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VIVIENNE
The studio smelled of sweat and rosin, a sharp, resinous tang that clung to the air.
My pointe shoes, battered and pink, squeaked against the Marley floor of the Charleston Crescent Ballet Company’s rehearsal space, each step a tiny rebellion against the ache in my arches.
I was Vivienne Laveau—Vivi to those who dared get close—and I lived for this: the burn, the precision, the way my body could carve music into motion.
My red curls, wild and barely tamed in a bun, bounced as I spun through a series of fouettés, the mirrors throwing back a blur of pale tights and black leotard. I looked like fire, or so my mama used to say, her New Orleans drawl thick with pride.
Fire that danced, fire that fell.
“Vivi, you’re a half-beat behind!” Madame Odette’s voice sliced through the piano’s melody, her French accent as unyielding as her expectations. She stood at the front, arms crossed, her silver hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to tugat her thoughts. “Focus, or you’ll be scrubbing rosin off the floor instead of dancing Giselle next month.”
I flashed her a grin, breathless, my chest heaving. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Madame.”
My legs trembled, but I pushed through, landing the final turn with a flourish. The other dancers clapped lightly, their faces a mix of exhaustion and admiration.
We were a small company, twenty of us, but fierce, clawing our way to relevance in Charleston’s arts scene. The Crescent Ballet was our home, a converted warehouse downtown with high ceilings and a reputation for grit.
“Break, ten minutes,” Madame Odette called, and the room exhaled. I collapsed onto the floor, stretching my legs, my toes screaming for mercy. My friend, Lena Hemming, a willowy brunette with a wicked sense of humor, dropped beside me, her water bottle sloshing.
“You’re gonna kill yourself pushing like that,” she said, nudging my shoulder. “Those turns were insane, but, like, slow down, superstar.”
I laughed, wiping sweat from my brow. “Can’t slow down, Lena. Gotta feel the rush.”
My heart was still pounding, not just from the rehearsal but from the memory of last weekend’s skydive. The wind roaring, the earth a patchwork quilt below, my body weightless until the chute snapped me back to reality. I leaned back on my hands, my curls sticking to my neck. “Speaking of rushes, I’m booking another jump soon. You in?”
Lena groaned, and across the room, our friend Marisol Yokely, a petite dancer with a pixie cut, overheard and joined us, her eyes wide. “Vivi, are you serious? Skydiving again? You’re gonna break an ankle, and then what? No Giselle, no career, just you limping back to New Orleans.”
“Worth it,” I said, grinning.
I could still feel it—the freefall, the way my stomach lurched like I’d left it behind, the world spinning until I was nothing but breath and adrenaline. “It’s like dancing with the sky. You leap, you spin, you fall, and for a second, you’re untouchable. Nothing compares.”
Marisol shook her head, sipping her water. “You’re unhinged. I’m not risking my feet for a thrill. Madame Odette would have your head if she knew.”
“She’d have to catch me first,” I teased, stretching my calves.
My body was a machine, disciplined to a fault, but my soul? That craved chaos.
Growing up in New Orleans, I’d learned to chase what set me alight—jazz on Bourbon Street, the pulse of a second line, the way a storm could make the city feel alive. Skydiving was just the latest fix.
Lena leaned closer, her voice low. “You’re reckless, Vivi, but I love you for it. Just … maybe don’t tell Madame Odette you’re jumping out of planes. She’ll make you do barre for a month straight.”
I snorted, imagining Madame Odette’s horrified face. “Deal. But y’all are missing out. The rush is better than sex.”
Marisol choked on her water, and Lena cackled. “Bold claim, Laveau,” Lena said. “You got someone in mind to test that theory?”
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks warmed. Romance wasn’t my thing—not when I had dance and the sky to keep me high. Men were distractions, and I didn’t have time for those. Still, Lena’s teasing stirred something, a flicker of curiosity I shoved down fast.
The break ended, and we dragged ourselves back to the barre, Madame Odette’s metronome ticking like a heartbeat.
Hours bled together, my muscles screaming, my mind narrowing to counts and positions. By the time rehearsalwrapped, I was a sweaty, aching mess, my curls frizzing out of their bun, my leotard clinging to my skin. I peeled off my pointe shoes, wincing at the blisters, and headed to the office to grab my bag.
The Crescent’s office was a cramped space off the studio, cluttered with posters of past performances and a desk buried under paperwork.
As I stepped inside, I froze.