I've finally returned after an agonisingly long hiatus!!! It's so good to be back where I belong. I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting. If my lovely readers are still hanging around, then thank you very much for keeping up the support - it means the absolute world to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Shout out to Deadlydeerman who was a gigantic help with this chapter!
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The refreshing scent of oranges is an unexpected pleasure when entering the dance studio – you thought the stench of sweat-soaked laundry and unwashed feet from the change rooms would forever linger in your nostrils. Glad to know how wrong you were.
The air conditioner hums in greeting and you swiftly shut the door in order to keep the cool air contained. Making your way over to the floor-length windows, you nearly slip on the freshly polished floor; doubt started to occupy your mind. It was bad enough that you were born with two left feet, the last thing you needed was to have the floor turn against you as well. Your schoolbag slides off your shoulder and lands on the floor with a meaty thump before you decide to observe the other students, silently hoping to witness a few failures so you could relish in the knowledge that you weren’t alone in your dancing incompetence.
Unfortunately...they were perfect.
Bastards.
Every move is exceptionally synchronised as they dip and sway around the room like petals traversing the wind. Even their outfits – colour coded tights and leotards – are exquisite and seemed to have been professionally tailored. And then there was you. Food-stained sweats and an oversized t-shirt which looks as though it’s been around since the dawn of time.
Perhaps this wasn’t the right class for you after all. So you don’t know how to dance, not everyone does. You’ve gotten through parties and family gatherings well enough as a wallflower all these years, what’s a few more? Besides, dancing nowadays is mostly spastic gyrating anyway, so it’s really no big loss.
Before you can fully contemplate sneaking out whilst maintaining your dignity, the teacher is entering. It’s her. Paola. She enters the studio like some high priestess of an age long since forgotten. Positioning herself in regal isolation before the wall of mirrors, skin taut over high cheekbones and smokey eyes flashing, she begins to stretch those impossibly long limbs of hers. The other club members cease their practice to watch, glimmers of admiration appearing in the eyes of most.
Paola extends a leg and let it rest upon the barre, nimble fingers readjusting the warmer hugging her calf. Once satisfied, her leg abruptly kicks forward, toes pointed and calf muscles flexed, and she pivots in a revolving whirl of sharp precision and accurate grace.
Everyone takes a subconscious step away to allow her room for the demonstration, a few murmurs of awe being passed from one student to another as they watch, enthralled.
The entirety of Paola’s being began to advance in movement with purposeful clarity and absolute control. With each poised stride taken, it became crippling obvious just how demanding and rigorously punishing the practice of dance can truly be on one’s body. It was no surprise how she had been deemed one of the greatest dancers of this generation – the woman was beyond magnificent.
“Dance is not merely body movement – it is poetry in motion.”
Those were the first words to leave Paola’s painted lips when her demonstration came to an end. She smiled and looked to each student whilst continuing to speak, “With thoughts, emotions, expressions and elegant movements, it brings alive the meaning. Dance is an art from which is done with body, mind and soul. A dance done by our body alone is incomplete – it has to have the right expressions and involvement of the dancer. His or her inner self. Dance must be done with passion in order for its true beauty to invoke emotion and bring life to the silent story begging to be told.”
She sunk to the floor on her rump and extended one leg, her hand following suit and making contact with the tips of her toes. She was so flexible, whereas you were about as flexible as Lucy when she wears those excruciatingly tight pants she insists looks good – she refuses to believe you when you say her legs remind you of sausage casings.
“The theme for this semester shall be ‘love’,” Paola informs the class, lips quirking briefly at one corner. “We’ve all been blinded by the blanket of emotions that comes from falling down the precipice of union into love. While we only have one word for it, the ancient Greeks in their pursuit of wisdom and self-understanding, found eight different varieties of love that we all experience at some point. However, we shall be focusing only on two: Eros and Agape.”
Just like Yuri on Ice, you thought.
“Eros represents the idea of sexual passion and desire. The ancient Greeks considered Eros to be dangerous and frightening as it involves a ‘loss of control’ through the primal impulse to procreate. It is a passionate and intense form of love that arouses romantic and sexual feelings. Agape, on the other hand, is what some call spiritual love. It is an unconditional love, bigger than ourselves, a boundless compassion, an infinite empathy. It is the purest form of love that is free from desires and expectations, and loves regardless of the flaws and shortcomings of others.”
Paola claps her hands. One, two, three – in quick succession. “Partner up, everyone.”
Like a game of musical chairs, everyone scatters in a mad dash to find a partner before they are all gone. You can’t help but squeak at the sudden speed of everyone, and before you had a chance to overcome the confusion, everyone had partnered up.
Or so you thought.
Fingers enclose around both your wrists at the exact same time – five of them long and slender, the other five slightly thicker and stronger. You blink and look between your captors: Élise and Cesare.
Élise offers a thin-lipped smile to her male rival, “Cesare,” she greets in a tone of voice you recognised – the one being spoken to was in no way deserving of time or effort.
Cesare doesn’t bother with a fake smile of his own and simply glares at the girl currently prohibiting him from getting what – or rather whom – he wanted. “Élise de la Serre.” He spits the name as though it had left a vile taste in his mouth. “I almost didn’t recognise you; it’s not often we see you without your faithful Poodle at your heels. Finally let him off his leash?”
Was he talking about...Arno? You had noticed that wherever Élise went, Arno was always lingering nearby. He would often carry her books between classes and provide food during lunch. Though according to your personal database known as Rebecca, the two lived together. Adoptive siblings as far as you remember, so it wasn’t really that strange to find them spending so much time together.
A short and derisive laugh drops from Élise’s lips, “What a funny coincidence because I was just thinking that there was something different about you as well. Though I admit, I couldn’t decide whether it was the nose bandage or the absence of Lucrezia’s legs from around your neck.”
You nearly choke on your own saliva at the insult – it wasn’t even directed at you though you felt the strength of its blow. Wide eyes flicker towards Cesare just in time to catch him delicately prodding the bandage on his newly broken nose before his eyes narrow dangerously.
“Puttana.” The word was a practical growl, low and guttural.
Élise counters with what you assume to be an insult of her own judging by the amount of poisonous vehemence put into the words, “Fils de pute.”
You remain ensnared in their grasp – they seem to have forgotten you were even there. You grow concerned at the idea of one of them eventually throwing a punch with how much heat was currently radiating from their glares.
You’re fairly certain Élise could take him down though.
Seemingly sensing the rising tension, Paola approaches and lays both hands upon their shoulders, “Such passionate pupils, though I sense it is of the wrong variety, hm?” Her attention moves from one to the other, “I suggest you both separate and take some time to calm your minds. Élise, you shall dance with (Y/N), and Cesare, you shall dance with Aveline.”
“But-”
“Aveline is a fine dance partner,” Paola continues as though not hearing the beginning of Cesare’s objections.
Élise provides one of those waves smug people give when they have gotten their own way and Cesare has no choice but to follow Paola across the room to where Aveline is standing alone. Even from your position, it was easy to see the crinkle of her nose when one of the most hated students in school is placed beside her.
“I wish I could say I feel sorry for Aveline,” Élise began, a tiny laugh woven into the words, “but I don’t.”
You can’t control the slight quirk of your brow, “Bit cold-hearted, don’t you think?”
She appears almost innocent as her head tilts to one side, “Maybe. Maybe not. I suppose it all depends on the individual and their stance on honesty.” She brings a hand to her hip, fixing her ponytail with the other. “Friends are nice but what good are they if what they expect from me are lies?”
Well...she did have a point. You always have admired honesty, and there have been situations when your own honesty has been considered ‘brutal’.
“I like you, (Y/N),” Élise says suddenly, expression serious. “I don’t consider us to be friends just yet, but I hope that changes in the near future. And if it does...I hope you respect me enough to always be honest with me.”
You consider her words carefully before offering a nod, “I can do that. And I want you to be honest with me too.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I always am.”
The lesson begins soon after your conversation ends; Paola sweeps to the front and turns on the radio.
That radio...
It was like the one you had grown up with and which now sat upon your dressing table – wood around the outside with circular dials and speaker. Materialistic items meant nothing to you, but that radio was the only object you felt an emotional attachment to. It brought music, comedy, and old fashioned plays. It never demanded attention but instead sat quiet and unassuming until called upon. Even if you were to change your entire decor, that radio would stay – regardless of whether it was the perfect accent piece or a horrible clash. You didn’t care either way. One day you’d be an old woman with it by your bedside, even if it broke.
But you digress.
The music crackles slightly, a testament to just how old that radio truly was, and Paola smiles. “Before we begin, it is important to stretch our muscles, otherwise it could lead to a serious injury.”
Paola busies herself with her own stretching regime whilst everyone else spreads out to do their own. Not entirely certain of the type of stretches you should be doing, you settle for simply rolling your shoulders in lazy circles, legs eventually kicking out. That should be enough...right?
You turn to Élise, certain she’d be finishing up as well, but instead, you’re surprised to find the lovely redhead sprawled across the floor on her back. She forms a bridge with her body, feet pressed flat against the polished floorboards, chest arching skyward. You had seen the pose a thousand times before when your mother would drag you along to her yoga classes, but for some unknown reason, it was different when Élise did it; her pose was strikingly familiar to one of those female silhouettes on the mud flaps of those ‘manly man’ vehicles. Now you knew what all the fuss was about.
Wait, what?
“You're staring.”
Élise points out, flipping over onto her stomach and impressively bringing the soles of her feet to the back of her head.
So flexible.
You hastily avert your eyes and fidget with the constantly growing hole in the hem of your shirt, murmuring an apology. Élise finds humour in your sudden timidity and provides a laugh, delicate yet oddly husky at the same time. The sound was capable of sending an oddly pleasurable shiver down the length of your spine.
Paola recaptures the attention of the class with a few claps, “Meraviglioso (Wonderful). Now, let us begin the real lesson; our first dance shall be the Waltz.” She switches the radio to another station which is playing a more appropriate tune before taking up position at the front. “Everyone get into the closed position: leads with their right hand on the followers back, followers with their left hand on the leads upper arm.”
You and Élise face one another and she smiles, automatically placing one hand on your back, grasping your free hand with the other. “I’m the lead,” she says, not even bothering to ask permission beforehand.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
You don’t particularly like having your choices made for you, though you make an exception in this case for the sole reason that you hadn’t the faintest idea of what the hell you were supposed to be doing. So instead of making a fuss, you bring your free hand to rest upon her upper arm, finding a surprisingly firm bicep hiding beneath the sleeve of her leotard.
Élise takes a small step forward, which leads you to take an instinctive step backwards. She inches closer again. You create distance again.
“Stop moving,” She chastises, though a smile was playing on her lips, “The Waltz requires that we be a little closer.”
Closer? Anyone who knew you was very much aware of your distaste for ‘closeness’. Although...the heat radiating from her body was oddly tantalising. And her perfume. What was that? Cinnamon? The idea of giving her a whiff momentarily crosses your mind – yes, you’re aware of how creepy that sounds.
Fortunately for everyone involved, Paola’s voice prevents you from doing something which would warrant in having a restraining order filed against you. She explains each step whilst providing a demonstration. It certainly sounded and looked easy enough. Paola snaps her fingers and the class begins to dance around you, each club member incredibly focused on perfecting the steps they had just been taught.
Élise gives your hand a squeeze in order to earn your attention and you look back at her. “You need to focus.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, eyes dipping in embarrassment.
Giving her your undivided attention, Élise begins to guide you through the dance. Slowly but surely, the steps become more intrinsic, fluid – you rarely even have to look at your feet now! She has you repeat the dance numerous times until she deems it ‘acceptable’.
You still have a long way to go before it’s considered perfect.
At least the embarrassment you had felt at the beginning of the lesson had worn off and you were actually beginning to enjoy yourself. But it wasn’t just the dance you enjoyed. It was Élise’s company. She was witty, straightforward, and her honesty was refreshing. You knew exactly where you stood when it came to her and that made things simple.
Simplicity is great.
“Well would you look at that,” Élise began, “You haven’t missed a single step. I dare say I’m impressed.”
“Careful. A praise like that can jinx a girl.”
Though you had said it in a teasing manner, there was truth to the words; whenever someone praised your accomplishments, life saw fit to take that feeling of elation away and replace it with humiliation.
Elise dismisses your comment with a laugh and another compliment, “I don’t believe in such superstitions; you’re an impressively fast learner.”
And that’s when fate kicked in to shatter your happiness.
The compliment seemed to go to your head, resulting in one perfectly misplaced step which had you tumbling to the floor – on the way down, you couldn’t help but notice how fast Elise had relinquished her hold on you to avoid being dragged down as well. A pain shoots through your ankle but at the time all you can focus on are the snickers that have broken out around you. Paola silences them with a few words spoken in her native tongue.
How humiliating.
Elise eventually takes possession of your elbow and helps you struggle to your feet. “Are you alright?”
You take a step, wince, and stumble. “I think I hurt my ankle,” you murmur, gaze dipping in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.” She wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s take a break and we can put some ice on that ankle.”
You felt like an incompetent moron as you hobbled forward, practically clinging to Elise in order to avoid yet another accident – she doesn’t mention it though, and for that, you’re grateful. There was pain whenever you placed weight on that one ankle, though it was nothing like the pain when you sprained the other ankle two years ago, so you’re fairly certain it’s just badly bruised rather than seriously injured.
Elise accompanies you into the hallway and lowers you onto a bench directly outside the studio before crouching. There isn’t time to enquire as to what she was doing, and before you know it, your shoe has been removed and Elise examines your ankle. Her fingertips prod the faint swelling around the bone, the corners of your mouth twitching in discomfort rather than pain.
“It doesn’t appear to be broken,” she says with a smile. ”Still, we should get something cold on that.”
She leaves momentarily and you watch her through a crack in the blinds as she strides through the studio, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge in the corner. You are quick to avert your gaze when she begins to leave so she doesn’t catch you staring, offering a grateful smile when she stoops and holds the bottle to your ankle. It’s freezing but provides a much needed surge of relief.
“Thanks for this. I...I’m sorry that I disturbed the lesson.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. Paola’s teaching things I already know, so.”
You take the bottle from her, continuing to hold it against your skin whilst Elise settles onto the bench beside you. She kicks her feet a bit and smiles, “I nearly twisted my neck the first time I danced; father always warned me my overconfidence would do me harm someday, but I didn’t care. Being a dancer is my dream and I plan to succeed no matter the cost.”
The way she’s smiling...
She must really love dancing.
You wished you held the same passion – the same love – for something. But you didn’t. You hadn’t found your ‘calling’ yet, and you were beginning to doubt that you ever would.
She continues, “When I was five, I made the mistake of dancing too close to the staircase. All it took was one wrongly placed step and before I knew it, I was being rushed to the emergency room with a broken arm.” She laughed at the memory and met your eye, “I thought for sure my father would forbid me from dancing, but the next day he had bought me my very own pair of ballet flats.”
A smile graced your face as your eyes softened, “You’ve been following your dream ever since. Wow,” was all you could whisper, eyes dropping to the ground momentarily. “You’re lucky – you were practically born knowing what you wanted to do with your life. I haven’t a clue as to what I wanna do.”
“You say that as though it’s a bad thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
Her head shakes slowly, “Rather the opposite, actually; by not pouring all your focus into a single hobby, you’ve unknowingly opened yourself to endless possibilities. You can do anything. But me? Dancing is all I have. All it takes is one serious injury and my entire future is over. If anything...you’re the lucky one.”
“I...never thought about it like that before.” Perhaps you were luckier than you thought. “Thanks, Elise. That’s actually helped put my mind at ease.”
The corner of her lips quirk upwards into a faint smirk, “I know. I’m a saint.” She stands and makes a reach for the sky, stretching her arms and back. “Ready to head back in?"
You flash a smile, “Let’s do it.”