Page 13 of Run, Starlight (The Royal Ballet Presents #3)

MARCELLA

The pirouette ends with the fourth position, the music swells to an end, and I assume the final pose. I don't need the extra practice, but I stayed behind today to think.

Yesterday, things got out of hand. Enzo asked me to be bold, and I did. I don't regret that, but my intuition tells me I'm missing something.

The music starts again, and I dance. I think about the moment I shared with the stalker and the way he made me feel when he chuckled that low.

Enzo makes me feel like that too, but it's different.

He makes me feel precious and unique. I feel good when he looks at me, like I'm worth something.

The stalker makes me feel like I'm worth nothing.

Why is that hot too?

I used to go to therapy years ago after Fabrizio’s death.

My therapist was nice enough and capable, but after I turned eighteen, I decided to stop.

It didn’t matter how many times we went over it.

Nothing could stop my nightmares. Each day, I woke up fearing something new, as if my nightmares were opening the doors to my unconscious and sneaking phobias in.

Nowadays, all I do to keep sane is dance. And so I do, faster and harder until I don't feel guilty for what happened in the dressing room, and I don't feel shy about what happened with Enzo.

The overhead lights flicker once, and the whole theater descends into darkness. I gasp, but before my eyes get used to the dark, the lights right above me turn on so bright I have to shield my eyes with my hands.

“Hello?” My voice echoes around the empty theater.

I'm sure someone is just testing the lights, but after a minute without any answer or change, the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and goosebumps run down my arms.

“Can you turn this down, please?” I ask again.

Nothing, just a single light perfectly centered on me.

It’s him. I know it’s him.

“Who’s there?” I scream once again.

My stomach twists into knots when I realize I’m craving him.

I hold my breath, waiting to hear his dark chuckle or to call me a star.

I shouldn’t want the attention of someone who is stalking me.

He has access to this whole theater, dorms, and much more.

I should tell the administration, but even as the thought comes to my mind, I know I won’t do it.

The lights change again. The single headlight softens, and the music turns on in the background.

My heart is hammering, and I don’t trust the change.

I stay frozen in the middle of the stage, watching as the lights act as if there were ballerinas to follow.

It follows the sequence that we’ll perform tomorrow night during our opening.

After a long minute, I shake myself off.

There’s no one watching me. Not today. Part of me even thinks he wasn’t ever there, and I dreamed about what happened in the dressing room. No one can move like a ghost that way.

Convinced it’s just my mind playing tricks, I start dancing once again. Trying to follow the cue the lights and music provide, I jump into action mid-choreography and fly across the stage in a jeté.

There’s a lot I could do with this ballet if they let me. They want to be daring, but even daring people seem to hold themselves back. A lot of artists mix mediums to achieve the best results. Why not us?

I push aside the choreography that I should practice and dance my version instead. I assume the lights were on automatic with the music, but as soon as I change, they change too.

Reds and dark blues come out, the mood changes, and it fills me with a desire to push the boundaries. My body works the rhythm and new moves, and the lights are now my partner in crime. I know someone is up there doing this, but I don’t care anymore.

More than letting someone watch, I need them to.

If no one ever sees my version, at least I have this moment. Sweat drips down from my neck, but it doesn’t bother me. I don’t think about how my damp skin clings to my leotard or how under my breast is so soaked in sweat, people can see it through the dark fabric.

This time, it’s not the sensorial hell I walk through each day because my art is worth it. Today, the effort and sweat are part of the performance. I’m not the instrument anymore; I’m the art.

The music ends, and I fall to the floor in a heap. The single spotlight is burning over me once again, but now I feel deserving of its attention.

I stand, feeling that I accomplished something, and right when I’m turning my back, ready to head to the dressing room, his dark chuckle fills the theater.

“My little star... Again.”

There’s admiration in his tone. Even as he chuckles, it doesn’t feel like he’s making fun of me, but it seems he is rather filled with awe.

My hands shake, and I ball them in a fist, trying to hide how nervous I feel. I was right, the feeling is at least validating. I felt him watching me, and he was, and now I’m here, standing under his eyes and not running.

I should always run when I hear that chuckle.

I step forward, my hand blocking the worst of the spotlight, and I try to find where in the lighting box he is. I wish I could get at least a glimpse, but I can’t.

Instead of running, I dance.