Chapter 4
Mila
I ’ m one of those freaks who loves watching cream swirl into coffee. I admit I ’ ve filmed and photographed it more times than I should confess.
There ’ s something mesmerizing about two opposing forces merging, forced to become one—hot and cold, acidic and sweet.
It ’ s tragic yet poetic, almost like a lover's final sigh.
It ’ s calming, and I ’ m sure if lava lamps were in style again, I would have a dozen perched around my dorm room.
I wish the spiraling sight in front of me were a nice hot cup of coffee. Instead, it's blood and water dancing and spinning until they vanish down the drain.
I tilt my body forward, hoping to be engulfed by the drain. My only wish is to fade away from this world.
Pushing back, I absorb the scene and release a heavy exhale from my lungs.
I don ’ t know why I did this. The first time I cut myself was an accident. I was simply sewing the elastic ribbons onto my ballet shoes when the needle accidentally pierced my skin. Of course, it hurt, but then… it made me feel in control. Something I had never tasted before.
So I pricked myself again, just like I did now.
I know it ’ s bad.But it ’ s just a little prick of a needle. It ’ s not like I ’ m actually cutting myself.
The road to destruction always starts peaceful, small and narrow, comforting, but then it opens wide and you find you lost the path entirely.
Okay, ‘ bad ’ is an understatement. I have a problem.
That also means I fit in with the rest of the kids at my boarding school. We ’ re all fucked up in one way or another.
It ’ s just a phase I will grow out of. I ’ ll get tired of it, and eventually, I ’ ll fall back in line and be the perfect little angel my father thinks I am.
Pain doesn ’ t scare me, and neither does seeing blood. Ballerinas look so graceful, so strong yet delicate, so muscular yet flexible. Everything about us is a contradiction.
Everything about my life is.
The most important things in my life should be school, social media, and boys. Instead, I spend every waking hour that I ’ m not in the classroom in the dance studio. I’m more comfortable in my pointe shoes than my own skin.
My dad wants me to think I ’ m free here at boarding school, but in reality, my entire life has already been planned: college, my career, a husband one day—all the details. I ’ m just the ballerina stuck spinning and performing in the music box for others.
Everyone thinks I love dancing; they all claim that I ’ m going to be a famous ballerina like my mother was.
Remember what I said about contradictions?
I don ’ t love ballet.
I loathe it.
I hate a lot of stuff, but everyone thinks I love my life because I ’ m really good at smiling. I have a nice smile that two years of braces made perfectly straight and so freaking believable. It also doesn ’ t help that I have dimples. No one can take dimples seriously. It ’ s like god designed me to be this adorable doll.
No one sees the real me.
I don ’ t even know who the ‘ real me ’ is.
I ’ ve been stuck playing roles for so long that I don ’ t know how to escape them.
What ’ s scarier is that playing a role is easier than living.
Dancing reminds me of my mother. It reminds my dad of my mom, and that ’ s why he still wants me to dance. I ’ m a memory of her on stage.
It ’ s heartbreaking, and I don ’ t want to take that memory away from him.
Does that make me an enabler?
Every day I step into the studio and I look for mom. She ’ s not there, but her ghost is. Me.
I turn off the sink, grab clean bandages, and begin the process that has become as easy as putting one foot in front of the other. Covering up my pain and taking away the control I tasted. Now, I ’ m going back to being the perfect doll they all think I am.
It ’ s hard to fight when you consider all the repercussions. It ’ s simpler to just muster through it.
So I do.
Maybe my thinking is wrong. Maybe I should just fight back and not care how the cards fall.
I want to scream and run. I want to laugh as I hide.
I want… wanting is silly. I ’ m just a girl born into an empire of men.
Life isn ’ t about wants; it ’ s about needs, and I need to stay quiet and be the good girl my father thinks I am.
I need to survive.
***
The music abruptly halts, and so does my heart. “ What is the matter?” Mr. LeBlanc, my ballet instructor, screams.
“ You keep missing the mark,” Jared, my dancing partner, scorns me. His fingers press into my hipbone harshly as if hoping to snap me out of my daze and wake me up. His other hand reaches for my bicep. His eyes soften when his fingers touch my bare skin, but then they turn darker, and he grips me harder like I ’ m a kite in the sky that the wind is taking away from him.
I tried to fly away, but the thing about kites is they ’ re tethered to a string that reels them back down.
It ’ s awful—tasting fresh air, feeling the wind under your sails, only to be yanked back and shoved into a corner until someone decides to play with you again.
“ Jared,” I whisper, my eyes lock on his bruising touch. In a way, it ’ s my fault. I turned down his affection, so now I get a different form of it.
Does it bother me? Not really. I ’ ve been numb for a long time. If I reacted, that would mean I ’ d be waking up and feeling. I don ’ t care enough to feel about Jared ’ s bruised heart.
Pick your battles. That ’ s what dad always says. Could I tell my father what Jared is doing? Yes. Would Jared be dead within the hour? Naturally.
I ’ m a Michelson, after all. Daughter to the lawyer who makes contracts for some of the scariest and most dangerous men on this earth. Dad has friends who would make the devil think twice.
I don ’ t want blood on my hands. I don ’ t want to be a part of my father ’ s world. I might be forced to live in it, but I won ’ t let it corrupt me. So I numb myself in hope that one day I might be able to escape.
I bite the inside of my cheek as Jared presses one more inch deeper into my skin.
Just do it already, Jared. Snap.
Sometimes, I wish Jared would just crack. I ’ m talking full-blown ‘ I ’ m Britney, bitch ’ mental breakdown, tossing me down, shaving his head bald, and beating a car with an umbrella. Is that too much to hope for?
Okay, let ’ s digress to a first-degree celebrity mental breakdown. Maybe something more gentle, like letting his grip slip so I could tumble down and be gifted with a break that would end my ballet career. Then it wouldn ’ t be my fault. I ’ d be free by someone else ’ s hands.
Does that make me a monster or just a silly girl who still has hopes?
You see, I attend Silverstone Preparatory, a boarding school for the elites—not rich, not wealthy, but elite. The wealthy work for us. That ’ s the difference. At Silverstone Preparatory, we flaunt our exclusive curriculum, where budding tycoons learn the dark arts of world domination. After all, they ’ re here to conquer, not just study.
In reality, it ’ s more like a posh survival camp. Our parents just needed a place to stash us until they needed us.
Every single student here has a future mapped out for them. There are no options, no choices. They have been made. Thus, there is a need to find a vice, an escape, before we are forced to become our parents.
Those who love danger find a way to escape here. It happens every weekend. I usually hide away in the dance studio, spinning on my pointe shoes. I figure the more I dance and spin, the less I ’ ll be tempted to stop and watch. So I try to exhaust myself, hoping I won ’ t have the energy to feed that darkness, that gnawing curiosity inside that wants to witness the acts students here partake in.
Jared, my partner, slowly drops his hand, his eyes fixed on the red mark he left behind. It ’ s a small taste of power for him. Jared doesn ’ t get to taste power like the other kids here do. Jared isn ’ t elite; he ’ s on scholarship. Silverstone Preparatory operates very differently than, well, every other school. They cater to their paying students.
When I enrolled here, they added an entire dance program, complete with a famous teacher and top aspiring ballerina dancers from around the world. Some of the top companies now recruit from Silverstone—all because I attend here.
If I had another hobby like swimming, they ’ d build a pool and find me the next Phelps to train with.
That ’ s why a lot of the scholarship dancers hate me. They think the roles I get in productions are because of my last name and the fact that I pay to attend here.
It ’ s not true. I may hate ballet, but if I ’ m forced to dance, then I ’ m going to dance and get every leading role I can.
One summer, I did the opposite; I was lazy and got a third-string role. Being bored while you arebeing tortured is even worse than being exhausted while doing something you hate. It gave me way too much time to think.
Now, I put everything I have into ballet so I can land the leading positions, so I don ’ t have to think.
Me? I ’ m a shrink ’ s retirement. I need so many sessions they could buy a private island after they fixed me.
“ I said, what ’ s the matter?” Mr. LeBlanc hisses as he hits his bamboo cane against the studio floor, the sound making me flinch.
I could end it, end Mr. LeBlanc. One word to my father, and he ’ d be dead.
That ’ s a lot of power for a teenager to wield, so I choose not to use it.
I still like to think that makes me a good person.
However, the torture I endure from Mr. LeBlanc is nothing compared to what other kids extracurricular instructors do.
So I suck it up, both for myself, for Mr. LeBlanc ’ s life, and because I know at the end of the day I don ’ t have it the worst.
Jared licks his lips and hangs his head. “ I lost the count.”
He lied. It was my fault.
Now I feel guilty and messy like an Italian gelato served to a tourist on a hot summer day. I melted into a mess before they got a taste. It kind of makes me think maybe I should give Jared a chance again. Just suck it up and keep allowing him to kiss me.
Maybe one day I ’ d feel… something.
See, it ’ s hard to hate Jared even when he hurts me because he often tries to protect me from our instructor.
Ballet isn ’ t for wimps. There is a reason most of us look tortured when we are not on stage. It ’ s rigorous training, and often, the instructors could have been jailers in another life.
“ One, two, three,” Mr. LeBlanc shouts as he claps his hands. “ We learned to count as babies!” He raises his bamboo stick and then whacks Jared on the side of the head with it.
My gulp lodges in my throat as I watch Jared close his eyes. We all want to be free, but we ’ re stuck on this roller coaster, unable to get off. Jared needs the scholarship to escape his life. I need to not react, so no blood coats my hands.
“ Again!” Mr. LeBlanc shouts.
“ I ’ m sorry,” I whisper as Jared and I walk back to reset.
He says nothing. Maybe he hopes I ’ ll give in to him again. When Jared first came here, and we were partnered together, we started to have a good friendship that I appreciated. Then Jared grew feelings, and we tried. We ’ d kiss and make out. It was easy because we spent all our time together. However, the more we kissed, the more I felt like a dancer just performing. There were no sparks. It was choreographed, so I put an end to it.
Jared hasn ’ t responded to that too well.
To make matters worse, we ’ re still stuck dancing together, always touching and being close to each other. I feel like a terrible person when I watch his eyes drink me in. I ’ m also angry that he ’ s taken to leaving his mark on me in other ways, like hard grips and bruises in the shape of fingerprints.
I ’ m cornered.
If I say anything about Jared or Mr. LeBlanc, their blood will be on my hands.
“ And Mila, stop looking so stiff!” Mr. LeBlanc ’ s eyes look at my hips. “ Lose two pounds also. You ’ re looking curvy. Remember, Jared has to lift you.”
Yes, my skin is thick, but even calluses can be cut open. It ’ s not the weight comments that get to me; it ’ s everything else: how I ’ m so perfect, how I ’ m a teacher ’ s pet, how I must be the perfect little doll that someone is going to call wife one day. How I broke Jared ’ s heart, how I should be happy to be getting affection.
How I should be...
How I should be!
Those comments cut me open wide because I ’ m far from perfect, and I hate being compared to it. It makes me feel uglier inside.
I want to be me, whoever that broken girl is.
Who are you, Mila? Maybe I’m so dark I choose not to look yet, or maybe I could be so good that I don ’ t allow it because I know I ’ d never survive in this world.
The only person I care to please is my dad because I ’ m all he has left, and, well, Dad ’ s all I have left. If my father dies, I know my time is numbered. Dad ’ s got enemies, and they ’ d love nothing more than to hunt me down.
As much as kids at this school hate their parents, we also need them. Everyone needs a shield; even a rusted, broken defense can deflect a deadly hit.
Love-hate relationships? They define everyone at Silverstone.
“ Enough! Again, one more time,” Mr. LeBlanc claps.
Again. Again.
Again.
My life is a production on repeat, and I don ’ t think I ’ ll ever escape it.
***
“ Do you want to go to the cafeteria?” Jared asks. A droplet of water rolls off his wet hair and runs down his forehead. He has that clean scent from just showering. He’s handsome, tall, strong but lean, with the body of a male dancer. Curly brown hair and sun-kissed skin. He ’ s just not my version of handsome. No sparks.
When he first came here, the other guys made fun of him because he danced ballet. A mistake because Jared can punch—every male here can—but Jared can also move fast, just like when he ’ s dancing.
I glance away. Why is it so hard for me to hurt people, to turn them down?
I always try to avoid Jared after class, but I ’ m starting to suspect he ’ s been waiting for me outside the locker room.
His eyes look sad and hopeful, like the last cupcake in a fancy New York bakery. It ’ s starting to get dried out, old, stale, just like Jared ’ s patience with me.
“ I ’ m tired.” I fake a yawn. Please give up on me, Jared.
He steps closer, and my nose fills with the scent of his body wash. His eyes drift to my bare arms. I follow his gaze and see two small oval bruises from his index and thumb fingers. He looks sorry but doesn ’ t apologize.
“ I could make you happy,” he mutters.
I hug myself, covering up his marks. “ Jared, we ’ ve been over this. I don ’ t want a boyfriend. I just want to focus on school and ballet.”
He snorts and steps closer, reaching for my hand, forcing it lower to reveal the faint bruise. “ It doesn ’ t have to be like this.”
“ Then stop. You hurting me doesn ’ t make me want you.”
“ If I stopped, would you give us a chance again?”
“ Blackmail isn ’ t the way to a healthy relationship.”
“ Why haven ’ t you said anything?” he challenges me.
My forehead furrows. Does he want me to? Just as I hope he will break me so I won ’ t have to dance, does he hope I ’ ll snitch on him so my father will end him?
Yet again, we all want to escape but can ’ t.
“ You know why. I won ’ t be the reason you are killed.” I jerk out of his hold. “ Stop.” I take a step back, eyes pleading. This, all of us, we are so fucked up.
His lips begin to curl. “ No,” he responds.
I made a mistake. I gave him unleashed control. He knows I don ’ t want his death on my hands; now I have no ammunition.
“ How does it feel not to get what you want, Mila?” His eyes seem to come to life.
I shrug. “ It feels like my life every day, Jared. You want power. You have it over me. Enjoy it while it lasts.” I turn away. “ Now you know why I ended it. You never wanted me. You just wanted the power my last name fed you.”
Night hugs me, hides me. I love the darkness, because it ’ s the only time we can see hope. The small stars above, flickering old light that has slowly reached us—that ’ s hope. It ’ s faint, not always seen, but it ’ s there. It ’ s not fresh or new, not powerful and warming like the sun. Hope is cold, slumbering in the distance, waiting for you to reach it.
I tip my head back and look at the stars. Tonight, I can only see a few because of the thick clouds. One day, I ’ ll reach those stars, grasp my hope, and be free.
Another day is almost done, and I danced it away again. It ’ s nine at night, but the yard is still alive. Trees are scattered and filled with fairy lights. Silverstone Preparatory likes to go over the top when it comes to making its students comfortable. I don ’ t hate the school; some of my teachers are actually awesome, and I do learn a lot.
It could be worse. It always could be.
I try to stay positive and smile, even when I ’ m dying inside. I read a psychology article once about the power of mind control. It stated we could control our minds. We have the power to change how we think. If you tell yourself you ’ re miserable, then you will be. It ’ s all about trickery.
I tell myself every day when I ’ m slipping my foot into the pointe shoe that I love ballet again. I tell myself every night that I love my life. I tell myself I should be happy; it could always be worse. I ’ ve got a shelter over my head, the best education, and a father who loves me even if he doesn ’ t see how much I hate my life. I keep repeating, and waiting for my mind to be tricked.
“ Hey, Mila,” Derrick shouts as he waves at me. Derrick is a ‘ de Lorraine, ’ as in the cryptocurrency tycoons de Lorraine ’ s. He ’ s stunning and plays on the rugby team, which means he and his friends can ’ t wear shirts, at least they never do. I ’ m not complaining; who would when they get to ogle at a body like that?
I lied to Jared. I don ’ t just want to focus on school and ballet. I want to taste life, just not with him. I want sparks when I kiss.
I bite my lip and wave back, “ Hey.” Did that sound okay? I run a hand over my high bun, hoping to smooth down the flyaways.
The school lawn is filled with students. Some study, others drink, some make out, and others get high. We ’ re all just drowning our emptiness with some kind of vice. “ Mommy and Daddy issues” is a checkbox every single student here checks.
“ Hey, Milly, come join us.”
That ’ s Maximilian Sinclair. Take a moment to fictitiously vomit over his parents ’ choice of a name. I ’ ve been in his class for six years, and he still can ’ t remember my name. He doesn ’ t have the excuse of Mr.LeBlanc hitting his head either.
I roll my eyes. “ It ’ s Mila.” Why do I bother replying?
He smacks his forehead, almost missing because he ’ s so high. “ I know that. I ’ ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“ Kimberly Whitfield said you only lasted two minutes. Thanks, but no thanks, Maximilian.” I sneer, hoping my insult will shut him up so I can continue to hobble across the yard and get to the safety of my dorm.
By the end of the day, my feet feel like jello that desperately needs a mold.
Snickers of laughter erupt. “ She said what?” Maximilian shouts.
Okay, so I do feel bad that he ’ s tripping to stand as he begins to speed-walk toward Kimberly and her friends. It did get him off my back. And it ’ s true; Kimberly said that in the locker room.
Not that I know anything about sex. Two minutes seems like a long time to have someone gyrating in and out of you. Maybe it ’ s different when you ’ re in love or the guy knows what he ’ s doing. Judging by the stories I hear in the locker room, not many guys here know what they are doing. I experience enough pain from ballet; the last thing I need is bleeding feet and lady bits.
I ’ m not a prude. I do want to have sex; I just don ’ t want it to feel choreographed. I want it to feel like an explosion—spontaneous and electric. In other words, the opposite of what kissing Jared felt like.
I want love.
I want to feel loved. I want to give love.
I want someone to see the real me. I want storybook passion, head over heels, magic and sparks, devotion, and madness. I want a prince who is willing to slay my dragon, not turn into one.
Once I ’ m tucked inside my dorm, I crawl into bed, turn over, and close my eyes. “ I want someone who will make my life worth living.”