20. Ashlynn
20
ASHLYNN
The dressing room is eerily silent as I push open the door, the creak of the hinges echoing through the empty space. I’m early, as usual, and the stillness is comforting. It gives me a moment to breathe, to prepare for the grueling lesson ahead.
It’s about time too. The ‘suspension’ has been lifted, finally.
The familiar scent of sweat and ballet slippers mingles with the faint aroma of lavender from my tote bag. I pull out my leotard and tights and quickly change before tying my hair into a tight bun.
I make my way to class, the hallways quiet except for the soft hum of the building. A few students are already there, speaking in hushed voices. The room falls silent the moment I step in, and every eye turns towards me.
Great.
It would seem I am the subject of today’s latest gossip. As for what, I have no clue. That doesn’t mean I have to help it along.
For now, it would be in my best interest to stay out of their way. It shouldn’t be that hard to do, given where we are.
Named after one of its founders, McCracken Hall is spacious, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors lining one wall and large windows on the other. The polished wooden floor gleams and the barres are set at perfect heights along the mirrored walls. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of rosin and determination.
And gossip, it would seem.
Brushing it off, I walk to my usual spot at the barre. I can feel the weight of their stares, the whispers that followed me even when I wasn’t there. I start my stretches, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing, the familiar pull of my muscles. The silence behind me is heavy, but I refuse to let it distract me.
“Is it true?” A voice breaks the quiet.
I glance up to see Sharon, the studio’s infamous gossip, standing too close for comfort. She’s tall and lean like me, her dark hair pulled back into a slick ponytail. Her eyes, however, are wide with curiosity, her lips curled in a knowing smirk.
I lift a questioning brow, keeping my face neutral. “Is what true?”
“About your new guardian. That he’s, you know, loaded. And that he was married to Mrs. Rachel.”
My heart twists at the mention of Rachel’s name. I give a noncommittal shrug, returning to my stretches. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Sharon.”
If she spent as much time and energy working on her technique as she did keeping up with the latest studio gossip, her skills would be leaps ahead of everyone here. It makes me wonder when she’ll realize that being in the know is a useless skill inside and outside Brookfield.
Sharon huffs out her annoyance, but I hear the murmur of agreement from the others. They’re all listening, waiting for more. The tension in the room is palpable, but I keep my focus on my routine, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
They’re not worth it.
“Must be nice to have it all,” someone mutters behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Frances, queen bee and bitch extraordinaire, is always quick with a snide remark. “Talent, money, connections. Some of us actually have to work for what we get.”
Her words sting, but I don’t engage. I refuse to. Instead, I close my eyes for a brief moment, centering myself. I can feel their jealousy, their judgment, but I won’t let them break me.
I’ve been taking dance lessons at Brookfield Performing Arts Academy since I was three. I’m not the type to sit back and expect things to be handed to me. I’ve put in the work — blood, sweat, tears, mangled toes, blistered soles, you name it. It is my home away from home, my safe space, my sanctuary. I won’t let them take that from me.
I continue my stretches, feeling the familiar burn in my muscles and the soothing rhythm of the movements. More students file into the studio, their chatter filling the room with a low hum. I focus on my reflection in the mirror, on the lines of my body, and on the precision of each stretch.
The door swings open, and the room falls silent a second time. Miss Phyllis walks in, followed by a woman who instantly captures everyone’s attention.
There’s a collective gasp as recognition dawns on everyone. It’s Wynter Martin, a former student of Brookfield and now a world-renowned prima ballerina. Tall, elegant, with an air of confidence that fills the room. Unlike the last time I saw her, her unruly curls have been tamed, her long dark hair pulled back into a sleek bun, and her eyes are bright with excitement.
She also happens to be one of the few people I consider to be a true friend. She’s in town for a few months, and we made plans to meet up for tea later today.
Also, Rachel never liked to admit that she had favorite students, but she did, and Wynter and I were at the top of that very short list.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Miss Phyllis says, her voice cutting through the stunned silence. “I have a special guest for you today. Wynter Martin has graciously agreed to stop by and share some of her wisdom and experience.”
The room is filled with anticipation as Wynter steps forward, her smile warming the room. Her voice, as graceful as her movements, adds to the excitement in the air.
“Hello, everyone. It’s a pleasure to be back here. I see so many familiar faces and some new ones, too. I’m looking forward to working with all of you today.”
As Wynter speaks, I notice her eyes flicker to Frances and Sharon, who are still whispering among themselves, their expressions a mix of jealousy and curiosity. Her gaze then shifts back to me, and our eyes meet. There’s a silent understanding between us, a shared history that needs no words.
“Before we begin,” Wynter says, her tone gentle but firm, “I want to remind everyone that ballet is not just about physical prowess. It’s about dedication, respect, and supporting one another. We rise by lifting each other up.”
The students around me exchange glances, their expressions reflecting the impact of Wynter’s words. Even Frances and Sharon, who were previously whispering, now look ashamed. The air feels lighter, the tension easing slightly.
Miss Phyllis claps her hands, drawing everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone. Let’s get into position. Wynter will be taking the lead on today’s class, so let’s show her what we can do.”
The class begins, and I lose myself in the familiar routines, feeling the exhilaration of movement, the joy of dancing, and the discipline and grace that ballet demands. It’s the only thing that keeps me grounded, the only thing that makes sense in the never-ending chaos of my life.
Wynter moves around the room, offering suggestions and corrections, her presence a source of inspiration for us all. A true role model, one who embodies the true spirit of ballet in every way.
At one point, she stops near me, her hand gently correcting my posture.
“You could’ve given me a heads-up,” I hiss-whisper.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she says, then leans in and mutters, “Should I throw in some extra pirouettes for those two?”
I shake my head, a small smile playing on my lips. It’d be fun to see, though. And it’s hard to spin and gossip at the same time.
The class continues, each movement flowing into the next with a grace and fluidity that comes from years of practice. Wynter’s presence elevates our performance, her corrections and encouragements pushing us to be better and reach deeper. I can feel the energy in the room, the shared determination to impress her and show her our best.
I notice Frances and Sharon stealing glances at Wynter, their earlier animosity replaced by admiration. The transformation is subtle, but it’s there. Even better, the atmosphere in the room has completely shifted. There’s a sense of camaraderie, a shared respect that wasn’t there when I first walked in today.
I wish every lesson would be like this, that we could skip the unnecessary gossip and focus on what’s important. Everyone in this room is serious about pursuing ballet as a career. The ones who aren’t typically screen themselves out at fifteen or sixteen, as it is not for the faint of heart.
That, and not every ballerina likes pain, but they all learn to tolerate it — myself included.
As the session draws to a close, Miss Phyllis claps her hands, signaling the end of class.
“Well done, everyone,” she says, her voice warm with approval. “And thank you, Wynter, for your time and insights today. It’s been an honor to have you with us today.”
Wynter’s smile is radiant. “Thank you all for having me today. Remember, the beauty of ballet lies not just in the steps, but in the heart and soul you bring to it. Keep pushing, keep dancing, and keep believing in yourselves.”
The students applaud, their faces a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. Slowly, they begin to file out of the studio. Some stop to speak with Wynter, to ask for advice, or simply to thank her. I hang back, waiting for the crowd to thin. Wynter catches my eye and gives me a knowing smile. I wait for the room to empty out before approaching her, my heart racing with excitement.
“You are a natural at this, Wyn.”
“And you did wonderfully today.” She reaches out, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Not that you need praise from me, but I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I reply, feeling the warmth of her praise. “So, about that tea?”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief, the innuendo not lost on us. “I didn’t forget. Shall we?”