"What are you doing here?" the stranger asked, arms held tightly across his chest. His hair fell over his eyes and he was wearing long jeans, a shirt and scuffed high top sneakers. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he wasn't a dancer.

My mind went into overdrive. This was just what I needed - some disciplinary action to get me sent back home before classes even started. I could see my immediate future; wrists in handcuffs, some man suing me for trespassing, the scholarship guild demanding I resend the award and a life stuck in good old Moscow, a backup chorus girl for some dancer who hadn't trespassed and had kept her ass where it belonged.

Quickly, I realized that the only way I could get out of this was if I lied. I mean, I was a good liar. I had a good enough GPA in my Drama major. I could weave an impromptu script to save myself.

Pursing my lips, I feigned shock. "What are you doing here?" I asked, careful to keep my English straight and clear. Now was not the time to slip with the language.

"Madamoselle..." struggling, I tried to remember a name from the faculty lists I'd read in the brochures,"...Beaufort assured me I'd have the studio to myself for today."

He seemed disbelieving. I took that as a cue and tried to look upset. "I am not going to share with you, if that's what you're getting at."

A few seconds of silence stretched between us before the corners of his lips pulled upwards in a smirk. "I'd have believed you, you know, had Madamoselle Beaufort been an actual Madamoselle and not the football team coach."

My lips clamped shut. Well there went my perfectly worded script. My hand fell to my side and my shoulders slumped forward.

"What are you really doing here? Did you come because we're practicing here? God I knew I shouldn't have let Jack pick the new security detail." Sighing loudly, he left his post and walked towards me. I took two steps back to every step he took forward.

"What?" I stuttered. "No ... well... you not going to expel me, are you?"

He frowned at me. "Why would I get you expelled? Wait, are you a student here? Oh... well that would explain the prissy clothes..." His eyes roved over my leotards and ballet flats. I blushed at the inspection.

"Odd accent though. What is that? Some European country no doubt." The man was talking so quickly that my head was beginning to spin, simply trying to keep up. I knew that I'd have to speak up soon. I couldn't let him get carried away with his assumptions and get me into trouble.

"Russia..." I struggled. "I'm Russian. I am sorry about..." waving a hand around, I looked at the empty room we stood in. "I thought it be empty and that I could... practice here."

The entire sentence took me about five minutes to think and speak. This was frustrating. I hadn't really thought much about this when I signed up for this. I'd been told that I'd be apprenticing under a Russian instructor so I hadn't given improving my English much thought. Speaking to the people around me though, now that was going to be a problem if I didn't do something quick. Making a mental note to sign up for an English bridging class for the year, I wrapped my arms around myself.

Stranger-man's confused expression was relaxing. He seemed to understand me. "You're on that program, aren't you? The scholarship thing."

Sheepish, I shrugged.

"Ok. Well you know what, why don't we just do this all over again? I'll go back outside, and you can leave and we can pretend none of this ever happened."

I smiled at that. It seemed like a rational idea. "Thank you."

He nodded at me and turned to walk back out onto the balcony. I didn't wait for an invitation. Slipping my CD into my pocket, I exited the room and ran up to my room. It was only until I was on my bed, ballet flats forgotten on the floor that my mind replayed the encounter over and over. I thought about all those clever little things that always come too late that I could have said, and sighed when I remembered how the light had caught off his hair and made it seem shades fairer. I remembered how his voice had sounded - a deep monotone that you could easily imagine a rockstar owning - and the deep brown of his eyes. Frustrated with myself, I buried my head under my pillow and let my thoughts run free for a few seconds before clamping down hard.

"School and dance, Anya," I scolded myself, "not boys and fantasies."

And that was the truth. I was there for my dreams, and so that I could make a living for myself and for Papa. Not to find a boy. Groaning, I recalled the last thing the stranger had told me.

"...we can pretend none of this ever happened."

No matter how hard I tried though, I knew it wasn't going to be that easy.