I can’t help but chuckle. It’s what Madame Olenna usually tells aspiring dancers like Giselle. “Acting is a great option. You might even make it to Broadway. Their dancing requirements are… how do you say…? Negligible,” she once told a former student. I can still remember the sizzling red blush in the girl’s cheeks, the realization dawning on her that she might not make it in ballet, after all. When Madame Olenna hands out such a verdict, one can only accept it as the cold, hard truth.
I go through my usual warmup routine, making sure to have my ankles on point. I practice my arabesque and attitude, then move through the more complex moves, practically gliding through my grand Jeté. Lorna scowls at me, while I smile whenever she does a better penché. To this day, I still can’t understand why we girls are so mean to one another. What’s the point, if we’re all dancing? Then again, I doubt any of my colleagues had the fortune of a mother as incredible as mine. Maybe that’s why she died so young… Maybe she was just too good for this world, so the universe decided to take her away before she stole its shine.
The auditions begin, and some of the boys go first. Elan Santera nabs the role of the Mouse King. I reckon he’ll make a wicked-good villain. Zack James III, the ever-pompous still-in-the-closet-with-no-intention-of-coming-out asshole is chosen as the Nutcracker. I’d slap the daylights out of him on account of his mouth talking without his brain, but he’s one hell of a dancer. If I get Clara’s part, it will be a pleasure to share the stage with him—provided he doesn’t push me to kill him, first.
“Alright… So far, so good,” Madame Olenna says after ten dance routines, making additional notes next to the names on her list. “I’d like to weed out the Snowflakes, next… Girls, team up in groups of five and give me the Waltz.”
I’m confused, all of a sudden. And I’m not the only one. Around me, glances are exchanged, one more baffled than the other. This isn’t usually how the auditions go, at least not as far as Madame Olenna is concerned. She usually selects the main parts and then moves on to the auxiliary cast. I’m not worried, but Madame Olenna has a certain aversion to change, in general… which is why this whole moment is rather odd.
“Madame Olenna, I thought we would each audition for the part we wanted,” Giselle replies, hands behind her back. Her boobs stretch out the pale blue leotard, capturing the attention of the four straight males in this training hall. “I was going to try for Clara…”
Madame Olenna laughs lightly, throwing her head back for an additional splash of drama. “Oh, darling,” she says, thickening the r’s and v’s. “You are very brave. But I’m afraid there can only be one Clara, and before I get to her, I cannot waste my time with twenty girls going for the same part, especially when more than half of you can’t even do a decent Pirouette. Now, please… in groups of five. The Waltz of the Snowflakes.”
Her tone drops a couple degrees, and we all know she’s done taking objections. I decide to give it my best. I’m angling for Clara, but if the worst comes to happen, I want to make sure I make a damn fine Snowflake, too. Channeling a mental image of my mom, I walk toward the center of the training hall. Looking left, then right, I expect to see four more girls joining me, for the first round, while Paul, who’s playing Drosselmeyer, hits the play button on the Bluetooth speaker.
Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Snowflakes inundates the room. My breath is ragged as I stop and assume the first dance position. Soon enough, other girls join me—Giselle and Lorna included. We’re to move in unison, otherwise we’re all screwed. We’ve been training together for years, though. It might be our first time doing the Nutcracker, but the work ethic is all the same. We know the moves and the rhythms already. We’ve practiced for months, taking turns playing Clara and the other characters. We’ve got this… or, so I hope.
Madame Olenna flashes a bright smile, her attention fixed on me. I knew she’d appreciate the initiative, especially when she throws us such demoralizing curve balls.
“Try not to stumble and mess up our routine,” Giselle whispers, looking at me.
I grin coldly. “Mind your spaghetti legs, Elaine Bennett.”
Doubting she caught the Seinfeld reference, I turn my head to face Madame Olenna as she gives us the go-ahead with a swift flick of her bony wrist. We start dancing, and my legs are in perfect harmony with the rhythm, my body arching and swaying to the melody. I’m only a Snowflake now, but I make sure I’m the prettiest of them all.
Ballet is almost effortless to me. Every stretch, every step, every arm extended toward the heavens… it’s as if my entire being was designed specifically for this endeavor. Without it, I am nothing. I have never envisioned a future that didn’t show me in a dazzling tutu, flying across the stage and mesmerizing people with endless pirouettes.
This is who I was meant to be.
This is who I am.
My mother would be proud.
The five of us move at the same time. Our synchronicity is noticeable, and I catch glimpses of faint smiles from the other dancers. We turn left, then go through an échappé, followed by a développé à la seconde. It’s going somewhere, I can feel it! The music, the motions. I’m no longer of this world, taken away by the dance, my mind, body and soul wrapped in every aspect of it.
Another développé as I draw my working leg up to the knee of my supporting leg. Something hits my ankle, rocketing me back down to real life. My head hasn’t fully caught up with what’s happening yet, but what I do know is that my feet are slipping and they’re slipping fast. Sharp pain shoots through, all the way up my calf. Soon enough, it’s not just my feet that aren’t doing what they’re supposed to be doing. My entire body is betraying me, crashing to the ground. I cry out, sheer anger burning me alive as I hit the surface with a heavy thud.
Gasps erupt.
Mouths fall open.
Eyes squint themselves together.
And everything. Absolutely everything comes to a sudden halt.
“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry!” I hear Giselle say, but her tone is flat. I can’t even understand what’s happening. I don’t understand the pain. The looks I’m getting. The tears that are pooling in my eyes. I grip the ankle of my supporting leg, gritting my teeth together to bite back the monstrous cry that threatens to rip me wide open.
How did I end up down here?!
How the hell did I end up down here?
“Kira!” Madame Olenna exclaims. Her rose perfume fills my nostrils as she reaches me and kneels by my side. She looks just as terrified as everyone else. Almost as terrified as I feel. My ankle is throbbing. Searing pain ripples outwards and upwards, making my calf muscles twitch.
I break into a cold sweat. The air is impossible to breathe. Everyone has gathered around me, tightening this circle of shame.
“Get some ice!” Madame Olenna roars. I’ve never seen her look more terrified and that terrifies me even more.
Gently, she rests a hand on my left shoulder, guiding me into a fetal position. The laminated parquet pressing against my entire right side does nothing to quell the pain. This is a fucking nightmare. It’s more than a sprain, I can feel it. I’ve never felt pain like this before. Something might be broken…
“I’m so sorry, Kira,” There’s Giselle’s voice again. Despite the fact that she’s saying she’s sorry, there isn’t a hint of an apology in her tone.
I look up at her. Hate oozes out of me as I notice the twinkle in her eyes. She’s enjoying this. “You bitch! You fucking, scheming bitch!” She fucking did this on purpose. She’s the one who made me fall.
“It was an accident! I slipped!” Giselle replies. If only there was an inkling of guilt in her voice, in her whole demeanor, then I might believe her.
“Enough!” Madame Olenna barks. “Giselle, Lorna, to the side. I’ll be talking to you later. Paul, call an ambulance.” An ambulance? Why the fuck do I need an ambulance? I’m shaking my head, still biting back the tears. Madame Olenna rests her hands on me again, trying to soothe, me. “Kira you need to get to
the hospital as soon as possible, love. It’s starting to swell…”
At the sound of that word, I raise my head to get a better look and— “Oh, Jesus!” I croak, observing the lump growing, expanding where my ankle is supposed to be. The skin is red and purple. It hurts so goddamn much, I can barely keep my eyes open. Soon enough, I’m bound to pass out. My breathing is shallow.
This is a fucking nightmare…
“Madame Olenna,” I manage. “Is it broken?”
I can hear whispers. Threads of gossip are already forming, eager to feed the entitled population of Trinity High.
That Kira Malone girl… Yeah, the real estate tycoon’s daughter. Oh, man, she slipped and broke her ankle while auditioning for the Nutcracker. Yeah, she’s fucked. You don’t come back from a fractured ankle. That’s the end of her career, right there.
Madame Olenna takes another look at my leg. I don’t dare do the same. It might swell up to the size of a football if I give it any attention. It feels like a sentient organism of sorts. My downfall, coming way too soon…
“It’s not good, Kira, I’m sorry,” Madame Olenna replies, and the tremble in her voice tells me everything I need to know.
Losing control over myself, I burst into tears and fail to gather my composure, now splattered across the floor. I am broken, far beyond that ankle. I’m a bird with clipped wings, a fish without his fins. This isn’t just about this one dance. This isn’t just about the Nutcracker and the chance of playing Clara. It isn’t just about the chance to meet the Julliard recruiter this one time. It’s about all my chances. All the moments after every other moment. All the dreams I’ve had. All the dreams I won’t get to have anymore. Because I know it. If my ankle is broken, there really is no working my way back to perfection. And even if, by the grace of something holier than Thou, perfection doesn’t remain unattainable, the time it’ll take to get there…
I bite back another sigh, my mind pumping, calculating, trying to hold onto even the thinnest thread of hope.
A break carries a minimum sentence of eight weeks in a cast.
Add to that the recovery time, the physical therapy and gradual return to a warmup routine… I am screwed. I’m looking at three months or more of no dancing, unless I want to damage my ankle more and beyond repair.
I’m crying so hard, I wheeze and cough and sniff, struggling to make sense of what future lies ahead of me, now. How fickle the life of a dancer can be… One minute you’re gliding and moving to the music… the next, you’re in pieces, on the floor, helpless and drowning in pain and shame.
“I’m sure it will be okay,” Madame Olenna says. “Your body is young. It will heal.”
I can’t even process that sentence. I can’t accept it. The pain is fucking unbearable, rising into my throat like putrid bile. I’m sick. I might throw up.
The ambulance arrives, and I’m moved on to a stretcher. The paramedic checks my vitals before shooting a small amount of painkiller directly into my bloodstream. Within seconds, every muscle in my body relaxes. I’m all mushy now. Compliant. Madame Olenna tells him I’ve been screaming for the last twenty minutes. I think she’s right. My throat is coarse, as if I’ve just swallowed a truckload of sand.
I give the paramedic my name as he lifts the wheeled stretcher and pushes it out of the training hall.
“I’ll call your father,” Madame Olenna says. “I’ll see you at the hospital, Kira. Stay strong!”
Stay strong. What the fuck does that even mean? How do I stay strong? My ankle’s the size of a bleepin’ watermelon, and the only thing that’s stopping me from screaming my lungs out again is whatever tranquilizer the paramedic just gave me.
It’s like watching a movie. A bad one, in which I never intended to play.
I’m taken out into the main hallway, where more gasps and murmurs await. Oh, my gosh! Is that Kira Malone? Holy hell, what happened? Shit, look at the size of that thing! Poor girl…
Tears come up to my eyes, an endless stream that barely scratches the surface of how I’m feeling. This is it. This is where it ends for me. It has to be. It feels that way, at least.
“An X-ray will tell us more,” the paramedic says, blandly trying to comfort me.
It’s the apocalypse for me. I doubt he understands what this is like. I was supposed to play Clara in the Nutcracker! The Julliard recruiter was gonna be so impressed that he’d come to me after the show just to shake my hand! My dad was going to have to eat an entire humble pie for all the times he’s told me I’d be better off focusing on business management instead of doing pirouettes around the house. But that’s a fantasy now. It’s… It’s not fucking real.
I manage to glance around for a bit, enough to observe some of the worried or shocked faces. Among them is Elias Dressler.
“What the…” I whisper, suddenly realizing he’s a foreign element.
What the fuck is he doing here? He doesn’t go to Trinity High. My father made sure we’d never cross paths, though he has failed several times. Could this be one such instance? Judging by the manila folder under Elias’s arm and his elegant three-piece navy-blue suit… I think it is. I think the universe isn’t done beating me down yet.
I think I’ll have more problems on top of this broken ankle, soon enough.
Elias looks at me, his brow furrowed as he watches my dramatic exit. I leave Trinity High behind, knowing there will be a lot to unpack once I get back. If… I get back. All I see is darkness and misery ahead.
If I can’t dance… I can’t do anything. I’m useless.
And if Elias is here… then I’m all the more screwed, because that bastard will ruin the parts of me that manage to survive.
2
Kira
A day has passed, and my dad hasn’t been around to see me. To say that he’s an absolute prick would be an understatement, but it’s not the first time he’s done this, either. There’s a part of me that knows he means well and that he cares about me; a part of me that believes that being my father means that he has to. Would it fucking kill him to show it more?
I steady a breath in my lungs and try like hell not to think about my mother or just how much I wish my father had been taken in her place. Losing a parent is hard. Losing the wrong parent is even harder. Ballet was one of the last things I had left of her and I’m pretty fucking sure I’m on the road to losing that too.
My ankle is broken. A thick cast is tightly strapped around it. The pain continues to pulsate outwards, like a dim but persistent fire. The painkillers are really good, though. Thank the stars for our private insurance, the doctors don’t feel the need to skim on the drugs. I admit, I’m pampered as a human being. I’m just not sure I’m also loved. Sometimes I wonder if one can ever have both.
I’ve been crying on and off since the cast was put on. The nurse is kind, checking in on me every other hour. She’s trying to get me to eat, and so is my stomach, but I’m in no mood. I’d sleep, but my mind keeps going back to that moment. How the fuck did I end up on the floor? How… Did Giselle trip me? What are the odds that it really was an accident, considering the dance routine? Giselle wasn’t supposed to be so close.
My phone is flooded with text messages and Get Well Soon wishes, mostly from classmates. Janelle – my only true friend – is on her way. She can watch me bawl like a little girl, because I feel another wave of tears coming up as the main conclusion takes center stage again. I missed my moment with Julliard. I will not be dancing as Clara in The Nutcracker. I will not be dancing for at least six months, according to the doctor. God, I’m so miserable…
This is one of those moments when my mom would’ve made the difference between despair and hanging on to hope. I’m in a pit, hope so far out of sight, I can’t even imagine what it might look like. My stomach churns, hunger gnawing through it like a furious rat, but I know that I’d throw up whatever I try to eat. My nerves are stretched too tightly. My heart broken beyond repair. And my ankle throbbing, permanently reminding me of my physical degradat
ion.
I replay the incident in my head, over and over. It just doesn’t click for me. How did Giselle get close enough to “accidentally” trip me?
The door opens, and I find myself in shock.
My dad comes in, wearing a faint smile and a deeply furrowed brow. His tie is loose, the collar of his white shirt unbuttoned, his dark green jacket perfectly fitted over his broad shoulders. The man hit fifty, but he can still rock the business casual almost effortlessly. There’s salt and pepper in his hair and fine lines around his blue eyes—the only signs that time spares absolutely no one.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, slowly, as if not to disturb anyone, closing the door behind him. He’s probably aware that I’m pissed off, since it took him a fucking day to come see his only daughter. “Sorry I’m late. It’s been meeting after meeting. But I called the hospital and gave them all the information to make sure you’re well taken care of.”
Late? Seriously. This isn’t just late, this is…this is…proof that I’m not his fucking priority.
“How fatherly of you,” I grumble, looking away. I can barely stand the sight of him right now, and there aren’t enough painkillers to stifle the ache nestled inside my very soul.
Mom was so good at this kind of stuff. Mom would have been here before the ambulance had a chance to wheel itself inside the parking lot. Mom would have held my hand through every moment, she would have caught every damn tear that fell from my eyes.
Silence falls between my father and me. For all his faults—of which there are so many, at least he has the decency not to try other excuses. I suppose the Father of the Year award will go to somebody else, as always.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, likely realizing that he’s not going to get much out of his daughter if he waits for her to say something, instead.
“Like shit.”
“Language, Kira,” he replies, all fatherly and whatnot. There’s a lot of resentment brewing inside me, as far as William Malone is concerned. I will forever be thankful for him raising me, but that’s about it. I cannot consider having grown up with a real father, but rather the guy who had no choice but to take care of me after mom died. Sometimes, I doubt he’s capable of any empathy at all. I don’t think he even cried at mom’s funeral…
Trinity High: High School Bully Romance Page 26