8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

" A nd one, two, three, four," Miss Nightingale calls across the studio. In a long line of pink tutus, girls hold the barre and move between positions. Pointed toes, extended arms, confident postures. I'm a few from the end, feeling the stretch from the top of my head to the arch in my feet.

"Turn out your toes, ladies. Remember, ballet is a conversation between body and soul." Her voice reverberates throughout the mirrored room. I watch my own reflection as it obediently moves in tandem with my body. My muscles scream in protest, but it's a familiar pain, one that comes with discipline and determination. One I've learnt to depend on .

"Five, six, seven," Miss Nightingale walks the length of her students as the music swells in the background. We twirl, a continuous wave of pink tulle like petals caught in a gusty wind. The world blurs into a mixture of wood and mirrors, my own reflection rushing back at me as I spin back around. My breath is shallow but steady, maintaining rhythm with the counting in my head. My fellow dancers are echoes of each other—synchronized, poised and focused. A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead, threatening to sting my eyes but I blink it away quickly.

"Eight," Miss Nightingale commands, her tone unyielding. My feet obey before my mind can process the order. Plie, releve, sous-sus. The routine courses through my veins as naturally as my own blood. The burn in my calves is igniting slowly but surely now, rising like a crescendo to meet the burning determination nesting in my chest. The mirrors reflect dozens of identical faces, each etched with the same grimace of pain and intense concentration; faces striving to master an art that demands perfection from imperfect creatures. Miss Nightingale's voice rises above the symphony of exertion.

"Nine! Ten!" She concludes with a dramatic flourish of her hands, sending waves of relief coursing through our synchronized bodies. But mine isn't buzzing with relief; it's victory. The victory of surviving my first week at Waversea.

As we all lower our arms, groans ripple through those collapsing along the edge of the mirror. I find my bag and lower cross-legged, not making any effort to talk to anyone. Whether it's my reputation for being a skilled dancer or a Hughes which has circulated, no one showed me any kindness when I entered the studio. Rather, there were hushed whispers and side glances. I don't care either way; I'm just happy to have a place to dance.

Taking a long drink, I glance at my phone. Meg is on her way back home for the weekend, sending all of the crying emojis that she's not heading to the manor with her pjs and face masks instead. Only a week ago, we were toasting my mom's life in my bed. A single week and I barely recognize the girl with sunken eyes in the mirror. Socializing doesn't suit me, I quickly decide.

At least Garrett's fascination appears to have passed. I haven't so much as seen a basketball player since Wyatt left my dorm room, and I've skipped all of my English Lit classes to avoid Dax. The emails from Mrs. Patrick are becoming rather caps-lock shouty, but I can't bring myself to face him yet. Not because of Wyatt's warning. In fact, due to said warning, I almost skipped in and shoved my tits in Dax's face that very day. Instead, I decided it's not worth wasting any more time thinking about.

Shooting back a message that Meg is welcome to come and take my place here, another notification appears at the top of the screen. The recipient is unknown. Various other cell phones ring out at the same time, causing Miss Nightingale to bark at us all to silence our devices. I hide mine underneath the lip of my bag, opening the student message center.

‘Celebration Party after Freshers Sports Rally. Thorn Manor. Invitation only.'

A round of excited chatter leaks through the girls who have been invited, while those who aren't pout. I can't deny the weird, satisfying sensation I feel from being invited myself. What was I just thinking about hating to be social? Whatever it was, apparently the part of me hoping for acceptance speaks louder. My thumb hits the RSVP button before I overthink the outcomes, then send a screenshot to Meg. She'll be so proud I'm embracing university life. Quickly noting the address is on the same street as Kay's sorority friends, Miss Nightingale snaps her fingers.

"Up you get! Time to go again!" She commands sharply. We reset, taking our positions once more and clinging to the barre for support. The tension is palpable, the room now evenly split by giddiness and envy. Miss Nightingale instructs the pianist to play. "One, two."

I keep my focus steady, feeling my muscles tense and flex with each movement. Right foot forward, left hand stretched out-the motions are second nature. My movements are fluid. Graceful arches, poised extensions. Around me, the room is filled with exasperated sighs as some girls struggle to keep up.

But there's no room for sympathy in ballet. Five minutes under Miss Nightingale's watch and I can already tell she's going to be my favorite. Her face is pinched, her graying bun perfect. In a black leotard and longer skirt, her slender body is flawless despite being around fifty. Beneath her rule, every pirouette will have to be perfect; every leap must reach the heavens. It's grueling, exhausting, and I can't wait.

"Miss Hughes," she calls over at the end of class. I change my shoes, releasing my hair to flow across my shoulders. "Walk with me," she commands, not bothering to wait for a response. My heart finds a rapid rhythm as I rush to gather my things and follow her down the long corridor. It's dim, save for the flickering lights that sporadically illuminate our path. Her sharp heels click against the polished marble flooring, ringing through the empty hallway as we weave past the vacant studios. A gust of cold air toys with my hair as we venture deeper into the building, forcing me to pull my chunky-knit cardigan tighter around my shoulders.

"Your pirouettes are impeccable," Miss Nightingale begins after a prolonged silence. Her voice is crisp and clear, much like her persona. "But your grand jeté needs work." I nod, her critique not altogether unexpected. In the past few weeks, or since before mom's death if I'm being honest, I've let myself slip.

We stop suddenly at a large wooden door. Miss Nightingale rummages through her purse for keys, before pushing it open. Stepping into a room, I brush my fingers over rails filled with costumes of every kind imaginable; ornate tutus covered in sequins, tulle skirts draped over mannequins, feathers strewn about on tables. The scent of old fabric and lingering perfume consumes me. She selects one hanging from a rack - an enchanting piece in a shade of soft rose with silver accents. Holding it against my body, she looks at me with an unreadable expression.

"Have you considered dancing as a career? You could be something special, if you keep practicing." I blink a few times, glancing across the dressing room. I see what this is now. An intervention. My personal dance teacher has given me the same speech multiple times over the years.

"I do love ballet, but no," I push the hanger away. Miss Nightingale's lips purse, the lines around her mouth becoming visible.

"What are you scared of?" Her sharp eyes narrow. Maybe my problems seem trivial to someone who has seen more of the world but I stand by my decision.

"Ballet is like therapy to me. If I do it professionally, it will become laborious. And in the dark times I need the release, I won't be able to lose myself to the music in the same way. It's all I really have that's all mine and no one else can take away." I lower my gaze to the floor, hearing the years of tutors telling me which direction my life should go in echo within my ears. Everyone believes they know what's best for me. "I know you won't understand," I sigh.

"I do, in fact. I also now understand why you're such a natural. You have the drive, the passion." I look up at this, sharing a brief smile with Miss Nightingale I doubt others ever see. She walks towards a row of glittery blazers, picking an invisible piece of lint off the shoulder of one. "Should you change your mind, there's a showcase at the end of the semester with agents coming to watch. The starring role could easily be yours, should you want it."

"Thank you." Setting the dress back on the rack, I spare another moment to stroke the stiff tulle skirt. Perhaps one day I could be this girl, dancing in eight shows a week, attending glamorous parties. I haven't expanded my mind that far before, preferring the safety of the walls I know. There's dangers lurking in the real world, unfathomable pain and horrors I won't survive a second time. But maybe, just maybe, the exhilaration of endless possibilities is enough to outweigh the bad.

It's late in the evening when I leave the studio. The sun has cast long shadows across lively streets, bathing everything in a golden glow. The haunting melody of the piano still rings in my ears. Theodore, as he introduced himself after he stayed late to play for me, smoothly rolled from one classical piece into the next. My every muscle aches from exertion, yet there's a spring in my step as I reach my dorm building.

"Oh hey," Kay looks over her shoulder as I enter. She's holding two mini dresses on hangers and using the window's reflection to hold each one over herself in turn. "Have you seen the posters around? There's a fresher's Sports Rally tomorrow afternoon, and a party afterwards. I'd ask you to come but it's invitation only."

"You mean, this invitation?" I wave my phone. Spinning in a flash, Kay's smile grows, her excitement palpable.

"Nice! None of my friends are going so I was worried I'd be alone. This worked out brilliantly!" Suddenly, she's fawning over me. A small voice in the back of my head tries to break through but I shove it aside. Convenience or not, there's a fluttering in my sternum. I'll be heading out on a Saturday night with my roommate, aiming to get wasted and laugh myself stupid. In the spirit of deciding what kind of girl I want to be, this is a good start.

While Kay finishes picking her outfit, I grab a towel. If my social meter needs to be fully charged for tomorrow, a shower, fluffy pajamas and an early night is in order.

"I have dance in the morning, but we can meet back here and get ready for the rally together? I'll bring lunch." My teeth sink into my bottom lip as those flutters intensify. These are the times I miss Meg the most. She wouldn't have needed the bribe of lunch, she'd have been here regardless. Kay looks over, seeming unsure until a smile breaks across her face.

"Sounds great."