Project Dance

Chapter 8

"You're crazy, you know!" I say, pumping my arms on either side of my body. "It's seven on a Saturday morning, and you dragged me to a Pilates class!"

As usual, I'm having trouble keeping up with Pamela's tireless athleticism. I look over at the other prisoners secluded in this creatively cruel class. I gradually lose hope as everyone around me seems to glide effortlessly through the exercises.

"Oh come on," she retorts. "You're a ballet dancer! You ought to be able to survive a few measly upper body exercises."

"My strength lies in other areas," I grumble under my breath.

"All right, people!" the Pilates instructor, a muscular woman who can't be younger than fifty, calls from the front of the class. "Let's do some more of those double leg stretches!"

I follow suit, groaning slightly. Suddenly, I feel a familiar pain shoot down my knee, and I cry out.

"Cel!" Pamela crawls over to my mat. "Are you okay?"

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. "Yeah, I– I'm fine."

I wince as my knee smarts again.

"No, no you're not," she says, worry appearing in her sky blue eyes. "You shouldn't be feeling any kind of unusual pain right now."

"God. I know." I breathe heavily, laying on my back. 

"Is it your knee?" Pamela asks.

I nod, swallowing hard.

I am trying hard not to think of the possibility that's been lurking in the back of my mind for months. The possibility that my injury might relapse, that I won't be able to recover the next time around. I immediately push those thoughts to the back of my brain.

"Do you want to just leave?" Pamela asks. "We can go back to my house."

I tip my head up, making direct eye contact with the intimidating Pilates instructor, who's glowering at us menacingly for breaking the rhythm of her class.

"Yeah, sure. Before the female equivalent of Rambo over there well and truly kicks our butts."

—

Pamela's house is quiet and tidy, which is what I like about it. She doesn't have any siblings, and her father is out often for business trips overseas, so it's usually just her and her mother. It's fancy, with Turkish rugs and Italian leather sofas and bright mahogany furniture.

Her mother, Emilia, rushes out to greet us. As usual, she's dressed impeccably, in gold hoop earrings, a tailored maxi dress, and a designer cardigan.

"Pamela!" She yelps when she sees us. "Por qué regresas tan temprano?"

"Ma..." my best friend says nervously. "We have a guest."

Emilia zeroes in on me. "Ah. Celeste. Hello."

She refocuses on her daughter. "Pamela, I must rush now. There's leftover Mexican in the fridge. Make sure you two don't get up to any trouble while I'm gone. And for God's sake, take those ridiculous shoes off."

"Bye, Mama," Pamela says with a long-suffering sigh. She looks down at her flashy high-tops mournfully. "Poor guys, always being targeted like that."

She glances back up at me, her faux-pity now wiped completely from her face, replaced by a probing look.

"So. Tell me. What's Liam Bernstein like, anyway?" She digs around in her backpack and pulls out two Hershey kisses.

"Besides being cold and rude and my enemy right now? Well, he's ... talented. Like, he has an unprecedented amount of talent. It's freaking weird." I catch the Hershey that she throws at me.