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

MARCELLA

Eyes follow the new prima ballerina as she enters, carrying a box of donuts.

Whispers follow her. She’s covered in tattoos, the name Diego across her throat, and everyone has a theory about it.

I couldn’t care less who she’s fucking, though I hope for her sake they’re still together. That would be a shame.

She smiles wide rather than letting their stares affect her.

“Good morning, everyone! I have low fat today!” she announces as she takes a turn around the room, offering them out. My head stays down as she parts the crowd. Instead of watching, I reach for the hand sanitizer in my back pocket and clean my hands one more time.

She passes one to everyone but me. When she’s headed my way, I look up at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

Her light-colored eyes meet mine, and I shake my head at her hard and fast before she can take a step in my direction.

Her cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t come closer, giving me a little nod like she understands.

She smiles at me anyway, making the embarrassment sting all the more.

She seems genuinely kind, and I’m chasing her away.

While thinking about what an awful friend-repelling person I am, Bea bumps into me.

Her clammy hands touch my bare back, and I jump away from her before she manages to mouth an apology.

The smile freezes on my lips. Even as she moves away, I can feel her hands on me.

I can’t stand to be touched if I’m not ready for it.

Maeve catches the whole thing, her eyebrows bending in concern, and dammit, that’s almost worse than anything else. I don’t want anyone’s pity either.

I hate the dressing room because it’s all the things I struggle with in one place.

The morning crowds make the air feel hot and used.

The dancers love to hang around and gossip before rehearsal, and my skin crawls with their proximity.

They share makeup and hug each other—all things I can’t stand.

I suppose it’s a good thing they don’t want me anyway.

My black pointe is wrapped nicely inside my locker.

I refuse to dance in anything else unless it’s a show day.

I don’t dance for conformity but as a way to escape my constant suffering.

I take the pieces of my practice ensemble and replace my sweats and T-shirt.

I have a system, everything needs to be in place so I can make my escape as quickly as possible and touch almost nothing.

Anna, who is probably already my ex-roommate, talks to a group on the other side of the room, including two other girls who have already tried and failed to live with me.

I don’t look, but it doesn’t matter. I feel their eyes on me.

I’m grateful they’re the only people talking about me instead of the tattoo-covered prima ballerina, but they’re not keeping their voices down.

Maeve seems more interesting than me, and I must be old news for everyone else .

I don't care. I don’t care what any of them think of me so long as they all stay away. It's better than dealing with them touching me or, worse, finding out how bad my problems really are. Screaming in my sleep is nothing compared to how bad it gets.

Dancing is all that matters. The soft music takes over the dark corners within, filling them with something close to light.

Or maybe a better comparison is fullness after great hunger.

When I dance, I don't see Fabrizio or think about my parents' pain or the phobias that cripple me and only seem to multiply with time.

My shoulders tense when someone coughs to my right. I hold my breath as I think about their saliva aerosolizing around me, and a vivid picture of myself inhaling the drops fills my mind. I’m lightheaded as I finish lacing my pointe as quickly as possible and leave without offending the cougher.

“She’s going to get kicked out,” Anna says at full volume behind me, and I silently pray she’s not right.

Whispers follow me as I leave the dressing room and enter the studio.

The dancers already inside stop to stare, and I can tell from their expressions they got an earful about last night before I came in.

I wonder how Anna described it for them all to be so openly hostile.

People love to find a villain to gossip about.

They tried to make the new prima ballerina that villain, but it’s not working out.

Maeve may be covered in tattoos, but she’s smiling, beautiful, and happy.

She brings donuts every day, for god’s sake.

That’s extremely kind, and even they can’t hate her.

There’s a stark difference between the two of us. She’s the star—tattooed and different, but sweet and happy. All I am is a girl who can't live with herself without music playing loud enough to block the memories. Our choreographer, Antonella, stands at the front as I take my position .

“Ready, Marcella?” She points a glare at the room, and I know for sure they’ve been gossiping.

“Always,” I promise, and she nods. She rolls her ankles, stretching. At least someone is happy to see me today.

I dip my chin and start warming up. My fingers reach for my toes, and I breathe out, feeling the muscles expand.

When I sit down, my head touches my knees, and the stretch is deliciously satisfying, already filling some of the hunger I was talking about.

My body slowly feels like my own again. The worst of the obsessive thoughts fade, and by the time the stage is full, I'm back to my center. As long as no one touches me or coughs.

Antonella claps her hands. “Positions!”

No one hangs around to be asked twice. The music starts, my heart drums in sync with the beat, and a singular peace overwhelms me.

On the count of one, I step forward with my right foot, and with the left, I glide across the floor, one step after the other on a chassé.

Next is the pas de bourrée, a sequence of three small and quick steps to the back, side, and front.

With soft arms in fourth position, I prepare for the pirouette.

Act one feels like sleeping over the ocean and letting the soft waves guide you. It's ethereal, full of graceful turns and archer arabesques. Technically, it's not the most challenging sequence, but the lightness of the notes can bring attention to any mistake.

So I don't get it wrong.

When my head turns for the last pirouette and my hands fall into the final position, I catch Antonella's eyes, and her nod of approval satisfies me. I can’t get roommates right, or people touching me, or breathing around me, but I can dance.

She knows I'm eager to implement a new style to this choreography, and if she trusts me, she’ll let me do that much faster.

Nailing the choreography is a must at all times. It’s my only job.

Floquet Ballet Company prides itself on being innovators. They have the most diverse cast of any company I've ever seen—from a range of different bodies to people covered in tattoos like our new prima ballerina. Still, they’re dancers, and dancers compete.

Maeve came from a prodigious company across town, and there are a lot of rumors about the cause.

The most believable one I heard is that the prima ballerina married the director, and she couldn’t go any higher.

She’s too good to be passed over for any of the other reasons rumored.

I danced my whole life and never thought I'd find a company that would want a ballerina like me, but I finally did and won’t be ruining that like all my roommate attempts.

It doesn’t matter what they say, I’m not out .

I've been pushing more daring choreographies to try to earn my place here. Maybe I’m overcompensating for my shortcomings, like being a nuisance to the house, but I showed them a sequence last week, and they seemed to like it.

My changes would fit really well with the second act, and I'm waiting on the director's answer. Antonella says I need to show I can do this perfectly first, and only then can I raise the bar. So that’s what I’ll do.

I wish I could show them the choreographies that made me viral, but they’re too much.

I can get by without the likes and comments, though. I just need to prove I can do this with my eyes closed and then show them how daring I can be when they’re open—simple.

The rehearsal lasts for hours after that.

Antonella pushes us to our limits, and I appreciate her firm hand.

I need someone who believes I can do better but doesn’t touch me in the process.

So far, Antonella has been perfect. The sweat drips between my breasts and soaks my leotard.

If I think about it too long, the sensation will make me sick, but I don't stop dancing even when the other girls are done and ready for a break.

As long as I keep dancing, it will all be okay.