27. Ashlynn
27
ASHLYNN
What’s a girl supposed to do, when the one thing she’s wanted all her life is finally within reach; and she feels indifferent? That’s how I’m feeling about Bayard at the moment, which strikes me as… odd, and not at all like me. I guess that’s what happens when everyone else’s excitement for the damn thing surpasses your own.
Early admission and rejection letters have finally begun to arrive this week. Some students got theirs, but ironically, it has mostly been early rejections. That’s been all the rage at Brookfield this week.
As far as I know, nobody has gotten anything from Bayard just yet. Still, it hasn’t stopped everyone from asking me if I got mine already, as if I have some inside contact at their Admissions department. I mean, I do, but that’s not something I’m readily advertising. Just because Wynter and I are friends doesn’t make everyone else privy to the nature of our relationship.
Then there have been the scouts have been making offers too — early bird gets the worm and all. Most students don’t have to worry about this; but it has some of the, for lack of a better word, slackers on edge because they know that one wrong move, one stupid mistake could torpedo their career before it even begins. Those are the ones who complain the loudest.
If you ask me, they should have been on point at all times, not putting up a front that the scouts will see right through. But no one wants to hear what the rich, privileged overachiever has to say, but they sure as hell want to complain about it where she can hear.
I just want to dance. Is that too much to ask?
So maybe I’m cranky. I’m stressed out too. Bayard has been my dream for as long as I can remember. Of all the schools I applied to, it’s the only one I really want to attend. All this waiting is driving me up a wall. I want to know now, so I can start making plans.
So when Russ picks me up that evening, he pulls up directly in front of the studio — instead of parking like he usually does — I don’t have the mental capacity to fight him on it. I simply slide into the backseat and buckle myself in.
He watches me through the rearview mirror though, like I’ve suddenly grown a second head or something. Maybe I have.
Or maybe it’s because I’m grinning like an idiot, like I have been the last week every time he’s picked me up. Tired or not, I’m excited to go home. To see Gilbert. To fall asleep in his arms, like I have every night for the last week.
“So, Bayard,” Russ begins, easing the car into the flow of traffic. “Did you get your letter yet?”
“Nope,” I tell him, my voice tinged with the exhaustion of the day’s practice.
He hums and keeps his eyes on the road.
The ride home is quiet, the city’s evening bustle fading into a soothing background hum. My muscles ache from hours of practice, and I let my head rest against the cool window, my thoughts a whirlwind of pirouettes, pointe shoes, the ever-looming future… and Gilbert.
We arrive at the mansion, its grand fa?ade illuminated in the twilight. Russ opens the door for me and I step out, my legs still sore from hours of practice.
“Good night,” he says as I make my way to the front door.
“Thanks, Russ. You too.” I give him a small, tired smile before entering the house.
Melissa greets me in the foyer, like she has every single day for the last week. Today, she has an excited twinkle in her eyes.
“Why do I feel like I’m in a period drama or something?” I tease her. “First Russ, now you. You don’t have to welcome me home every day.”
“Just making up for the last five years,” she says, her kind eyes twinkling with warmth as she hands me the stack in her hands, like it’s the holy grail or something. “How about you indulge this old woman?”
“You are not that old,” I reply, taking the stack of letters from her. Among the usual envelopes, one stands out: a crisp, elegant envelope bearing Bayard’s logo. My heart skips a beat. “I’m just going to head up to my room.”
“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she calls out, but I’m already halfway up the grand staircase. “I expect to see you both down here!”
Heat spears my cheeks. “Okay!”
Hurrying to my room, I shut the door behind me before plopping onto my huge four-poster canopy bed, the soft mattress embracing me. I tear open the letters, my fingers trembling with excitement.
Credit card offers, a letter from a dance magazine, more junk mail, and a letter from Hyun Industries. And then, there it is. The letter from Bayard. My hands tremble as I carefully open the envelope, pulling out the thick, cream-colored paper.
Tears fill my eyes as I read the words slowly, savoring each one.
Bayard Ballet Conservatory
New York, NY
Early Admission Notice
Dear Miss Ashlynn Crane,
We are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted into the Bayard Ballet Conservatory’s Dance Division for the Fall 2016 semester. Your audition and application have demonstrated exceptional talent, dedication, and potential in the field of dance.
The admissions committee was particularly impressed by the depth and range showcased in your audition videos. Your classical ballet performance displayed impeccable technique, grace, and precision, capturing the essence of traditional ballet with an emotional intensity that resonated deeply with our faculty. The second video, featuring your contemporary piece, highlighted your versatility, creativity, and powerful storytelling ability. The fluidity of your movements and your unique interpretative style set you apart as a dancer with extraordinary potential. We at Bayard would be honored to be a part of your journey.
As a student of Bayard, you will have the opportunity to work with some of the most distinguished faculty and choreographers in the world, as well as perform in numerous prestigious venues. We believe that your artistry and commitment to dance will thrive in our challenging and inspiring environment.
Enclosed with this letter, you will find detailed information about the next steps to confirm your enrollment, including orientation dates, housing options, and additional required materials. We encourage you to carefully review this information and contact our admissions office with any questions you may have.
We are excited to welcome you to the Bayard community, and look forward to seeing the unique contributions you will make to our program.
Congratulations once again on your acceptance. We eagerly anticipate your arrival and the incredible artistry you will bring to Bayard.
Sincerely,
Sharmaine Cardwell
Director of Admissions
Bayard Ballet Conservatory
My heart swells with joy, my mind racing with all the possibilities. Bayard. The dream I’ve chased for as long as I can remember. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make a name for myself in the world of ballet. Just like Mom did. Just like Rachel did.
But then, a shadow falls over my excitement. Bayard is in New York, and New York is far away from here. Far from home, far from everything I know. Far from Gilbert.
The thought of leaving him, of not seeing him every day, hits me like an unforgiving punch to the gut. How can I leave behind the person who has become my anchor, my everything?
I feel the tears welling up, blurring the elegant letterhead of my acceptance letter, The dream that seemed so perfect now feels tainted with sadness and understanding. Can I really do this? Can I leave him behind? Can I really pursue my dream at the cost of our relationship, however new it is?
Then again, do I want to give all that up for a boy?
My fingers curl around my letter, like it’s my lifeline. I imagine the bustling streets of New York, the crowded subway rides, the prestigious halls of Bayard. I picture myself dancing on grand stages around the world, living the life I’ve always dreamed of. But every vision is tainted by the emptiness of not having Gilbert by my side.
Should it be, though?
He spent two decades prioritizing his career over everything else. Is it wrong of me to want to do the same? Who knows where we will be a year from now?
And as if my thoughts seem to conjure him up, there’s a soft knock on my closet door. I sit upright and quickly wipe my tears away, trying to compose myself.
“You really should use the regular door,” I call out, my voice trembling slightly. “All this sneaking around makes it seem like we’re doing something wrong.”
The door opens, and Gilbert steps inside, his imposing presence filling the room. “I didn’t know if you were decent.”
I fold the letter and tuck it under my thigh. “Please. If you had your way, I’d be naked and barefoot twenty-four-seven.”
His piercing eyes lock onto mine, then shifts to my legs. He looks up a second time, his expression shifts to one of concern. “Everything okay?” he asks, his tone even, almost clinical.
I force a smile that is as hollow as I feel. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed, I guess.”
He steps closer, his gaze never leaving my face. I could make up something or lie to him, but I know he can see the turmoil swirling through me.
My eyes lower, and I tuck my hands under my thighs. “It’s nothing.”
He shucks his shoes off, climbs into bed with me, and sits next to me. He drapes his arm on my shoulder and nestles my body into his side. I breathe in his familiar scent, trying to memorize every detail. Then, no surprise there, he tucks his free hand under my thigh and pulls out the letter.
“You got in.” Why does that make him happy? Doesn’t he realize what that means for him? For us? “I’d like to say congratulations,” he continues, “but you don’t seem happy about it. Not entirely.” I know his words are not meant to be accusatory. Just a statement of fact.
I swallow hard, my mind racing for an excuse. “It’s just... it’s such a big change, moving to New York.”
“Is that all? Because it seems like there’s more to it than that.”
“Well, yeah.” I worry my bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears. “It’s on the other side of the country.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbles through me. “It’s a fourteen hour drive, or a four hour flight. Half that, if you take the jet.”
He’s been thinking about this?
“You have a jet?” I blurt out.
“ We own three private jet charter companies.” He gently lifts my chin, making me look at him. “What’s really bothering you? And don’t say the distance, because we both know that’s not it.”
Even though he looks calm and composed, I can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fights to keep his emotions in check. He’s always been the strong one, the rational one. But I can see the cracks forming, the pain he tries so hard to hide.
And it matches my own.
“What if I’m not good enough?” I try, even though I’m not even sure I believe it myself. “And what if I don’t fit in? People already think I’m weird and eccentric.”
“You are more than good enough,” he says, his voice gentle but firmly. “You are exceptional. You wouldn’t have been accepted if you weren’t. You know that. Now, what’s this really about?”
“You,” I eventually admit, my voice trembling. “I’m afraid of what this will do to us.”
His brow furrows, and he blows out a frustrated breath. “This is your future, your career. You have to go. You can’t let fear dictate your choices.”
His words, though logical, are like a knife to my heart. I swallow hard, tears welling up I my eyes. “It’s not fear. It’s…”
“You’ve dreamed of this your whole life.” He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them, his gaze piercing. “This is your chance to shine, to chase your dreams no matter where it leads you. I can’t be the reason you don’t, and I could never forgive myself if I held you back.”
I look away, unable to face his piercing gaze. “I don’t want to leave you.”
He is silent for a beat, and when he speaks, his voice is softer. “Who says you’ll be leaving me?”
“We’ll be on opposite ends of the country.”
He cups my face in his hands, his touch gentle and reassuring as he thumbs away my tears. “So?”
I let out a bitter laugh, my eyes meeting his. “Gilbert, your life, your practice, this house,” at his raised brow, I quickly amend, “ our house, it’s all here in Chicago. It’s not so simple for you to just pick up and follow me.”
He sighs, then leans in to press his lips to my forehead in a chaste kiss. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. With a few taps, he brings up the video of me dancing at the graveyard, the one Wynter filmed at Dad’s funeral months ago.
“Where did you get that?”
“I asked Wynter to send it to me.”
He holds it out to me, the screen glowing with the image of me dancing. I watch as my past self moves gracefully across the screen, each step filled with passion and purpose. Tears blur my vision as I remember the exhilaration of that moment.
“You deserve to be on that stage,” he says, as if it’s that simple. His smile is sad, as he brushes a tear from my cheek. “It’s what you dreamed of all your life, so don’t turn it down because of me. Ashlynn Crane belongs on that stage. You lead, I follow. Wherever life takes you, it takes me too. I will follow you to the very ends of the earth.”
He makes it sound so simple, and I want to believe him. The thing is, I’m not naive, and life isn’t so black and white. We live in hues of grays, and anything could change at a moment’s notice. The work that Gilbert does is too important for him to sacrifice and follow me around the world. Besides, who’s to say if he gets a call today, he won’t pick up and leave without so much as a second thought?
Dad had no problems doing so, and I was his own flesh and blood. To Gilbert, I’m just a girlfriend. If I can even call myself that.
“Of course you’re my girlfriend,” he says, his voice filled with conviction. “What else would you be?”
I look up at him, tears still blurring my vision. “I…”
“Unless you prefer partner. Or fiancée. Or wife—” His gaze darkens, and he cups my chin and kisses me, long and hard. “Labels are labels. We are what we are.” Another passionate kiss. “I’m yours, Ash. Yours.” Another brain-scrambling kiss that turns my body to putty in his hands.
Then, Gilbert scoots off the bed, wraps his fingers around my ankle and pulls my body to his. “Let’s continue this conversation downstairs,” he says, as he scoops my body off the bed. “Melissa threatened to quit if we aren’t in the dining room in ten minutes.”