Elle
Spinning around, I see a boy my age, or maybe a year older.
My biting retort at his snarky remark dies on my lips the moment my eyes meet his coal-black ones. I swear I’ve never seen eyes that dark set in skin so pale, with inky locks to match. His cheeks are pink from the cold and he’s dressed in a school uniform. A private one from the looks of the fancy golden crest embroidered on his navy blazer.
I drop my tutu indignantly, though it does me no good. It’s a platter tutu, jutting out around my waist and not covering much of anything else.
“Not according to Madame Pelletier,” I say in irritation, wiping furiously at my tears. What’s worse than crying? Having someone catch you in the act. “According to her, I have hips wide enough to bear an army and breasts massive enough to feed them all.”
His impenetrable eyes rove over my flesh centimetre by centimetre and once again I find myself wanting to shrink into the floorboards.
He cocks his head and deadpans, “An army of ants?”
My words catch in my throat as he stands directly behind me. He’s almost a head taller than I am and I can’t help but think how perfect he’d be to dance with en pointe. If Madame were here, she’d fawn over his lean, elegant frame.
I suck in a breath when his long fingers slide under my tutu and over my hip bones, his chin grazing the side of my head.
Suddenly my heart’s pounding in my throat so fast and hard I can’t swallow.
W-who does this boy think he is to just touch me like this?!
And yet, no protest leaves my lips.
My head swims as he traces the protruding ridges, causing goosebumps to rise beneath my leotard.
“Do you want children one day?”
“W-what?” Our eyes lock in the mirror and for one delusional second, I swear he’s asking me if I want to have his children.
We’re teens. What teen even thinks that far ahead?
That aside, I don’t even know this man, no, boy.
What the hell is wrong with me? Tell him to stop touching you. Tell him to get lost. Tell him to…
But then I freefall into those dark orbs again and all my thoughts scramble.
Breathe…
He repeats the question and his voice is so commanding, I’m compelled to answer.
“One day,” I repeat.
“Then take her words as a future compliment.”
His roving fingers span my pelvis and I grab his forearms as if to stop him from going any further, but my grip is weak. His muscles flex beneath my fingers, and all I can think about is how his bare skin must feel. Like silk over steel?
Butterflies erupt in my stomach, a tingle going straight through my core. My eyelids flutter, breaking our contact in the mirror, but his next words have me peering straight back into those black abysses.
“Safe. Protective. A precious cradle.” At the last word, he rocks us ever so slightly, his hardening front flushed against my back. “But their width serves other purposes, too.”
My mind’s suddenly foggy, my mouth dry as I murmur, “And what’s that?”
“Comfortably accommodating someone else’s hips.” His fingers curl around my upper thigh, dangerously close to my sex, as he presses against me for emphasis. “Right here.”
Instead of pushing him away, I find myself melting into him. Liquid heat pools between my jellied legs and I squeeze my thighs together, trapping his hand.
He smiles and I flush as I quickly free him, only for him to continue his exploration.
“And your breasts…”
I watch in the mirror as his hands slide up my ribs, his thumbs stroking the fabric beneath the creases of my breasts. He stares unashamedly down the front of my leotard, watching the swells rise and fall with each shallow breath I’m struggling to take.
“They match the softness of your frame.” He trails a finger up my throat, then down, stopping right above my leotard’s neckline. “A sign of supple health. Peaks to be sucked on, bit, and kissed. Pillows to lay against while listening to your heartbeat. But let me guess, Madame wants more sternum and less flesh?”
I swallow and nod as his stroking brings the heat pooling in my core to a boil.
“Well, that’s not happening, is it?” he asks, and his words are almost hypnotic as his fingers stop their motions to cling to my throat with a gentle squeeze. “You won’t ruin perfection for someone else’s beauty standards, will you?”
He’s asking me as if it’s a question, but the gentle pulses on my neck tell me that it’s not.
Perfection.
“N-no.”
“Good girl.” He pulls away from me, the corners of his full lips twitching, his eyes sparkling with something I can’t quite place.
What the hell was that?
I wet my dry lips, mentally shaking the thought away. Great. I’d probably be using him as my new inspiration for my nightly ritual. The one where I fantasise about impossibly beautiful boys being obsessed with me.
“Now that we’ve cleared up how beautifully and intentionally made your body already is, what else does Madame complain about?”
My cheeks burn, my stomach flipping over. Beautiful? This sample of beauty personified was calling me beautiful. Me with reddish blonde eyebrows and eyelashes that disappeared against my pale skin?
“Nothing. She doesn’t critique me on things I can control. Like my timing or positioning. I can’t improve if I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. I keep trying to impress her—”
He shakes his head. “You won’t ever be good enough for her. So stop trying.”
How would he know?
Now that his warm fingers aren’t holding me, my shoulders begin to shake again and snot bubbles in my nose as thoughts of Madame come rushing back. I pivot away, hiding my face.
Shit! Did he see that?
“Why do you care about what one teacher says, anyway? She isn’t the sole authority.”
I swipe at my nose and try to compose myself in a nanosecond. “But there’s no denying that she does have authority. Don’t you know who she is? She’s a freaking—”
“Prima ballerina?” he asks, seemingly unimpressed. “Yeah, I know. But she isn’t some god.”
“She’s the god of Beaulieu Academy’s ballet division, or at least she was. She can teach me exactly how to nail my audition.”
“You want to go to Beaulieu?” he asks, arching a brow as I stare at him via the mirror’s reflection.
“That’s my best chance at dancing in college. Over seventy per cent of its students get into a renowned program. If Beaulieu Academy is listed on my college admission form, I’ve already gotten one ballet slipper in the door.”
“Ballet’s that important to you, huh? Not just a hobby?”
I whirl to face him, gawking as if he’s just asked me if I liked food. “Ballet is everything to me. It’s my escape. It’s a world away from my father—” I bite my lip. Why the hell did I say that?
“What’s wrong with your father?” He seems genuinely interested whilst already having an idea of the answer. But that’s impossible. Someone who went to a private school wouldn’t know a single one of my family members.
I let out a shaky breath. “Everything.”
He remains pensive, watching me, but he doesn’t push for details.
“Madame told me I should just quit now,” I say, wrapping up that conversation hastily. Talking about my father is off-limits. “But how can I ever do that? It’s my lifeline. My dream.”
“Lifeline?” he asks, more to himself.
“Haven’t you ever had a dream?”
“No,” he says seriously and somehow I find his lack of a dream sadder than my crushed one.
Behind his back Madame darts past the crack in the door, not seeing us.
“I hate her,” I whisper.
“Hating her won’t make you a better dancer.”
His matter-of-fact words draw a twang of shame within me because he’s right.
But so am I.
“Yeah, neither will she. With no critiques on my form.”
“Let’s see it then. Your form.”
“You know about ballet?” I internally cringe at my own question. How many teenage boys could identify a prima ballerina? He must be a dancer too.
“Danced it since I was two. I took last year off to focus on lacrosse.”
He’s the embodiment of what I’d picture a lacrosse player to be. Weren’t they plastered all over a storefront at some point in black and white photographs?
“Are you going to get back into it? Ballet? Is that why you’re here?”
“Something like that.” He plugs his phone into the aux cord near the speakers. “What song?”
“Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.”
He rolls his eyes as if I couldn’t get more cliche if I tried.
Ignoring him, I get into position and begin. My heart picks up speed with each turn and jump, and it’s not from the effort. His intense stare unnerves me as if he’s analysing me right down to every hair and pore on my body. Heat and something else I can’t identify coils tight in the pit of my stomach.
Suddenly I’m hyper-aware of my body. I didn’t think I could be any more aware than when I was under Madame’s scrutinising gaze. But I was wrong.
So wrong.
I find myself watching him, watching me, not following myself in the mirror, as I typically do. I want to look away from him, but I can’t, like a car wreck you can’t peel your eyes away from.
Not that he’s a wreck. Not by a long shot. But somehow, I feel the chaos brewing just beneath his pale skin. I know it like I know these movements I’ve danced two thousand times before.
But under his gaze, under my heightened sense of awareness, I don’t feel nervous like I always do with Madame. I don’t wish there were other dancers to hide myself amongst, hoping to blend in so much that I fade away altogether. No. I want him to watch me.
I want all of his attention.
When the music ends and I land in an arabesque, I feel exhilarated. For once, I think I’ve nailed it because I wasn’t zoned in on the choreography itself. I was so focused on him focusing on me that I let myself flow with the music. It felt so natural. So—
A strong hand grasps my thigh, lifting it higher. Another clasps the back of my neck and gently pushes me down an inch, relieving some tension in my back.
“You’re going to injure your back if you keep it that straight,” he says, his fingers stroking down my spine. “You land at a ninety-degree, but you hold it for less than a second before dropping your leg to an eighty-degree. The Beaulieu staff at your audition will notice that.”
I nod. How hadn’t I noticed it?
My right leg trembles from holding the position too long, and my knee buckles, but he braces his leg behind mine. “And obviously, your support leg is weak. It’s evident during most lifts.”
I nod again, exhaling as he releases me. I want to fall on my ass and hug my legs to stop the dull pain throbbing within them, but I listen intently, giving him my full attention. Not that I have to try hard to focus. His gaze beneath heavy lashes is magnetic, inescapable.
“You land with the force of a baby elephant.”
The magical, magnetic, inescapable connection miraculously snaps. Tearing my eyes away, I stare at the floor.
He tips my chin up, forcing me to look at him. “And that has nothing to do with your body size,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “It takes skill to land gracefully. Another thing you need to work on if you want to get into Beaulieu.”
At the school’s name, I straighten and nod again, a hunger spreading through my belly. There’s no if about it. Beaulieu is as much of my dream as ballet itself is. “What else?” I ask.
“Your turns are sloppy.”
I struggle not to flinch. No, this is exactly the feedback I want to hear. That I need to hear.
“You didn’t land on the correct foot twice. Soften your elbows and work on your hand poses in the mirror daily. They should be relaxed yet precise. It should look effortless, not like you’re experiencing rigour mortis.”
I swallow. “T-thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll work on all of that.”
He lifts a brow as if surprised by my easy reception.
“That’s more feedback than I’ve gotten in two months here.”
He says nothing, disconnecting his phone as I grab my gym bag and fish out my phone. A relic from my twelfth birthday.
My father, Jarett, promised to pick me up today at five. Thirty minutes after class ends. Normally I take the bus so it surprised and terrified me when he offered.
I check my notifications, my heart accelerating for an entirely different reason than the lacrosse model standing beside me. Thankfully, it slows just as fast as it takes off. No calls from Jarett yet. I knew better than to call him. I knew better than to keep him waiting. I’ll wait outside for thirty minutes before catching the last bus and sending him a text. It’s the best way to avoid conflict. Minimal contact at all times.
I shiver at the potential awkward car ride home and say a silent prayer that he forgets all about it.
“Is your class about to start?” I ask as we move down the hallway together. I’m headed for the exit, but there are four more studios before the exterior door. They’re all empty though. In fact, the entire studio is empty. I don’t think night classes start until six thirty. Maybe he’s taking a private lesson.
Before he can answer, a moan to our right stops us dead.
It’s coming from the girls’ locker room. I always avoided it. Madame brought enough attention to my breasts. I didn’t need to shower in front of my class and give the girls another reason to giggle as if I was some anomaly and not just a girl with C cups.
A man’s moan echoes next.
Is someone watching porn?
Curiosity gets the better of me, and without thinking, I step towards the door. I barely make it two steps before fingers curl around the neckline of my leotard and retch me back.
The boy slides in front of me, leading the way into the locker room. I want to protest, but the warning look he throws over his shoulder tells me to shut up and stay behind him as if I need protection.
Protection from what? Two students going at it? I’m not that na?ve.
As I ease the heavy door close behind us, he looks around the tiled wall that hides the showers from view before quickly whipping his head back to face the door again. He’s even paler than before, his expression frozen in shock.
Maybe he’s the innocent one…
No, not with the way he touched me. So then what?
I brush past him and peer into the showers where the water is on full blast and a couple’s under the stream. The woman has her back against the tile, her legs wrapped around a man’s waist, her face hidden in his neck.
His neck… that has a tattoo of a hammerhead shark on it…
As the man drives into her and their slippery bodies slap together rhythmically, she lifts her face and moans, right in tune with my horrified scream that never leaves my lips.
Ringed fingers clamp down on my mouth, but we don’t move.
We don’t breathe.
We’re both glued to the spot.
Of all the things I expected to find, it wasn’t my dad fucking Madame Pelletier.
Minutes later, the boy’s grip slackens and so does my dread with every slosh and splash of water.
My dad was fucking Madame Pelletier…
My dad was fucking Madame Pelletier…
He was cheating on my mom…
Cheating!
I could use this to my advantage.
A grin slowly pulls at my lips as my mind processes what this could mean for me and Mum.
My trembling fingers fiddle with my phone to find the camera app and once it opens, I hit the record button.