3. Ashlynn
3
ASHLYNN
My body is here, but my mind is elsewhere, lost in the labyrinth of grief. My movements are sluggish, and my usually graceful lines are stiff and awkward. The studio lights cast a harsh glare on the mirrored walls, amplifying every misstep and flaw.
It certainly doesn’t help that the pain in my foot is a relentless, throbbing distraction.
Pain, I can ignore. It’s a lot easier to handle than grief and has been a normal part of my life since I started dancing.
I grit my teeth and push through, forcing myself to rise into an arabesque. My foot wobbles, and I come down awkwardly, earning a sharp look from Mrs Janice, my ballet instructor.
“Skip to the next part,” she commands, her tone clipped.
As I push into a pirouette, I keep my gaze on my reflection and the lines of my body as I move. I try to focus, to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of the dance — anything but the fact that my mind is a whirlwind of grief.
This one, though, pales in comparison to the others.
Pain and grief blend together, and I don’t know how to separate the two. And if I’m feeling this off, I’m sure Mrs Janice has noticed it too. The fact that she’s pointedly ignoring my mistakes irks me to no end.
But I have to push through it.
“Again.” Her tone is sharp, cutting through the haze in my mind.
I nod, pushing myself into another pirouette. My foot slips, and I stumble, breaking the flow of the dance. I hear her sigh, and the sound slices through me, sharp and stinging.
“Again.”
I nod and attempt the sequence once more, but the pain shoots up my leg, making me stumble. I catch myself, but it’s too late — the mistake is glaringly obvious.
“Stop,” she says, raising her hand. Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me with a mix of concern and frustration. “Something’s wrong.”
No kidding.
I shake my head, forcing a smile as hollow as I feel. “I’m fine, really. Just a bit off today.”
She lifts a curious brow. “A bit off? You’ve done this routine a thousand times.”
I worry my bottom lip, fighting back the tears of pain and frustration. “Guess I’m having an off day.”
She doesn’t buy it. “You don’t have off days, Ashlynn. I don’t think you know what that means.”
“I did bury my father two days ago,” I mutter dryly.
“And you’re not one to play the sympathy card either,” she counters. “It’s 8:30 AM on a Sunday, and we’re the only ones in the building. What does that tell you?”
“That I have no life?”
Normally she would smile at my self-deprecating humor, but it isn’t working for me today.
She walks over to me, her gaze softening as she studies my face. “This isn’t like you, Ashlynn. You normally dance with such grace and precision. We did this routine the day before the funeral, and you weren’t fumbling the steps. What’s going on?”
I don’t answer her. Instead, I lace my fingers behind my back as I bite my lip, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over.
Her eyes widen slightly, and she gestures for me to sit. “Show me.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she says a little forcefully. “Let’s see it. Both feet.”
Reluctantly, I sink to the floor, my defenses crumbling. I remove my pointe shoes and peel back the layers of tape. The skin is raw and swollen, an angry bruise spreading across the arch.
Her expression shifts to one of deep concern. She kneels beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Why didn’t you cancel?”
“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I admit, looking down at my blistered feet. “I thought I could push through it.”
“Pushing through the pain isn’t always the answer. You have to listen to your body and respect its limits. Dancing on an injury can lead to something far worse.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
“There’s no need to apologize.”
“That’s not what I’m apologizing for. Injury or not, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“Oh, I know.” She squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “You have no friends, no social life, and no hobbies.” She lists them off with several flicks of her fingers.
It sounds terrible when she phrases it like that, throwing my words of self-deprecating humor back at me. Then again, I see what she’s trying to do here.
“You make me sound like a social pariah.”
“That’s because you are. Sort-Off.” She walks over to the supply closet and grabs a first aid kit before re-joining me on the floor. “You are sort-of a social pariah, which makes you pariah-lite.”
I make no attempt to cover up the snicker that slips past my lips. “Your bedside manner sucks.”
“Lucky for you, I’m not a doctor.” She pulls my legs onto her lap and begins applying the ointment. “Take a look around. You go to a cutthroat school, surrounded by many driven, hyper-competitive teenagers. Yet, none of that ever seems to faze you. Not only that, but none of them hold a candle to your raw, unfettered talent. I am telling you this because you’ll take it for what it is and not let it go to your head. And you are here, spaghetti feet and all, when you could be curled up in a ball at home.”
“There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. Ballet is my life. It’s all I have.”
“It’s not the only thing you have.”
“But it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. But I… it’s been five years since my Mom died. I know I should be used to it by now, but I just feel so lost.”
Her eyes meet mine, her face softening with understanding and sorrow. “There is no ‘getting used’ to the loss of a parent. Grief is powerful, and it’s okay to not be at your best right now. You need time to heal, both emotionally and mentally. Physically, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, it’s time to take a break. What matters is that you heal properly. We’ll start by taking a break from the intense routines and focusing on your recovery.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “What about Bayard?”
“What about it?”
This cannot be happening. “Doesn’t the Bayard Admissions committee like to keep tabs on applicants while deliberating?”
“No—”
“If word about this ‘break’ gets back to them, my application will be tossed in the thrash. My career would be over before it ever started.”
“That’s not even remotely close to how that works, and I wouldn’t worry too much about them right now, Ashlynn. You’re a legacy. They’ll be stupid not to have you. And knowing you, you’ll make up for it in other ways. With your talent and passion, the sky is the limit. You’re a brilliant dancer but must take care of yourself.”
Her words are a balm to my wounded spirit, until she finishes with?—
“…what isn’t smart, however, is using a graveyard as a stage.”
I can’t help the scowl that forms. “I didn’t?—”
“There’s video, Lynn,” she interjects.
“Someone filmed me?” My gaze narrows. “Who?”
She lets out a weary sigh. “Wynter Martin.”
Oh.
My anger deflates and I nod, feeling a mix of relief and gratitude. If Wynter recorded me, I know it wasn’t meant to be malicious. She is the last person who could do that.
Unlike some people I know.
Like Mrs. Janice said, it’s a cutthroat school.
If anything, Wynter probably wanted to know why I didn’t dance like that at my Bayard audition.
Which Mrs. Janice confirms by adding, “I watched the video.”
“It was stupid of me, I know.”
“Yes, it was. But it was also brilliant. I’ve seen your best work, and they all pale in comparison. Don’t tell Principal Shirley this, but I plan on sending it to Bayard so they can include it in your application packet. Hopefully, that makes up for what I’m about to do next.”
My blood runs cold. “Are you benching me?”
Mrs Janice stands, offering me a hand. “Come, let’s get you some ice packs for those feet.”
“No time, I have to get to my lawyer’s office. Are you benching me?” I ask again, taking her hand.
“Not exactly. But I am forcing you to take care of yourself. We’ll create a plan for your recovery, and you’ll come back stronger than ever.”
As I limp beside her, I realize that admitting my vulnerability doesn’t make me weak. Still, it does make me human — something Mom and Rachel used to tell me. You are enough, she would say when I got frustrated with parts of a routine.
Then again, people say mothers offer reassurances to be kind, and teachers do it because they want something.
“What’s the catch?”
“I hate to do this to you, but… no more classes.”
“For how long?”
“A month.”
It might as well be an eternity. “But?—”
“I know I can’t keep you from the premises at any time. You are welcome to sit in on classes. You just can’t participate.”
“What else am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Live.” She winces slightly. “Poor choice of words, given that your dad just died.”
“He was hardly ever around anyway.” I wring my fingers. “Any suggestions on what I’m supposed to do to fill my time?”
She shrugs. “Find some new hobbies.”