Page 3 of Ruinous Need

LISETTE

“DOES IT REALLY have to be over? That didn’t feel like an hour.”

The ballet studio is quiet except for one overenthusiastic twelve-year-old.

I roll my eyes and make a face to hide my laughter. “It was definitely an hour, Millie.”

“Come on, Lisette, we didn’t even get to do the character dance. That one’s my favorite.” She’s bouncing on her toes, a bundle of energy despite the hours of dance class and a full day of school.

I can never sit still either.

“That’s on Tuesday, Millie,” I remind her. “And nobody else seems to have a problem going home.”

“Well, I do. And I want to do the character dance.” She springs away and begins the tricky footwork. There’s no getting rid of her.

Twelve-year-olds can nag like nobody else. I can’t help but smile.

Millie Moore is one of our most promising dancers. In her enthusiasm to dance, dance, dance, more times a week than we could possibly offer classes, she reminds me of myself.

I let her do an extra run-through of the character dance. “Just one,” I remind her as I press play on the ancient CD player and watch her routine.

I feel a pang of jealousy in my stomach as she twirls and leaps with optimism and energy.

It’s crystal clear that there’s no doubt in her mind that she won’t land a jump or face the right way.

Her technique is imperfect, but there’s not an ounce of hesitation in her graceful movements.

She meets my critical eye full-on with a genuine grin lighting up her face.

Having an audience doesn’t bother her.

It’s ridiculous to be jealous of a student, but I can’t help it.

I stop the regret that’s curling in my stomach. Pressing my palms together behind my back, I take a deep breath so that my own feelings don’t color my impression of her character dance.

After all, Millie’s not the reason I can’t have an audience.

I deliver my feedback to her with a smile, pointing out where she could improve, and make sure she’s safely on the way home with her parents before I return to the floor.

Blissfully alone.

These stolen hours after teaching ends are my favorite parts of the week.

So what if my brain is broken and I’m never going to be part of the City Ballet again? My body still works mostly fine. I can do what I love even if no one sees it.

Things could be worse. As a dance teacher I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a job that I love that pays my way through college. I have access to a studio whenever I want.

I should feel exhausted after a full day of teaching, but the second I touch the barre and stretch my muscles, I feel invigorated.

Often, during these stolen rehearsals, I look up at the clock and find that hours have passed.

I slip into my old routines so easily that it feels as comfortable as putting on an old pair of pajamas and curling up on the couch.

Nothing elaborate. Nothing new. Just enough so that I remember what it was like to dance in this way, to go through the motions. Enough that I can feel that satisfying ache in my muscles when I lie down to go to sleep.

Everything feels effortless today. It’s been six months since I started rehearsing in secret again. Finally, my muscles are remembering how they’re supposed to move. I’m extending to my full reach automatically, bending like a willow in the breeze.

As I reach the end of my performance, my heart hammers in my chest. Before my mind understands what’s happening, my body is hyperaware. It takes a while until I recognize the uncomfortable feeling.

I have an audience.

When Marianne steps forward into the light, everything stops working. My breathing gets shallow. The movements don’t feel natural. Even the simplest steps feel like a strain.

I falter in my steps and fold to the floor, the energy draining away.

Disappointing my mentor and the greatest ballet teacher in the country.

Marianne walks towards me, dressed as always in her black crisply tailored clothes and with her back ram-rod straight. But she softens as she approaches and bends down to meet me where I am.

The familiar honeyed scent of her perfume and the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder makes me feel nostalgic for a time that’s long passed.

I expect pity. I’m ready to fend off a hug.

A tear glistens in her eye, but to my surprise, she’s beaming. The edges of her brown eyes crinkle as she regards me with a warm gaze.

“Perfection. You haven’t lost any of it, darling.”

As much as I wish it was true, I’m all too aware of how far away I am from perfection. My stolen practice hours, late at night after a day of teaching children, are nothing compared to the hours I used to put in.

I don’t have the flexibility or the stamina, and it shows. The ease isn’t there anymore. I can see it in the mirrors that lines the walls of the studio.

“You’re too kind, Marianne.”

She takes my hand in her firm grip, her palms papery. “I mean it, Lisette. Don’t forget that this is who you are.”

“Who I was.” I correct her and step back with a wince.

Marianne’s face falls.

“Don’t say that, my darling. You could take to the stage tomorrow and no one would bat an eyelid.”

“Not if every muscle in my body seizes up the second I see the audience.”

“We can work through that, Lisette.” Her face is filled with hope and I hate to break her heart. “We can start small, with performances at the studio’s recitals. You know exactly how we build up our students’ confidence. We could do the same with you.”

She knows as well as I do that it won’t work. We’ve tried.

I can’t stand it when people pity me.

Least of all Marianne, who has seen me at my best. Back when doing what I loved didn’t feel poisonous. When it didn’t feel dangerous to stand on a stage. I used to be so na?ve.

I take a deep breath. “You know I can’t, Marianne. It would only end in embarrassment. I’m sorry.”

The last time I tried to perform… I don’t like to think about it.

She squeezes my hand. “Nothing to apologize for, child.” She still calls me that, as though I’m still the sixteen-year-old she saw the potential in. Instead, I’m a 21-year-old failure who’s only surviving in this brutal city on the back of her charity.

Marianne farewells me with a kiss on each cheek. “Don’t stop on my account. Bright and early tomorrow, darling.”

The spell is broken. I can’t keep dancing like this, with my heart pounding against my ribcage and my muscles tense.

I trail my hand along the barre as I walk back to the changing room.

Marianne’s interruption has made me uneasy. It’s the first time anyone’s seen me dance for years.

I rinse off the sweat in the dance school showers, then lock up the studio.

My old dance teacher is harmless and kind. But her eyes on mine brought back flickers of those other eyes, icy blue and merciless, which made me wish I’d never set foot on a stage.

I force away the unsettling memories of that night.

A shiver runs down my spine, not just from my still-damp hair in the wintry cold. It’s the sense that my fate is near.

I haven’t had to pay the price yet. But I will.

On the train home, I’m still on edge. I try to concentrate on the music playing through my headphones as the city rushes by. Normally it’s enough to keep me calm, to stop this familiar spiral, but today it won’t relax me.

Needles of cold fear lance through me.

When I step off the train, the back of my neck prickles.

I put my head down and walk fast from the train station towards my parents’ home. It’s cold enough that my breath forms a cloud in front of my face and I’m careful to watch for ice on the sidewalk.

The suburban street lights are not doing much to cut through the darkness of the winter night. Frosted cars line the sides of the street. It hasn’t snowed recently, but the night has the same quiet stillness of deep snowfall.

On some impulse, I glance down into a wing mirror and notice two shadowy figures just behind me.

That can’t be real. I’m just anxious, my body going into fight-or-flight mode because of Marianne’s interruption.

I cast a glance back over my shoulder in disbelief, but sure enough, they’re still there.

Real and getting closer.

Everything slows down. My heart pounds in my chest.

I freeze, my head spinning. We’re only a few feet from my family home. I pray that whoever is following me doesn’t know that. I glance at the mirror again, and they continue to advance.

I watch in silent horror as one of them meets my eyes in the wing mirror where I’ve paused.

All I can do is stand there, my eyes glued to the wing mirror, as he advances towards me. He shrugs back his hood. An awful scar mars half of his face. He’s so close now that I feel his breath on the back of my neck.

He’s reaching for something in the waistband of his pants. But he’s too slow.

I bite my lip in case I let out a gasp and give it away. He hasn’t seen the other, faster shadow advancing behind him.

The one at the back inclines his head as though telling me to shelter.

I don’t know why, but I do. I scramble round the front of the car and get down as low as I can in front of the number plate.

From this position, all I can see are black boots passing over the ground. A soft bang rips through the night. I’ve never heard it before, but I’ve seen enough movies to know this is a silenced gunshot.

I tear out my headphones hoping to hear something else, to understand what’s going on, but there’s nothing to listen for but the dull thud of a body hitting the side of the car before landing on the pavement. No screams.

I flatten myself under the car, trying to breathe as quietly as possible, keeping my eyes wide open as I watch him drag the body along the footpath until it’s out of sight. I hear the click of a car trunk, another thud, and the trunk closes again.

The whole thing takes place in less than a minute. Ruthless efficiency.

There’s just one pair of boots now, crunching over the footpath as he stalks towards me.

“You can come out now, Lisette.” The voice is low and gravelly. He sounds frustrated with something.