17. Rya
17
RYA
Breathe. My heart hammers a vicious staccato inside my rib cage. It’s so bad I can’t help but rub my palm over my chest in an attempt to make it slow… or at the very least to keep it from exploding through the bone barrier and onto the floor backstage. A violent lurch of my stomach makes me question whether I’m going to vomit from the case of nerves I’ve picked up on the way over here. I want in on this showcase so bad I can taste it. I’m doing an excellent job of driving myself straight into a panicked state that won’t help me for the audition.
Glancing around at the others sequestered in this small room, the stark truth stares me in the face. We all want this. But who wants it bad enough ? Whichever of us secure the handful of coveted spots will be those willing to push past the inevitable nerves that come with this process.
I’m terrified to fail. My parents didn’t pay for me to attend EU to come out of it a second-rate dancer. My jaw sets, chiding myself for not believing in my ability. The most frustrating part, though, is that there’s been one horrible thing after another happening to me, and I can say with certainty that it’s beginning to affect my performance in my classes. I let out a huff of air, grumbling. I’m freaking cursed.
And my brain won’t chill out, flicking back to being called into Millie’s office as soon as I’d gotten here to give my account of finding the locker room in disarray. I’d had to explain—skipping over the bit about the asshole who’d pretended to be my driver—that I’d run home to get another pair of shoes. I’d been in shock, but in hindsight, I guess I should have reported it. She didn’t seem mad, per se, but definitely had been disappointed in me.
And unfortunately, every movement in my pointe shoes reminds me that they’re dead—they’ve seen far too many hours of use to give me adequate support. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. The ones that’d been destroyed yesterday had just gotten to that sweet spot where they’d been beautifully broken in. With a sigh, I attempt to rein in my wandering brain, moving on to dégagés.
Drawing in another careful breath, I glance around at the flurry of activity around me. How does everyone else seem so relaxed? So ready? My teeth clamp down on the skin of my lower lip, worrying it. Could be because of everything that’s happened to me lately, the guys aren’t wrong about that. Break-in? Check . Drugs in my system? Check . Rape kit? Check . Ruined pointe shoes? Check . Wild ride with a psycho? Check, check, fucking check .
There’s not a way to shake myself free of any of that. Try as I might, it’s all loitering around in the back of my mind where I’ve stuffed it so I can concentrate. And the hell of it is, there’s been so much else, too, most especially the relationships I have developed with not one but two men. Logan and Jaxon definitely still have shit to work out, even if this morning they’d been in agreement. Of course they choose now to concur… right when I was hoping one of them would take my side.
But can I fault them for wanting me to properly report to the authorities what’s happening? No. I get it. All this crap doesn’t happen to one person unless they have some exceedingly bad luck. So, if it’s not bad luck…
Stop . I suck in a breath, then blow it out, refocusing on the remainder of my warm-up. I manage okay for a little while as, one by one, students leave the room to perform their audition pieces.
I’m mentally going through my choreography in my head when a throat clears beside me. “Thanks for the heads-up last night.”
My brows dart together as my head whips toward Hazel’s familiar voice. “Sorry, what?”
“The shit show with the locker room. If you hadn’t said something, I would have shown up without”—she plucks at the long sleeve of her leotard—“a single thing to wear.”
I wince. “Shit, I’m sorry. But glad I said something.”
My friend looks a little green. “That romantic tutu I was going to wear? The one that cost an arm and a leg?” She shakes her head. “Trashed.”
Glancing down, I notice she’s in her other favorite, a classical tutu. I sigh. “At least you didn’t leave both of them in your locker, huh?”
She nods. “For sure.” She eyes me, her gaze dropping to my feet. “Did you get those from home?”
“Yeah.” I exhale unsteadily, my stomach twisting at the reminder. “I’ll fill you in on that disaster later.”
Her pink-painted lips form an O of surprise. I can tell I’ve piqued her curiosity though, which is typical for Hazel. “I definitely want to hear about it,” she murmurs, her brow arching. We watch another dancer depart the room, leaving about eight of us waiting for our audition. “So… where were you all night?”
My lips part as I weigh how effective telling a lie will be. Hazel has this way of knowing when I’m not telling the whole truth—which is why I’m open with her about most things… that, or I clam up completely, not wanting her to call me out.
She rolls her eyes, her lips twitching with mirth before she whispers, “I know you weren’t in Logan’s room.” Shit . How did she know the little white lie I was about to tell ? She shrugs, keeping her voice conspiratorial. “I checked, Rya. He wasn’t there either. Just Levi.” Her brow furrows. “You can tell me anything, you know. I felt terrible when you gave me the CliffsNotes as to what’s been going on and realized how much you’d been keeping from me.” Letting out a sigh, she shakes her head, her eyes glossy all of a sudden. “I was worried after the whole mess with the locker room. I didn’t know where you were. I-I feel very out of touch with whatever h-has been going on with you, and it makes me feel like shit .” Her voice cracks on that last word before she draws in a ragged breath to finish her thoughts. “I wish I knew what I’d done to make you h-hate me.”
My lips part at the unexpected tremble of her lips. “Haze.” I reach out, touching her arm. “I don’t hate you. Why would you say that?”
A tear slips from the corner of her eye, and she raises a shaking hand to swipe it away with a few fingers. Her gaze shifts, moving around the room before finally turning her back on the other students.
Oh, fuck. She’s losing it. Her chin wobbles as she stammers out, “Y-you don’t trust me anymore, and I don’t know what I did.” Her chest rises and falls with jerking motions as she tries to hold herself back from crying in earnest. More tears slip down her cheeks, but she doesn’t move to wipe them away as she stares at me with heartbroken eyes.
I’m forced to dampen the roof of my mouth as it’s gone bone-dry. I never expected her to be so upset. She’s right. We haven’t been ourselves with each other lately, but I truly didn’t think she cared.
The sadness in her eyes has me near breaking down right alongside her. “Haze, this discussion should wait until after auditions. If we start talking things through now, we’ll both be snotty, blotchy-faced messes on stage.” I wince. “I promise we can sort through things later.” Reaching out, I gently brush the tears from her cheek.
She clamps her lips together, squeezing her eyes shut. “I-I guess you’re right,” she whispers. “You promise?”
“Yeah. For sure.” I sniffle because, damn. This uncharacteristic display of upset coming from my friend is getting to me. She’s never like this. It’s always me who is in need of comfort. “I’m really sorry this all came out now.” I’m acutely aware of several other pairs of eyes on me and the whispering that’s commenced.
A moment later, Sarah, one of the teaching assistants, pokes her head in. “Hazel. You’re up, honey.”
I take my friend’s hand and squeeze. “ Merde .”
Sucking in a steadying breath, she nods, then throws herself at me, engulfing me in a tight embrace. “ Oui . That never gets old.”
“It’s better than ‘break a leg’ like they say in the theater.” I shrug. “You’re gonna crush your tutu.”
“Don’t care,” she murmurs, hugging me harder before pulling back. “I hope your audition goes well, too.” She releases me, spinning away to follow Sarah out to the stage.
Exhaling hard, I shake my head, blinking back tears. Yep, I definitely feel shitty for not knowing how awful I was making my best friend feel. Just the fact that she wished me well rather than the traditional merde tells me a lot about where our friendship stands. I take several deep breaths, finally going back to my warm-up.
Fifteen minutes later, I take my position, center stage, trying to breathe past the knot of nerves in my stomach. There’s nothing much that’s going to help, unfortunately. It’s simply preperformance anxiety. I’m no stranger to it, but damn, it’s hitting hard this time around. My palms sweat in anticipation. It’s okay. I’m fine. This is what I’ve trained for. I can do it.
The bright lights in my face make me overly warm, so I regulate each pass of air into and out of my lungs. Without moving my head out of position, I allow my gaze to sweep over the shadows beyond the lights of the stage. Something has my chest tightening, but I can’t pinpoint what. I have no way of knowing who is watching.
My music selection begins, soft notes at first, and my body responds easily. I’ve been practicing so hard and so long for this, I can’t let anything stop me. Not the too-worn-in shoes or any of the things clogging my mind.
As I move, I try to make sure every bit of what I’m doing is perfect—from the extension of my arms and legs to proper alignment, the precision of each movement, my turnout, the fluidity of every transition, and even the control of my breath. It’s been beaten into my head for many years now that ballet is supposed to look effortless. For a while, all is well. I execute each step with precision and grace—the way I’ve approached ballet all my life—letting emotion ebb and flow through my limbs.
But the farther into the choreo I go, the more it’s apparent I’m a little off. It’s unclear to me whether what’s affecting me is physical, mental, or… external. As seconds tick slowly by, I become convinced something around me isn’t quite right. Whatever it is has my heart alternately racing like a prize-winning thoroughbred, then fluttering like a mad hummingbird in my chest.
My eyes dart once again to the faceless sea of onlookers. There’s a tingle of awareness. Am I being crazy or is this simply all the bullshit finally taking its toll on my mental state? What I do know is that this is the first time in all my years of dance that not being able to see the audience has made me feel wary. Not knowing who is out there makes my skin prickle with unease and my stomach lurch inside me. In the end, all I can do is breathe through it. I’m not alone. The judges are out there. Other students. Possibly even Logan and Jaxon. They’d mentioned they wanted to be here.
So why the fuck does it feel like I’m trapped inside a snow globe that someone is violently shaking? Someone who is definitely acting with malice.
When the music finally comes to a close, the spotlight dims, immediately bringing the temperature on stage down with it. Without the lights in my eyes, I can see the judges at their table eight rows back and the smattering of people littered across the auditorium. About midway up, I spot Logan and, as my gaze travels, I locate Jaxon a short distance away, only a few rows behind him. Letting my awareness settle on the back row of the auditorium, my stomach pitches. Bile rises to the back of my throat, goose bumps raising on my flesh.
“Miss Monroe? Are you all right?”
I blink, blood roaring in my ears, then blink again, focusing on Millie. “Y-yes, ma’am. Just need some water. I’m fine.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Another of the dance instructors, Mr. Goode nods, scratching the side of his head with his pen. “Yes, that was delightful. Thank you. Decisions will be posted later this week—probably Wednesday.”
I nod, hardly hearing him as I get my wits about me enough to curtsy before hurrying off the stage. Racing through the dark space, I’m aware of other dancers eyeing me with mild curiosity. They probably think I completely fucked up my audition. The reality is I don’t care what they think. I need out of here, need?—
Bursting through a side door into a well-lit corridor, I run headlong into someone on the other side. A startled shriek tears from my lungs as I’m thrown off balance.
Strong arms band around me, and my chest shudders against them, ready to let loose with a second scream. “Whoa, pretty girl.” Concern oozes from Jaxon’s voice.
Jaxon. I exhale hard. Always here to catch me when I’m spiraling. “Oh my god.” I ease back, looking up at him.
His dark eyes study my every feature before he gestures with his chin. “Logan’s here, too. When we saw the way you left the stage, I went one way, he went the other, hoping to find you.”
My lip trembles. They’re both here. And they knew something wasn’t right. I nod. “He’s probably just?—”
The door bursts open behind us, and Logan appears. His eyes light on the both of us and he exhales hard, then runs a hand through his hair. “There you are.”
I let go of Jaxon, turning to step into Logan’s embrace. I let him fold me into his arms, mine caught between us and resting on his chest. My fingers reflexively clutch at his hoodie.
“You’re trembling.”
I nod. “I know.” But I can’t get my mouth to cooperate more than that. I’m physically feeling sick and anxious, but also grateful and loved and a million other emotions. It’s too much.
A moment later, Jaxon steps close, sandwiching me between them, running his hands up and down my arms. “You looked amazing up there. It’s not that, is it?”
“He’s right, you were beautiful, Tiny Dancer. If they don’t select you, they’re out of their minds.”
My ears ring as I shake my head. “I thought?—”
“This doesn’t really have anything to do with your performance, does it?” Logan murmurs quietly as he edges back so he can see my face. When our eyes meet, his narrow. With the notable exception of my feelings where he’s concerned, I’ve never been able to keep much of anything from him.
Jaxon’s voice is gruff, commanding even, when he grits out, “Come sit over here.” The two of them usher me to a bench under a window, and they take a seat on either side of me. With an arm draped around my back from either direction, they both lean forward, closing ranks around me. The cautious worry on their faces makes me feel cared for. “Here.” Jaxon digs into the bag I hadn’t even noticed he had with him. He comes up with a protein bar, opens it, and hands it to me, then rummages again, pulling out a bottle of water. With a twist of his wrist, he takes off the cap, waiting until I’ve taken a bite of the chocolate peanut butter bar before handing over the water.
“Are you feeling okay, Ry?” Logan’s hand moves up and down my back in a way that always comforts me.
I draw in a breath, my eyes flicking to Jaxon’s. “I should have eaten before the audition, but that’s not it. I—” How do I even say this? “While I was dancing, I had this awful feeling. And then…”
Jaxon’s brow furrows. “Then what?”
I wet my lower lip. “Th-the spotlight shut off. And…” I don’t miss the grimace they exchange. Do they think I’m overreacting? Or is that simply my own insecurities surging to the forefront? My chest constricts on my lungs, making my heart hammer hard, trying to pump. I shake my head. “Maybe I was imagining it. S-seeing things.”
“No. Tell us,” Logan demands, his voice grating up his throat like it’s dragging over gravel.
“There was a guy”—I hesitate, wincing—“at the back of the auditorium. In a black ski mask.”