Atlas Grove, once a dancer with dreams of dancing under the stars, now lives petrified in the shadows of abuse. To escape her living nightmare she must keep her head down and work hard, being her senior year this is her last chance to get out. Altho...
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My feet hit the floor with a loud thud and I groan assessing my posture in the school studio mirrors. I've been working on this goddamn routine for ages and It just doesn't feel right, I keep messing it up. It was good when I practised on Thanksgiving?! I'd spent nearly eight hours in the studio and it was successful, a really great routine but today I just keep messing up. My shoes slide against the floor and the dull ache in my toes reminds me I need to get a new pair of pointes.
I run it through again, better but... not still not good enough. I groan shoving my clammy hands through my hair. The added heat from my long blonde hair on my back does not help the sweat gathering on my neck but it's more effective to wear it down...you know? Like the whole JLo at the super bowl energy. I swipe my clammy hands across my thighs and push them to my sides ready to start again.
The positioning of my body is interrupted by the high pitched ping coming from my phone. I wander over to the speaker it's perched on and press the on button to illuminate a text from Blaze.
Blaze:Where r u Blondie? Brady's doing my fucking head in.
I chuckle to myself imagining Brady sat at the lunch table pissing everyone off. He really is like an excited golden retriever puppy, it's even worse when he's been fed and considering he usually eats his weight in greasy, cold fast food at lunch its no wonder he's so hyper.
Me: Studio.
I hover over the keyboard, biting my lip.
Me: if he's that annoying you could join me?
I kinda need an opinion on this piece anyway
The three little dots tease me as they jump up and down
Blaze: Cool. Wu in 2 buttercup.
I let out a breath I didn't know had tensed me up and frown slightly at his awful text abbreviations, it's taken me sodding weeks to understand what half the shit he says is, what happened to just texting? I lock my phone and place it back down starting up the music again. The melody fills the studio and I let my feet guide me across the floor, straining as hard as I can until see perfection sprinkle out of the tips of my toes.
A loud "Boo" in the middle of my Grand Jetè has me squealing mid-jump. I whip my head around, not realising how close I am to the landing before dropping down onto the floor wrong and crumping into a pained ball. Ouch.
"Shit." I hear a mumble of curse words and then heavy footsteps behind me. A warm hand lands on the back of my long-sleeved leotard and another lands delicately on my arm. "Shit Blondie! I didn't mean to scare you like that, I didn't think you'd be doing the jumpy stuff. Are you hurt? Are you okay?" Blaze waffles off. I open my eyes and run my hands up and down my legs, looking for any visible injury, a dancers worst fear.
