15. RYA
15
RYA
Hours later, the only word to describe my current state of being is denial . It’s a place I wish I didn’t have to live. But at the moment, I don’t want to think about this morning’s events at all, which is super fun because several times during my statistics class, and at least five times during sociology, my brain had practically forced it on me. I’d kept losing track of the lectures, slipping away inside my head to relive the riot of emotions I’d felt upon waking up in Logan’s arms, not to mention the crystal-clear memories of the way my dreaming mind had allowed my sleeping body to throb for him. My face grows warm as I recall how hard he’d been, and then… the warm, sticky wetness that’d been the result of him jizzing on my backside. I don’t want to contemplate what he’s thinking about th e disastrous turn our relationship took this morning. Nope.
It’s a good thing the first part of our ballet classes is always a warm-up at the barre, and the movements are so ingrained in me at this point, my body responds to commands with hardly any effort. Slow tendus, demi pliés, and gentle upper body bends prepare me for the strenuous workout to come. Dégagés help improve leg and foot precision and speed. Other skills enhance flexibility and control. All of it’s necessary, one building on another.
Truth be told, I enjoy the routine of a good warm-up. The repetition is soothing to me. Then, the more difficult skills, the muscle control required, the choreography, the music… all of it is the best distraction. Something’s bothering me? I get my butt to the dance studio. It’s been my retreat all my life; a safe place when the outside world is crashing down around me.
This would be one of those times. I painstakingly tuck everything into the recesses of my mind as we move on from the barre to our first stab at some choreography we’ll have to master by the end of the semester.
Try as I might, though, I can’t help but see in my mind’s eye the appalled look on Logan’s face right before I ran out of his room. I’ve been sick about it all day, humiliated and regretful and a million other emotions I don’t dare study too carefully or I’ll burst into tears. He’s been texting me, but I haven’t had the heart to read them, much less respond. Not only that, but we never did get a chance to talk last night. He doesn’t know I spent the evening with Jaxon or that his stepbro asked me on an official date. My head pounds with confusion as to how to handle any of it. The entire situation requires a delicate balance, much like a dancer in pointe shoes.
I blink as Millie Mooreland, our ballet instructor, claps her hands. “Gorgeous, Hazel. Nice work.” My gaze shifts to my roommate as she continues to turn circles at the center of the room. Hazel smiles widely, her bun still perfectly in place as the final chords of the music come to a close.
Me, I lift my hand to my hair, finding stray pieces flying away from my scalp. Hastily, I smooth them back in as Millie gestures that the next group, which I’m a part of, should take our places at the center of the room. The music begins again, and I force myself to concentrate on the new sequence of movements. Expression, glissade, pas de chat, pas de bourrée, développée pas de bourrée, glissade, saut de chat, en pointe, développée, changement de pieds sur les points, tendu, piqué manege, chainé turns, and finally, fouetté turns—what feels like a million of them. “Extension! Watch your arm positioning, please, ladies and gentlemen! ”
Ballet is nothing if not polite. Structured. Elegant. I focus on the fouetté turns, spotting like a maniac to make sure I don’t go careening off to the side into another dancer. I only relax when the music fades out.
“Rya. Nicely done,” the older woman nods. “But work on that expression. You were frowning the entire time you were dancing. Those lines will become a permanent fixture on that pretty face of yours.” She gives a slight chuckle, then ushers the last group over, her focus no longer on me.
Relieved, I quickly move off to the side to watch. My cheeks are hot, and when I glance at the mirror, it’s no surprise they’re flushed pink. Thank goodness that could simply be passed off as exertion and nothing more.
Hazel quietly snorts as she joins me. Under her breath, she whispers, “I think that was Millie’s version of don’t make that face or it’ll stick like that .”
I wrinkle my nose. Just what I want to be known for after one class. I give Hazel a subtle shove, but all she does is grin at me like the goofball she is. While the final group of dancers work their way through the choreography, I glance at the clock on the wall, verifying class is close to over. Thank goodness, because my concentration is shit, but it also means I’m left to contemplate what the rest of my day looks like. The date I agreed to go on with Jaxon. The discussion I desperately need to have with Logan but am sick to my stomach with worry and confusion over. I glance at Hazel. I suppose I owe her an explanation of some sort as well. She may be teasing me now, but she’d been miffed when I hadn’t explained my erratic behavior after returning to our room this morning. I’m not fooled. Her current comedy act is all a front, a cover for some bottled-up irritation that’s all going to be directed at me the moment I give her a chance to let it loose.
“One last announcement.” Millie walks to the center of the group, surveying us as if she’s searching for where the greatest potential lies. It’s discomfiting to say the least. “If it hasn’t already been discussed in your other classes, there will be a spring dance showcase. All styles of dance will be represented.” She surveys each of us with a critical eye. “Auditions are coming up soon. Only a handful from each discipline will be chosen. For ballet, it’s one male, one female, and one paired performance.” My eyes widen. So very limited. Exclusive. My teeth drag roughly over my bottom lip. Nerve-racking.
“When is this, ma’am?” asks Dana, a girl with red hair and pale, freckled skin who was in modern dance with me last semester.
“The auditions will take place next month. The onstage performance is right before spring break at the beginning of March. Your level of study will be taken into account, however those of you in the advanced classes—like this one—are more likely to be chosen. Other questions?”
“Can we audition for more than one discipline?” Joaquin asks. The air of superiority he puts on is kinda ridiculous. It’s a shame he’s completely full of himself, but to be fair, he’s an excellent dancer, especially talented in jazz and lyrical.
“Yes, however, I encourage you to audition for a maximum of two. You won’t want to split your focus too much.”
There’re some head nods and low murmuring that skitters through the class, but that quickly dies down with the stern look Millie levels us with. “Okay then, if there are no other questions, might I suggest you begin preparing your audition piece or pieces posthaste?” She looks around with an arched brow. “Openings for studio practice times are in the hallway outside, posted on the wall. Be sure to sign up for what you need, but no more. No one likes a studio hog.”
Hazel eyes me warily as we head to the locker room a few minutes later. “So, what’s with you? What in the where was my roommate all night is going on?”
I push the door open and stride into the locker room, relieved to find most everyone else is already in the showers or in the process of clearing out. “It’s nothing,” I scoff, keeping my voice low .
“Liar.” That single word shoots from her like a bullet, nailing me right between the eyes.
I meet her gaze briefly, then look away. “Rude. Really, it’s nothing.” I continue to my locker. It’s nothing I want to discuss, anyway. Right now, my mental energy stores are at zero.
“Whatever, Rya. You disappeared yesterday. Then you finally show up, only to disappear again. I texted you over and over, especially when it got late.” She grabs my arm, spinning me around. “You could at least let me know next time if you aren’t going to be back so I can lock the door. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure you had your key.”
I scrub my hand over my face, knowing this isn’t going to sound great. “I was with Jaxon”—I hesitate—“and then Logan.”
Her mouth drops open as her eyes pin on me, wide-eyed. “You dirty girl, you,” she whispers. “Logan and I knocked on Jaxon’s door, you know.” Her brow arches high on her forehead.
Shit. “We weren’t in there.” I shake my head, nudging her shoulder. “And it wasn’t like that.” Um. “Not exactly, anyway,” I mumble, questioning if she’s actually right. “And I fell asleep in Logan’s room. He was already sleeping when I got there.” Better to not mention the wake-up call I’d gotten from his fingers. You’re just a little slut, all of a sudden, aren’t you? I clamp my teeth together, then suck in some air as she continues to stare.
It’s written all over her face. She’s not going to let this go. I can practically see all the questions rolling around in her head. Finally, her brow arches. “If not like that, then how?”
“Jaxon and I… I kinda like him, I guess. And Logan is my friend. You know that.” I hastily grab my shower caddy and a change of clothes, then brush by her so I can clean up before meeting Jaxon.
“Jaxon is hot and all. I’ll give you that. But the whole ‘Logan is my friend’ line is only going to work for so long. Do you even realize what you could have with him? How lucky you are?” Hazel’s exasperated tone carries, and I cringe as I scoot out of the room. I can imagine how her icy-blue eyes bore into the back of my head in an effort to figure me out.
Little does Hazel know, I’ve recently gained unexpected insight into exactly what she’s referring to, and that glimpse of what it would be like to have everything I’ve ever wanted with Logan is enough to make me want to cry. I feel like I’ve lost my best friend.