The Ballerina & The Devil

One. First Day Butterflies

"There's a perfect form of tragedy when two stars cross up above and an angel and a devil find themselves in love"

-Sydney Esther Their

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Demi, let's go! It's time for breakfast! If you don't eat now we're going to be late!" My brother yelled from downstairs.

"I'm coming," I screeched back, hopping up and down on one foot as I shoved on my right converse. "Give a girl a minute!"

"I've given you twenty!"

I ignored him and continued on with the task of putting on my shoes.

Honestly, what did Deacon think yelling up the steps like a manic every five minutes was going to accomplish? All it did was raise my anxiety levels as well as successfully annoy me.

I wasn't a guy for crying out loud. I couldn't just grab a t-shirt from the hamper, throw on a pair of crumpled up jeans, and call it day. I was a lady. I had to find a decent outfit, do my hair, add a touch of make up to my face and evaluate myself in my full length mirror to make sure I looked acceptable to go out into the world.

Well, today I had to do that. After all, it was the first day of school. The first day of school didn't happen every day, and thank God for that. By next week I could revert to dressing like a total bum from then until June even though I had promised myself I would dress "nice" for the year.

Don't ask me why I even bothered promising myself up and down that I would dress in dresses, skirts, and cute jeans for an entire school year because I couldn't tell you. It's not like it ever happened.

In all my years of attending school I had never once stuck by my dress code oath for an entire year. I was fully aware I was going to be living in sweats and t-shirts for the next four marking periods. It was inevitable, and I was okay with that.

I just didn't have the motivation to make consistent effort. Of course, my mom said on more than one occasion that it was "laziness" that transcended into me not "working towards my full potential to be an active member of society".

My mom could quite literally take any little thing I said to her and proceed to turn it into a huge lecture about why I was such a failure in life, and what I should be doing to better myself.

I finished lacing up my shoes and straightened up. I turned to the mirror to study myself.

I was dressed in a tightly fitted floral top that had sleeves that stopped just at my upper arm. It was tucked into my high waisted, black skater skirt that matched my black converse. The outfit was completed with a thin black belt around my waist that had a cute little bow front and center.

My dark hair was pin straight, and as for make up I had only put on coating of mascara that made my green eyes pop. I hated putting on foundation because it always made my face break out. It also covered up the lightest of light freckles that were sprinkled across my nose and my cheek bones, which I happened to be very fond of. It was one of, if not my only, redeeming physical qualities.

My door suddenly bursted open. I turned to see a built, broad shouldered boy with green eyes and dark hair that matched mine preciously, standing in the doorway looking particularly steamed off.

I crossed my arms across my chest. "There's this thing called knocking, Deacon. You should try it sometime."

"There's this thing called being on time, Demi," he folded his own arms across his chest, which caused his muscles to bulge. His jaw locked, as it always did when he was annoyed. "You should try it sometime."