Page 112 of The First Taste

The Patron

Book One of The Broken Slipper Trilogy

Kaia

“One, two, three, four,” Melanie, our instructor counts off. She speaks in a high pitched, nasal voice. The piano music starts once again. “Girls! Group one, move forward. And one, two, three…pir-ou-ette. Nowpir-ou-ette… good, good.”

Her lilting Irish voice is set to the rhythm. As one, the group ahead of me neatly spins on their tiptoes, executing flawless pirouettes. The whole room is mirrored, floor to ceiling, with a sturdy wooden barre bolted to every inch. With the mirror, it looks like twenty four perfect ballerinas are finishing their pirouettes.

It makes sense, because this class is the best of the best. The most dedicated ballerinas and danseurs, the ones who have given up regular school and any semblance of their social lives to be here. After most would-be dancers are bounced from the program for not following the rules or just plain not being good enough, this is what you have left.

Thehardcoredancers. I’ve worked my ass off to be in this final class.

I suck in a breath and stretch my neck, readying myself for my group.

Melanie claps along on a steady, brisk four count. “Next group! And one, two, three…pir-ou-ette. Andpir-ou-ette…”

My arms swoop out to the sides as I lift onto my tiptoes and twirl. The motion is automatic, one born of muscle memory more than anything else. I’m directing most of my attention at my feet and the slight curve in my back. I usually get in trouble for my feet not pointing enough or my back not having a slight bow in it if I’m not intensely concentrated.

“Kaia! There should be more arch to your arms!” Melanie admonishes me. I give my arms a little more lift and she bows her head quickly. “There you go.”

I don’t have time to look around at the twelve other ballerinas in my group. I’m focused entirely on my feet and my back and the position of my arms. When I finish though, I realize that I’ve stopped very close to Manon, a little brunette ballerina who shoots me a glare.

I’m quick to move away, straightening my spine. Out of every ballerina in this school, Manon is by far the most caustic. And usually, her barbs are aimed at me.

“Sylvie! Don’t start like that, how can you expect to be graceful if you start in such an ugly position?” Melanie calls, her expression stern. She tucks a strand of her dishwater blonde hair behind her ear, rolling her eyes. “Boys! Group one, forward please… And one, two, three…pir-ou-ette. Andpir-ou-ette… Mason, that was perfect.”

I glance to my right, catching myself in the mirror. A thin blonde ballerina stares back at me, wearing a lilac leotard, a filmy white dancer’s skirt, opaque white tights, and ballet pink pointe shoes. I bite my lip and send my image a tiny frown; I immediately see the glaring flaws in my own appearance.

My father’s voice echoes through my head.

Your hair is the wrong shade of blonde. Your nose is too big, your eyes are too far apart. You’re too tall to do ballet, too heavy for most dancers to lift. Your posture is imperfect. Your feet are too large.

I swallow and lift my chin. I have to overcome my obvious shortfalls, be resilient enough to make it as a dancer. My dad put me through ballet academy and he has certain expectations.

If I work hard, if I focus all my energy on each and every move, I should be able to prevail.

But by far the worst thing of all is that I lack mobility in my turnout. The rotation of my hip joints, to turn outward away from the front of my body, is sadly never going to be a perfect one hundred and eighty degrees.

I wrinkle my nose at myself and drag my eyes back up to the rest of the class. I see my group moving forward again and I rush to take my place. We execute another set of pirouettes under Melanie’s eagle-eyed gaze.

“Ella, you are still a step behind everyone else. Always a step behind. Start earlier.”

The incredibly tiny black woman blushes and bows her head, but says nothing. I would kill for Ella’s diminutive height or turnout, but I am incredibly glad not to get that same bit of criticism from our teacher.

“Let’s change it up,” Melanie says. She turns around, signaling to the piano player to stop. “This will be the last combination. Girls, please begin with relevé developé, pas de bourre, arabesque en diagonal, tombé, and demi-plie. Okay? Let’s go.”

The hardest part of my day is right now, when we’ve already had an full day of classes and we only have a few minutes more. The last fifteen minutes always seem to drag terribly.

We go through the combination two more times, with Melanie correcting everything she sees. Don’t get me wrong, I know that she’s one of our most kind hearted teachers. But by the time the class ends, I’m done with her critiques.

Honestly, I could probably use a day off right about now. But between attending my last month of classes here at the New York Academy of Ballet and my much less prestigious night job, there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of that randomly happening.

I walk over to grab my bottle of water, taking a long pull. As I’m guzzling down the water, Eric walks up. I gulp as he casually starts talking to me; with his blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and his muscular danseur’s frame, Eric looks like a freaking Disney prince.

“Hey,” he says, picking up a small black duffel bag from against the wall. “That last round of combinations was killer. I feel like I just got my ass kicked.”

Before I even say a word, my face grows hot. As a ballerina, I’m always sensitive to my body and the story told by my posture. But talking to gorgeous Eric brings a whole new level of embarrassment and self consciousness.