Page 5 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Gen

The bar feels coarse against my palm as I relevé in front of the full length mirror, observing my form.

I move through the same routine I’ve done for the past fifteen years of my life, the phantom smoke of my first dance teacher’s—Madame Auch’s—Marlboro Lights filling my memory as I move through the positions.

I started ballet at the community center near our five story walk up.

My mom was basically counting down the days until I turned three and could put on my first tutu, her dreams of ballet so entangled in my own at times it’s hard to untwine them.

I adjust my posture, breathing in to suck in my stomach as I watch the fabric of my leotard cinch my waist. I bite the inside of my cheek as I move into demi pointe breathing out, looking as my body stretches as I move into a closed front passe.

I suck in another breath working my face into a brilliant smile that doesn’t meet my eyes.

I hold it until I feel my head begin to swim, I keep smiling, my eyes watering as they track every inch of my body for any imperfections.

I roll back my shoulders and try to pull more breath in through my nose.

The sound of the Tchaikovsky fades in the background, my ears now filling with pressure.

“VEEEEEEEE,” Jean loudly whines, dramatically tossing his dance bag on the floor, and I let out the breath with a frustrated huff, moving back into rest, allowing the world around me to come back into focus.

“Sorry, sorry!” Jean puts his hands up when he notices my icy stare.

I arch my brows, insinuating my need for him to get on with it.

“So I dumped him, again…” he says, moving into a seated hamstring stretch. I roll my eyes.

“How many times have you guys broken up now?” I ask, joining him on the floor. It feels like Jean and Ian are just a series of breakups and reconciliations without any sort of real relationship in between.

“Hmmm,” Jean pretends to count on his fingers and then grins.

“I’ve lost count, but you can bet your ass they have all been his fault.

” I chuckle, leaning into my front split.

“Show-off,” Jean huffs. “Are you going to ask what happened?” His voice is flustered as I roll my ankle, trying to release the tension I always get when practicing pointe.

“What happened?” I ask my voice, seeping with mock concern.

“Well for starters, he never posts me on his socials.”

I cough a laugh, even though I know Jean’s outrage is genuine. I love him, but he isn’t not self absorbed.

“You can’t be serious?” I raise my eyebrows, moving my legs to put myself in a seated position as I grab my water bottle.

“You can’t judge me G, you’re as delusional as I am. Which reminds me… what happened at the bonfire? I left you with Grant, but then you disappeared. Did you leave wi th Will?” His eyes are full of judgement and I feel myself go on the defensive.

“I drove myself home, thank you. Why do you care so much about my sex life all of a sudden?”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Because you’re my friend? Friends care if other friends are getting laid. And you, my dear, have not been getting laid.”

I sigh, tucking my water bottle between my legs and picking at my cuticles.

“I guess there is something to report…” I trail off and I can practically feel Jean salivating for whatever tea I’m about to spill.

“There may have been some developments.” I do my best to be coy, but the excitement is likely written all over my face.

I haven’t been able to get Grant, or the idea of his hands all over me, off my mind.

Jean snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hello? Gen? Anyone there?”

I snap my eyes to him, now hyper aware that I just zoned out for a second, a blush spreading across my cheeks.

Jean squints observing me. “Developments, indeed.”

I sigh, using my feet to push myself into a standing position, attempting to wriggle my toes in the pointe shoes I'm currently trying to break in.

“I made plans for… an encounter?” I casually toss over my shoulder as I start walking back to the bar.

Jean giddily jumps to his feet and I see him eagerly grin in the reflection of the mirror as I move into an arabesque, intentionally ignoring him.

He arches an eyebrow, starting his bar warmup in a plié.

“An encounter you say?”

And I can’t help but laugh, finally meeting his gaze and being met with a smile so wide, I’m afraid his face will crack open .

“You’ll be relieved to know that after this Friday, I will no longer be a virgin,” I roll my lips together to keep from smiling, before getting back in the zone.

I begin mirroring his movements as we go from tendus to battement jetés.

“You’re slouching,” I note, eyeing his shoulders where his posture is lacking and he rolls his eyes.

“Gen—we’re talking about you losing your virginity, not my form.”

I sigh as Jean puts both hands on my shoulders causing me to stumble out of my position. I cross my arms and give him an accusatory look.

“It’s a secret.” I point a finger at him, glaring.

“Please—I promise to not tell Ian. In fact, I swear.” He mimes the universal sign for crossing your heart. “Besides, I just told you—we broke up.”

“If I read about my virginity in your boyfriend’s newspaper, just know…”

“I’ll give you the gun myself, girl.”

I raise an eyebrow at him and he raises one back, establishing that we’ve come to an agreement.

“I knew he had a thing for you,” he adds, giddily moving toward the bar and back to his warm ups. “I assume you didn’t tell Will.”

“Here we go,” I roll my eyes. I haven’t had the best reputation at Astor…

at anywhere, I guess. I’ve heard the whispers as I’ve walked through the halls.

Everything from “Gen’s a bitch,” to “Ice Queen,” and finally , “She’s a man stealer,” or “She’s as desperate as her mom.

” The last two always hurt the most. Will and I have been best friends forever, and that is true regardless of my feelings for him.

That is the bit that gets lost in this whole “man-stealer” narrative.

Instead, it’s that poor, pathetic Gen just can’t take a hint .

Jean’s one of the few who really knows how close Will and I are.

He’s also the only one who thinks I’m too good for him .

“What?” He holds his arms out in mock defense. “It’s a fair question.”

“Obviously, I didn’t tell him.”

“Good,” he says, nodding as I move back to the bar.

Just as I’m attempting to refocus on my warm up, the JAWS theme song begins to blare from my dance bag.

Jean gives me a look as both of our postures seem to deflate in unison.

“You don’t have to answer that Gen,” he says, glancing at my bag and biting his lip.

“I kinda do.” I wince and move to grab my phone.

“Genevieve!”

I hold the phone a few inches from my face as my mom’s scratchy french accent blares out of the speaker. Jean mouths that he’ll be back, pointing at his water bottle to insinuate he needs a refill, even though I know he’s just trying to avoid my mother’s muffled rants.

“Hi mom,” I say in a hushed tone, hoping it will influence her to keep it down.

“Did you see the vidéo I sent?”

She's referring to the technique videos she spammed me with earlier after I mentioned the resident choreographer critiquing a combination. One I’ve been relentlessly working on without her help.

I sigh and switch to French in the hopes that I can hide any concept of the conversation we are having from Jean, who I’m positive is eavesdropping in the hallway. “Oui maman.”

“Stop. I’m working on my English.” This is what she always says when Ken, my current stepfather, is in ear shot.

He resents when she speaks in French and I sense he’s deeply afraid that she’s talking shit about him.

Sadly, his concerns are founded. “Genevieve, I’m worried you’re getting out of shape.

” I flush, and I’m sure she can see it through the phone.

“Ken spent a fortune on new leotards last summer. You must stay fit.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping my phone and trying to manifest the call being cut off.

“I’m in rehearsal thirty-five hours a week. I’m sure I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Fine is not the same as perfect.” I can practically see her thickly lined pursed red lips give me the same look reflected back at me my entire childhood. The one I now give myself that grazes purposefully over my body, focusing on any imperfections. “You must push yourself, mon amour.”

My face burns with frustration, but nonetheless, I rake my eyes over my body, noticing the run in my light pink pantyhose. I bite the inside of my cheek because no matter how hard I try, there is always something.

“I really do have to get back to rehearsal. Can I give you a call later?”

I feel the beads of sweat forming between my skin and the fabric stretched taut across my abdomen.

I feel the incessant need to scream or throw something that always blazes inside me when I speak to my mother.

It’s hard to remember if it was always like this with her.

If she always focused so much on how I couldn’t quite meet the expectations she had set for me.

The picture of her when my dad was alive is hazy, but I force myself to believe that she wasn’t always like this.

That all the things that changed in me the day we lost him also changed in her.

“Oh mon amour, I must go. I'm getting a call. No more snacking and watch that clip I sent.” The line ends and I close my eyes forcing myself to breathe in my nose and out of my mouth.

I take in the scent of the dance studio, focusing on the more sinister undertones—the unwashed costumes hung on a rack to the left, the shredded pointe shoes tossed in the bin by the door.

“You good? Or did you get burned by the she-demon’s wrath?” Jean says, peering in from the door that leads to the hallway.

“Can we just start?” I mutter.