𝔄𝔠𝔱 𝟙: 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝟙
𝕰𝖑𝖎𝖆𝖓𝖆
"And five, six, seven, eight. Plié, tendu front. Close. Tendu side. Close. Rond de jambe. Fondu. Développé devant. Hold."
Of course, my body had to shake.
Nervousness gripped me by my scalp. Sweat dripped from my forehead down to my bosom.
My feet hurt and were filled with splinters.
My body was weak.
No breakfast, just intense dieting and green smoothies.
Trying to steady my leg midair, my limbs grew weaker.
I fell.
My body trembled with exhaustion, relieved that I wasn't doing any more harsh movements.
I got up and made one more attempt, my palms sweaty.
Failure crippled me again.
My legs gave out.
"Arrêt!" our instructor shouted, her left palm in the air, her French accent thick and her tone serious.
Walking over to me, she stood beside me, her frame taller than mine.
Miss Seydoux has been my ballet teacher since I was five. She's perfectionism personified. No mistakes. Pain or no gain. Dancing every day is non-negotiable.
She bent to my level and whispered, "You think I like to work with failures? Don't make me regret accepting your mother's pleas and begs when she stood outside my class building, begging me to take you into my class."
Stares, whispers, and laughter echoed into the quiet room from the other dancers.
"C'est assez!" Miss Seydoux shouted.
The room went eerily quiet.
A wave of disappointment and embarrassment washed over me as I lowered my gaze.
"Sorr—"
"Encore."
Sighing, I started the routine over.
❧ ──── ❦ ──── ❧
"Et le cours est terminé."
A wave of relief washed over me as I took my pointe shoes off.
Walking back to my locker, I quickly changed and took a seat. Jabs of pain shot through my feet.
Taking in the grotesque sight of them, tears clouded my peripheral vision.
This is my dream, right?
Or my mother's.
Gathering my thoughts, I quickly wiped my cheeks with my fingers, put my coach wedges on, and made my way out of the locker room.
"Eh, Eliana. A word."
Miss Seydoux said. Her eyes still glued to her phone.
She didn't ask.
She made a statement.
Turning on my heels, I walked over to her.
The other students who were supposed to be leaving stopped in their tracks, their eyes glued on me.
My steps got quieter.
"Miss Sinclair, you do know that we have an upcoming performance, right?" she asked, staring me dead in the eyes, her blue eyes cold, her blonde hair cascading down her pale cheeks.
