Dangerous Love//Shawn Mendes

Chapter 1

I slid into the dance studio with a sense of belonging swelling in my chest. Everything about the room felt peaceful and familiar, the barres that lined the walls the same barres that I had learned to dance on 10 years earlier, shaped overtime by the pressure of hands resting against them. This was the place where I felt completely safe- invincible even.

Albeit having danced with the same school for almost 11 years, I had never been accepted by the other girls. Perhaps it was because I was younger, 16 and in junior year while everyone else was a senior in high school. It could also have been the fact that my mother was a teacher at the dance school. She hadn't taught me since I was 11 or 12, but her presence always created a sort of separation between me and the rest of the people in my dance classes, even if that was never her intention. I didn't see dancing as much of a social event anyway. Where the rest of the girls saw it as an opportunity to congregate and gossip about shoes, hair, makeup, boys and whatever else they talked about, I was content with being there for the sole purpose of dancing. 

We had gathered in a semicircle around Mrs Jones, who was the principal of the school and the teacher of most of our ballet classes. She was prepping us for an upcoming performance as she often did, her stern gaze fixing on each of us as she stiffly offered critique of our dancing. Some would see her as overly harsh, but I knew that everything she said was only to help us improve.

Midway through Mrs Jones' speech, a boy walked through the door. I didn't hear him come in at first, but as all heads turn towards him, I looked around to see what was going on. He was tall, handsome and very striking; with his dark clothing and long strides giving off the air that he really didn't want to be here. I stopped and stared, but only for a second before reminding myself not to get distracted. The rest of the girls shamelessly stared across the room at him as he walked in, while I directed my eyes to the floor. I couldn't say why I felt my cheeks flush, probably just because I knew I wouldn't be a part of the conversation that the other girls would undoubtedly have about his afterwards. 

"Girls, this is my nephew Shawn. He is our new lighting technician and will work with us for the performance next Sunday." Mrs Jones said, evidently trying to reel our attention back to her. A lull of whispers swept across the room, before Mrs Jones fixed each of them with a stern gaze.

Mrs Jones called for us to take our positions, and so I took my place at the front of the room, ready to dance. My eyes shifted over the room, and landed on Shawn for only a second. He was slouched back in his chair behind the makeshift desk that Mrs Jones had set up for him. His legs were sprawled out wide in front of him, as though they were too long to fit under the small desk. The absentminded tapping of his pencil against the wood was what drew my eyes to him, but just as quickly I was focussed, and the music was playing. 

After running the routine a few times, Mrs Jones dismissed us and Shawn was the first to leave, stalking out of the room before any of us even had the chance to catch our breath. I tried not to think about the scent of cologne that lingered in the air.

Without so much as a glance my way, the mob of girls swept out of the room and into the street, where they marched off in search of a Starbucks. I headed off in the opposite direction. The 20-minute walk ahead of me would give me time to take note of all the corrections given to me today.

I began the list in my head; my port de bras was weak in the allegro section, my footwork was sloppy in the grand jete en tournant, my supporting knee was turned in in the fouettes. The list went on and on and I began to drill them into my head, half acting them out as I went. I must have looked like a complete idiot, flapping my arms around and walking funny, but what was more important was that I nailed this performance.

A representative from Washington Ballet Company was coming to watch and if I impressed him, I could be one step closer to getting in to the company. In less than 15 months (not that I was counting), at our end of year ballet performance next year, one dancer from our school would be selected to join the company, and I had to make sure that that dancer was me. The next year and a half would be spent preparing for the concert, and it felt like my whole life was leading up to it. All of the hours that I had put in to this sport that I loved could finally pay off. Nothing else mattered.

When I walked in the door to my house, the smell of soup filled my nostrils. I hadn't eaten for hours and I was suddenly starving. My parents were sitting on the white, suede couch, both immaculately groomed and with perfect posture. When I reached the squeaky-clean bench top, I poured myself a bowl of soup from where the saucepan sat on the stovetop.

"How was practice, darling?" My mother asked in that proud, posh tone that she always used when talking about ballet.

"It was good, mom." I said, not really in the mood to discuss my ballet technique. Before she could bombard me with questions about how many turns I could fit in the pirouette combination or what corrections I was given, I headed upstairs to my room.

My mother used to dance with New York City Ballet as a soloist, but she stopped dancing when she fell pregnant with me. My parent's were both 25 when I was born and I don't think they had planned on me arriving so soon. My mom stayed off work to look after me until I was 5, then she started working at the dance school. My dad was an accountant who worked at the local bank. They had always expected a lot from me, but I guess they just didn't want me to make the same mistakes.

Opening my maths textbook, I flipped through and read about graphing cubics. I scrawled down the page until illegible handwriting and messy graphs filled the piece of paper. I fell asleep at my desk before I finished, dreaming of ballet.