by V. F. Mason
I have only one goal in mind, and that’s the Juilliard School. To be able to study there… it’s nothing but a dream. I’ve seen videos from the school and their ballet masters and mistresses. It would be an honor to study under them. But I know my family won’t be able to afford it, so I have to get a scholarship.
And for that, I need to be the best, even if sometimes I want to cry from how much pain my feet are in.
Or how on most days it costs me friendships with my friends who have interests outside of ballet and don’t understand my devotion to its “religion” that forbids most of the fun they like to have.
The curtain falls as all the dancers still keep their positions, and finally, once we’re out of the curious gazes, we all relax as Bella laughs, jabbing me with her elbow. “Congrats, girl! It was awesome!”
I grin at her and hug her close. “You were great too! Can you believe this? Our first show where we got to do a solo!” I say excitedly, jumping in place and immediately regretting it as pain travels from my calf to my knee and I wince.
Bella’s watchful eyes don’t miss it, and she murmurs, “You need to sit before someone else notices it.” I nod and we go toward the changing room when a voice from behind stops us.
“Valencia.”
I freeze, my heartbeat speeding up as I slowly turn around and face my father. A shocked gasp slips past my lips. “Dad?” He grins widely, opening his arms, and I run to him with a squeal, ignoring everything and everyone.
I can soak my feet in a hot tub later, but missing an opportunity to greet my dad properly?
Never!
He catches me easily, locking his arms around me tightly. “Hey, munchkin! You were amazing out there!”
I lean back as he palms my face. “What are you doing here, Dad? I thought we’d meet this weekend.”
His gaze softens, as he replies, “How could I miss your performance, Valencia? Even your Mom couldn’t have stopped me.”
I sigh at his words, my chest heaving.
The relationship between my parents is tolerable at best, if Mom’s hostile attitude toward him can even be called that. After their big fight three years ago, she decided to divorce him anyway and never explained her decision to me. We moved out of our house the next week and she rented a small apartment in Brooklyn for us. I had to take the train to get to my school, because I couldn’t leave my dance program. Mom went back to work and refused to take any money from Dad; she even shouted at me whenever I accepted his gifts. Although I stressed over this, I kept declining Dad’s clothes or expensive things, because Mom got too upset and would cry for days, looking at it as if it was a gift from Satan. So on most days, we barely made end’s meet, and I had new ballet clothes thanks to Nora’s mom, who bought them for me too. Mom didn’t argue with her, but silently she cried in her room as she came home exhausted from yet another shift at the restaurant.
Oddly enough, Dad didn’t fight for custody or even argue with her much. He came once a week to pick me up for the weekend and usually took me to a show or galleries. On Sundays, we always attended church, where during the morning service he read to those who listened.
Although their divorce was hard on me, I never asked what happened. I loved both my parents, and if they thought splitting up was the best option, I couldn’t argue with that.
“I’m happy you’re here,” I say, but then add, “but Mom is here and we are supposed to have a celebratory dinner tonight.” I hate how sorrow crosses his face, but he quickly covers it up with a smile. I don’t want to hurt my dad, but I won’t hurt Mom either.
I refuse to choose sides on this.
“It’s all right. We can do it on Friday.” He leans forward and kisses my forehead, lingering there for a second, and my brows furrow.
It’s not like my dad to act so odd and impulsive, breaking the rules that Mom placed on us. “Are you all right, Dad?” Instead of answering, he squeezes me in his arms, holds me there for what seems like forever, and then finally lets me go.
“I love you, munchkin. Always remember that, okay?” Fear rushes through me, but before I can comment, he winks at me, and says, “I better go before your Mom finds out.”
He goes to the doors behind the stage where Mistress Megan let him in, and I call out to him, “I love you too, Dad.”
He looks over his shoulder, nods, and disappears while I’m left standing there alone and confused.
New York, New York
January 2018
Valencia
Entering my apartment, I inhale the fresh smell of peonies and turn on the light. Immediately, my cozy one-bedroom condo comes into view and Bella whistles. “Nice place. Last time I checked, you lived in Brooklyn with three roommates where sweat permanently coated the walls.” She points at my living room and strolls inside, slipping off her sneakers on the way then dropping onto the couch with a loud plop. “If I’d known this, I wouldn’t have checked into a hotel,” she jokes while I just shrug.
I glance critically at my condo as if seeing it for the first time and try to understand her awe, because everything looks relatively modest to me.
The living room is connected with the kitchen through an arch. The counter serves as a table, and that gives me more room and a place to cook, which I love to do while watching famous opera shows on the TV hanging from the opposite wall. A white, spacious L-shaped couch with lots of colored pillows faces a small, oak coffee table. I also bought a matching set of easy chairs in case my family visited and I needed more places to sit. The white walls have different quotes from classic books painted on them in addition to several black and white framed photos of legendary dancers, reminding me every day that those women never gave up and always moved forward.
The bedroom is located in the far corner and doesn’t have anything but a mattress and a closet. I don’t have time to shop for suitable furniture for it, and everything seems so boring—so not me. It has an adjacent bathroom that’s become my favorite place, because I can soak my bruised feet for hours and relax without prying eyes.
All in all, my little place seems like a sanctuary for me and a break from the luxurious life my mom lives, but for my friend… yeah, it’s a different story.
I place the bottle on the counter and fish for the opener, as Bella asks, “I thought you refused using Victor’s money?” She kicks her feet up on the table, groaning in pleasure as she adjusts her back more comfortably.
Oh yeah, that thing didn’t cost three thousand for nothing.
“I still do.” Her brows furrow as she shakes her head, clearly expecting an explanation. “When I turned twenty-five, Dad’s lawyer showed up. He told me that in his will he left me this place, but hadn’t wanted me to know.” I pause, my raspy breath filling the space, because remembering him always brings nothing but pain.
Valencia.
Leave, Dad.
Snapping out of the memory, I clear my throat while continuing to work on the bottle. I need to focus on something. “He had some old furniture here that cost a fortune.”
“How much?” Disbelief laces her words, because Dad was always so freaking modest. While he didn’t mind bringing me gifts on a daily basis, he didn’t even own a car, because he considered it a liability in the city. He rented them if we needed to go somewhere, but that’s about it.
“I sold it for like twenty-five thousand. Something about rare animal and reptile skins or whatever.”
Her eyes widen as her jaw drops. “Get out of here.”
I shrug. “Dad was loaded. I always knew that. But he left everything for charity. Anyway, I clearly didn’t need all his stuff, so I used half the money to buy new stuff and gave the rest to the Dancing Wings.” She nods, because it’s the only thing we both have always agreed on.
The Dancing Wings studio was founded by our very first dance teacher, Miss Patricia, who believed that everyone had talent, but not everyone had the chance to explore it. She created a school that operated solely on donations, and she taught young kids al
l kinds of dances there. Most of them were from poverty-stricken families, and many of them had to wear used clothes. She had several college students who volunteered to help her, and still the school barely survived.
Bella and I stayed dedicated to it and continued to help her until we turned eighteen and went to Julliard. Patricia didn’t tell us things got bad, so we had no idea the studio was about to be shut down due to failure to pay the rent.
But surprisingly, some wealthy guy paid the debt and allowed her to stay, and even gave her a salary. She is extremely happy now, and we help out whenever we can. I just knew in my gut it had to be Victor, because he knew how much it meant to me. Whenever I thanked him for it, he just raised his brows and shared a weird look with my mom as if I’d gone insane. I chose to ignore it, thinking he didn’t like when people expressed gratitude to them.
There is nothing like teaching young minions the beauty of ballet, to discover the dance within them for the very first time, to see happiness instead of constant competition and the worry of not making it.
Come to think of it, Wings is my sanctuary.
Not my studio.
“How long are you staying? I’m teaching KG beginners tomorrow. You can come with me, give your wisdom to the little munchkins,” I tease her and she chuckles, clapping excitedly as I place macaroons on the plate, grab two glasses and the bottle, and join her on the couch.
She helps me pour the drinks, and I finally rest against the cushions, moaning while stretching my toes on the table. “Your favorite ballet mistress is a dragon,” I inform her, and she rolls her eyes as she munches on the macaroon.
“Please. You were always her favorite. I just played by her rules more.” Yeah, right. The woman always criticized everything about me, so I shouldn’t have been surprised with today. I just hoped that if she gave me the part, it meant she trusted me to handle it.
Instead, she fed me the stupid crap about love.
Taking a large sip, I say, “She threatened to remove me from the production.”
Bella’s glass pauses midway to her mouth as she chokes on her food. “What?” She coughs and quickly drinks, washing it away.
“Yep. Told me I suck at showing emotions, and if I don’t get myself together, then bye-bye Odette.”
Bella blinks a few times, then opens her mouth and closes it, and my heart sinks.
No freaking way! “You think so too?”
She pulls her legs onto the couch and tucks them under her while exhaling heavily. “Well sometimes… when we are on the stage… it’s just that you are judging.”
“What?” Of all the things I expected her to tell me, these words are not it.
“Whenever you don’t agree with the story, you show it for the world to see. I mean… you dance perfectly, babe. But you don’t become one with whoever you portray.”
Slapping my forehead, I breathe through my nose, contemplating her words. There is no such thing as criticism without merit in our profession, and as much as I hate both feedbacks, I have to pay attention to them. I’m just not sure what I can do about it besides work harder.
Bella shakes my hand and I blink at her, willing myself to listen to her again. I completely zoned out for a second there. “Max?” she probes, and I freeze, because in all this, I didn’t even think about him.
Sliding lower on the couch, I close my eyes and sip the wine, enjoying the bitter taste and wondering if my phone is still blowing up with messages. I’ve ignored it since this morning. “Valencia, stop stalling and answer me.” Stubbornness and authority coat her voice, so there is no way I can escape this conversation any longer. “He proposed in the middle of the gala. I refused.”
She gasps, her mouth hanging open before she covers it with her hand. “He did what?” Her face at once transforms into annoyance as she lightly pushes my arm, and I chuckle. “I already know that, you dork. Tell me everything else. Mainly why you said no when he is the love of your life.”
I wince at this description, even though she’s quoting the words I said to her in a desperate attempt to convince her to go to Paris. “He’s been with me through everything.” She searches for my free hand and squeezes it tightly, knowing what brings me the most pain. “But besides my gratitude, there is nothing else that holds us together. We have common interests, yes, but that’s about it. We are like day and night, and we…” My breath hitches as I lick my dry lips, forcefully pushing the words out. “We are not compatible. Anywhere,” I finish lamely, and understanding lights her eyes.
“Sex is not good?”
I stifle a laugh that threatens to break free at her question. “More like nonexistent.” She opens her mouth, probably to elaborate on the subject, but I quickly add, “We are just not right for each other. I thought he knew that, but he went and… well, you know the rest.”
She stays silent, rubbing her forehead while I await her next words. I know they will come, and I think about how to give her an answer that will make her feel better, instead of the truth.
Although lying is a sin, I’ve discovered that sometimes a lie can bring peace where truth can cause chaos. And isn’t it important to care for the well-being of the people around you?
“Last year,” she starts, playing with the lid of her wine glass, “when you passed on the opportunity to dance in Paris and proposed me… you told me that you couldn’t bear the thought of being away from Max. That your relationship wouldn’t withstand separation.” She raises her eyes to me, giving me her whole attention. “Did you know you guys were not right for each other?”
I place the glass on the table and rest my cheek on the tops of my knees as I look at her. “Yes.” Pain crosses her face, but she quickly masks it with indifference, taking a large sip, and guilt fills me at the prospect of it. “I couldn’t go to Paris, and everyone insisted and—” God, why is it so hard to search for a believable lie? “My mom is here—”
Suddenly, she stands up, spilling her wine on my fluffy, white carpet, which immediately is stained red. She ignores it, trembling with fury, and gives me her back while taking deep breaths. Finally, she spins around, and my heart sinks as I notice disappointment reflecting in her features. “Oh my God. For once, be honest, Valencia.” I wince at her loud voice; she is really pissed off. “You refused because you knew how much I wanted it. Because I kept telling you it’s my life-long dream to live and work in Paris!” Her hollow laughter breaks goose bumps out on my skin, and not the good kind. “That’s what you do. Sacrifice what you want so that people around you will be happy. You are missing the fact that life is not about pleasing everyone else. I bet you even think that maybe you should have said yes to Max.”
I don’t say anything, just listen silently as she continues to give verbal blows. She doesn’t understand what kind of nightmare I’ve lived in.
What I did, she only knows half-truths, but those half-truths have changed my entire life.
All fight leaves her as she exhales heavily and our stares meet. “Babe, you have to stop. What happened sucks, but you can’t punish yourself forever for this. And maybe the time has come to think of what Valencia wants.” She leans forward to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m afraid I will say something we will both regret, so it’s better for me to leave now. I’ll be at Wings tomorrow.” She takes one last sip and goes to the door, but not before saying over her shoulder, “Don’t even think about going back to Max. Love you.”
The door shuts behind her, as I whisper back, “Love you too.”
I reach for my purse lying on the couch a few feet away. I shuffle for my phone then turn it on. At once, around thirty missed calls and twenty messages arrive, all from my mom and friends demanding I call them back and explain.
Hiding my face between my knees, I’m wondering if it’s possible to screw up my life more than it already is, when the doorbell snaps my attention.
Furrowing my brows, I get up and sc
an the place quickly but don’t find anything that Bella might have forgotten. Unlocking the door, I grin. “Did you come back for maca—” I blink in surprise at finding a bouquet of white peonies in a white basket shaped like a swan.
A single note is attached to the top in a white envelope with a black stamp reminding me of the Victorian Era.
My body freezes, and then my heart gallops wildly against my ribcage as memories from my last performance come rushing back to me.
After those stupid flowers were delivered every single time… I reported them to security and it stopped, but now it’s two months later, and they are here again.
How does he know my address?
I look around and don’t find anyone; the hallway is almost deafeningly silent. With a shaking hand, I pick up the note and quickly take it out, hoping to find anything but cryptic language.
But my hope dies as I read it, and fear sweeps through me.
What does that even mean, and more importantly, why is this person targeting me for his or her sick games?
An angel lived in her bubble truly believing that life is about her art and faith.
She brought nothing but happiness to those who surrounded her.
Until the monster decided otherwise
Lachlan
Wiggling my fingers, I imagine a piano in front of me as my fingers play in time with the music blaring from the speakers. The man behind me groans, disturbing my nirvana. “You know, this behavior will only prolong it. I would really advise you not to piss me off,” I say, and although he shuts up, I hear the chair scraping against the floor as he mumbles something through the tape.
Sighing in exasperation, I spin around to face a man around my age who is pinned to the metal chair situated in the middle of torture room number five.
One of the places I’m proudest of, considering the care and money I’ve invested in the devices here. The room consists of a single chair and several glass walls with expensive insects, spiders, and snakes living behind them. They watch their prey with fascination, especially if they weren’t fed before my little play.