever-graceful instructor, glides into the room and claps her hands. "Alright, everyone, let's get started!" she calls, her voice like a velvet whip. We jump to attention, and the class begins.

For the next hour, I lose myself in the music, moving through the combinations and feeling the tension in my body slowly melt away. Ballet is like therapy—if therapy involved the risk of falling on your face in front of everyone. But hey, at least it's cheaper. When Mrs. Lawson makes us do a particularly brutal series of turns, I nearly wipe out but manage to recover with what I hope looks like ballerina-level grace. Nailed it, I think, even though Jessie is snickering at me from across the room.

Finally, Mrs. Lawson calls us all to the front. "Before you leave, I have an important announcement," she says, her expression serious. The room goes quiet, and we lean in like she's about to reveal the winner of a reality show.

"In two weeks, we will be holding auditions for The Nutcracker selections," she announces. "We'll have a special guest judge, so I expect everyone to be prepared."

The room erupts into a mix of excited whispers and nervous laughter. My stomach drops. Two weeks? That's the same day I have to present my Spanish project with Bryan, which is basically like facing a firing squad, except with more conjugated verbs.

I groan dramatically. "Two weeks? Are we being punked?" I whisper to Jessie, who laughs.

Jessie, ever the optimist, nudges me. "You're going to kill it, Amber," she says. "I mean, unless you literally fall apart from stress. But you'll look great doing it!"

I roll my eyes but can't help but laugh. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I say, grabbing my stuff. Great, I think, just fantastic. As if I didn't already have enough on my plate, now I have to ace an audition and not strangle Bryan in front of everyone on the same day.

But for now, I try to hold onto the feeling of moving freely, dancing away my stress—even if it's just temporary. At least ballet doesn't talk back or give me sarcastic nicknames.

—----

Thank you so much for reading Chapter Twelve! 🩰✨

I hope you enjoyed Amber's whirlwind of a day. If you're loving the book so far, don't forget to leave a vote and add this book to your library! Your support means the world, and I can't wait to share what happens next. Stay tuned, and see you in Chapter Thirteen! 💜