The Deadly Trials

1.1 | Invite

author's note: if you skipped the prelude, please go back and read it. it's as much of the story as the chapters themselves. thanks :3

also, i have ideas for a complete overhaul of this book (again), so if you have any suggestions/critiques/general comments, you are welcomed and encouraged to share them!

enjoy nonetheless!~

// invite | part 01 //

The invite to Eslyr's Dance Camp weighed heavy on my mind. It rested in the front pocket of my duffle bag, bent from shoving it inside.

It shouldn't have occupied my thoughts. It was just an invitation to be a counselor at a summer camp. But after almost fourteen years of dance camp invites waved under my nose, I knew what they looked like. I could recognize all the major camps, even a couple of the minor names.

But I had never heard of Eslyr's Dance Camp. And the postcard invite was so — high-class. Splashes of pink and yellow colored the borders, and the postcard was glossy, as if it had been laminated.

The invite itself struck me as suspect. Most included the dates of the camp, directions to the campsite, the URL, and how to sign up. Eslyr's Dance Camp invite had none of it. Rather, it advertised the day we would leave for camp and the bus stop where those wishing to attend should congregate. No directions, no website, no sign-up.

The back of the laminated postcard raised a few eyebrows as well. It boasted a summer unplugged — leave your electronics behind! (You wouldn't get service in the mountains anyway.) The cheesiest gimmick of all was a promised vacation from the parentals: the camp officials vowed to handle all communication, informing our parents of our activities throughout the summer.

A flash of lightning illuminated the dance studio, and a clap of thunder rattled the building.

A few girls screamed, and I fell flat-footed again, startled.

Outside, rain cascaded in sheets. It hammered against the roof and the windows. The streets began to flood. Dark storm clouds thrust the afternoon light into an imitation of nightfall.

The rain was not uncommon. This was Portland, after all. And there was nothing unusual about an invite to a summer dance camp. But just as the postcard to Eslyr's struck me as odd, so did this summer storm.

Before I'd left for dance, I'd checked the weather. Drizzles were predicted, with a thirty-percent chance of isolated showers at seven that evening.

But now it was 4:30p.m., and you could barely see beyond the window.

"Bell-Bell," the dance instructor, Michelle, called, "watch that pas de chat. It's sloppy. Back to fifth, everyone. Dash the storm from your mind and focus on your form. Dee, check your hands. Good."

I left the dance camp invite in the recesses of my mind and turned the pounding rain into musical accompaniment. I straightened my spine, raised my chin, lifted my fingers. I watched my movements in the mirror, keeping in time with the rest of the dancers.

The song faded while thunder continued to rumble. We applauded the end of class, then Michelle led us through our final stretches.

"Remember, auditions for principal dancer are next week. I want to see your best out there, alright?" she asked as we tended to our feet.

"Yes, Michelle," we echoed.

"Happy birthday, Bell," the girls and guys said as they left the studio. They ran into the rain with their bags over their heads.