2. Maeve
CHAPTER 2
MAEVE
Sweat drips between my breasts when I arrive at the theater. My bag is slung over my shoulder, and I hold a donut in my hand as if I’m the picture of nonchalance. I’m even later than I feared, having waited for a few minutes in the glass window of my favorite bakery to be sure no one was following. An inconvenience but also a necessity. The last thing I need is for my problems to turn up here.
Four girls block the door, and I worry they’ll draw attention to my entrance, but I can barely push past them. Since our casting announcement a couple of months ago, things have changed. I used to get along with everyone, but now I prefer to stay out of their way and avoid the incessant gossip.
I manage to get into the dressing room with a smile on my face and a glazed donut between my teeth. Some of the dancers are unhappy about the casting for the spring ballet, but anyone who thought Lyla—my best friend and our prima ballerina—wouldn’t be the lead is insane. I ignore the fact that this might also be about me. I was cast as the Black Swan even though some companies have their prima ballerinas play both the white and black swan roles.
Rolling my shoulders back, I take a few deep breaths and force myself to compartmentalize my worries about this situation. It doesn’t matter now. I’m the Black Swan, and Lyla is Odette.
The second I’m not thinking about the casting, my thoughts are back to this afternoon fiasco and how close Cygnus was to getting me. My stomach churns with sick anxiety as I swallow a performative bite of the donut. I’m usually good at keeping my two lives apart and lying my heart out, but today, I’m falling apart. With a forced sense of laziness, I swing my ballet bag onto the bench to pay better fake attention to my treat.
“What’s up?” I surreptitiously sniff myself, the phantom smell of gas in my nostrils and the fear she can smell it too thick in my gut. Technically, I don’t even have a driver’s license, and every moment, I’m worried the careful facade I’ve crafted will come falling down.
Lyla is a great friend, and I appreciate her, but my apprehension over my nighttime activities has only gotten more intense since she came into my life. Liars and thieves don’t make for a lot of friends. She’s a great person and sort of my opposite. People believed a lot of horrible things about her when she first started here, and some of them still do, but she managed a badass comeback.
Everyone here thinks I’m kind and helpful. A nice girl without a mean bone in her body. I’ve faked it so well and for so long that my real feelings almost never matter. The truth isn’t what anyone actually wants, though. They want the digestible version of me, so that’s what I give them. But I can’t pretend it’s entirely selfless since I’m pretty sure I would be in jail if anyone knew what I did.
I don’t think they need ballerinas on the cellblock, but what do I know?
Lyla laces her pointé but spares me a glance anyway. Her mischievous little smile makes me as happy as it makes me nervous. I was the only person to be nice to her when everyone else thought she was screwing her stepdad, but would she return the favor? Would she still be my friend if she knew about my extracurricular activities? I know it’s not a fair equivalent. Lyla was innocent while I’m nothing but guilty.
“Do I get one?” She nods toward the donut, and I do everything I can to keep my worries over our friendship hidden deep inside my gut. It doesn’t matter if she stays by my side or not. No one will ever find out that side of me.
My practiced smirk flashes, and I fish a paper bag out of my ballet bag and hand it to my girl. “You know it.”
She hums in approval, sinking her teeth in while she waits as I change into my tights and leotard. Her gaze sticks to the wall, and she’s once again lost in thought. She’s in a serious relationship with our director, so I always take my cues from her. If she’s rushing, so am I, but she’s not even worried about the conversations around her. I guess that makes sense when she spent so long as the center of everyone’s whispers and stares.
Once I’m ready, I sit beside her to finish eating my donut. We watch the other girls change and talk, but we don’t acknowledge that they are probably talking about us. I love ballet, and I’ve loved it from the second I put a ballet plump on, but some dancers still act like they’re in high school. A lot of gossip and jealousy exists inside the theater.
I’m lucky to find someone like Lyla. She’s been through a lot, so she’s not judgmental. While she’s used to being watched and judged, this is still new to me. I’d usually lie to make sure I fit in better, but this is not something I can fix with a good lie. I have to take it with my chin up high.
“Come on,” Lyla says when she’s done eating. I hop off the bench too and follow her down the hall.
With all the excitement and worry from this afternoon, I forgot to check the rehearsal times, and I already regret it. To continue the facade, I have to do things like everyone else. But since everyone else started to gossip about me, I had to pivot. How can I fit in like this? Ballerinas with a top role don’t fit in. They stand out. They are not liked by everyone because they are busy being a winner.
“Is something wrong?” Lyla asks, but even if I could, I wouldn’t know where to start to explain.
Tchaikovsky plays softly, and I roll my ankles to warm up. I’m in first position and start with demi and grand plié. Lyla stands by my side, whispering about the redecoration project she’s launching for Mikhail. I listen, making noises in the right places, but my head is in the mess my life has become. A mess I created.
“I don’t care about it being mine ,” Lyla continues, totally unaware of the pressure building inside me. “The house is fine, but you know how Mikhail is.”
I hum and pretend I know what she means, but I don’t. My director was never overly friendly with me before she came into the picture, and what he is now is some odd combination of grateful and awkwardly polite. It’s not like I dislike him, but I certainly don’t understand anything about the insanely stoic man either. And even if I did, what the hell would I know about anyone else and how they should act?
The lies I spill every day are just repeated performances. I watch everyone and blend in, but I don’t know their motivation. Hell, I’ve been giving everyone a piece of the puzzle for so long that I’m not even sure I can assemble the whole thing. Digestible versions of myself and a thrill-seeking criminal because I know there isn’t anyone who could accept the twisted reality that lies somewhere in the middle. So no, I don’t know what it’s like to be in an intense and sensual relationship like Lyla and Mikhail. I don’t do close.
My company knows me as the carefree ballerina. Lyla sees me as her only friend and donut connoisseur. My family knows Maeve Sinclair, the almost perfect daughter, the one no one needs to worry about because I do what I’m told. Just the second bedroom chandelier, I’m not anything special. I’m just there, and I do my job.
I wonder if they would notice if I broke? If I crack and spill, if I’m everything I’m not supposed to be. I shake those thoughts away and change the movement to rond de jambe à terré.
Thoughts like these got me into this mess in the first place. I was tired of the rules my family imposed, and since I didn’t have the guts to go against them loudly, I created this alter ego, the car thief. I won’t lie to myself. I know this all started because I feel I’m so invisible, I think I can get away with anything.
The first group moves to start the second act rehearsal. I look at Lyla, and her brow pushes together in concern. “Seriously, Maeve. What’s going on?” she asks.
Oh nothing. I’m just flying too close to the sun, and I’m scared of losing everything.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I push close to her. “I never checked the rehearsal sheet. I’m just distracted today.”
“You’re fine. You stay on for another hour with Eduard,” she tells me before she moves on to her solo rehearsal.
A long time ago, being separated from Lyla wasn’t a problem, but things changed between me and the rest of the dancers since the cast announcement. My eyes find a group of dancers opposite me, and they cover their mouths as they whisper, but their eyes are glued to me. Lyla says I need to get over this because we can’t be liked by everyone. She thinks I’m such a sweetheart I’m having a hard time with this change in dynamic.
In a way, she’s right. I am having a hard time, but it’s because I don’t know how to fake my way around. Their eyes burn my skin, and I wonder what they say about me. Butterflies explode in my stomach, and I get a sick thrill. It’s wicked, but this might be the first time anyone’s talked about me, excluding how nice, responsible, or boring I am.
The music starts again, and the mask of good Maeve slips on. I push these feelings away. I can’t explore this part of me. I let the music guide me. It flows over me, and for all those minutes, I don’t need to be anyone. Not the perfect Sinclair daughter or the car thief. When I dance, I’m music, and it never asks me more than to be passionate. I nail the routine as it’s fed to me, and I show off the strong legs I’ve built from determination and carbs.
“Maeve, let’s work on your solo,” Eduard tells me when he finishes with Lyla and sends her to the barre.
By twelve, my stomach snarls, and I can’t wait for a break. I slip my sneakers on in the dressing room and leave the theater for lunch. My rehearsal with Eduard was great, and more and more, I’m enamored by the idea of going up in the ballet world. I was so full of worries, and now, just after a few hours of dancing, my muscles are sore but relaxed. I’m centered back to myself.
Maybe I should move on from this company. I like it here, but Lyla is the prima ballerina and the inspiration for everything our director does. I know I don’t have a chance against that. I’ve never been the star in anything—too plain, too quiet, too… Maeve. It never occurred to me that there was anything to notice, but now that I’m Odile, the Black Swan, I wonder how high I can go. Can I be the prima ballerina in another company?
Part of me worries I only landed the role because of my relationship with Lyla, and a sudden snap of intuition tells me that was exactly what the other ballerinas were saying about me. Could that be true?
Moving on could mean finally being noticed, but what if it’s only a favor getting me there to begin with? What if I’m nothing without my nice girl facade? I’m vaguely sick, but the moment I’m out in the street, all I’m thinking about is lunch. It’s funny how physical exertion works perfectly to clear the mind. What do worries matter when you need to eat before you faint? They opened a new place down a couple of blocks, and I wonder if?—
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, my instincts telling me someone is watching. I’d love to believe I’m being paranoid, but my intuition screams otherwise, and with the car chase only a few hours before, it would be naive to assume I’m safe. I slow my pace on the sidewalk but don’t stop completely. My hands slide into my jacket pocket, finding the knife and taser I always keep on me. I’m ready to fight if I need to, but I won’t give myself away that easily.
Instead, I pretend I’m just cold, pulling my coat tight around me and fixing the nice girl mask firmly in place. I wear it every single day of my life, but it feels especially heavy now when I’m wearing it for people who are so close to knowing the truth—who might already know. My ponytail swings, my face opens, and I know I look innocent, but cold sweat trickles down my back and immediately ices my skin.
My hips sink into a deeper sway, encouraging my hair to bounce and my ass to jiggle. It’s an attention-grabbing strut, but I’m already being followed. I just need to convince them that I’m not a threat while I’m fully ready to stab and tase someone. My gaze scans the streets, searching for whoever has eyes on me, but my smile stays wide, and I pretend I’m meeting a friend for lunch. I’m just looking for them. My toes are poised to run.
The café I wanted to eat in is across the street, and my car—one I bought and registered in my own name—sits a few blocks in the opposite direction. I’d need to cross to circle back anyway. A thick swell of lunchtime pedestrian traffic fills the sidewalk around me, but my sense of being watched only intensifies. The traffic lights hanging above the intersection turn red, and the crosswalk flashes a white pedestrian symbol.
Patience is in short supply in this city, so cars only stop when people fill the pavement, which outright prevents them from running the light. Right as I step off the curb and onto the street, my eyes cross with someone. There isn’t the barest hint of recognition, and I’m absolutely sure we’ve never met, but the way he watches me is too intense. I know he’s someone .
Dark hair and eyes beneath a hoodie much like the one I wore as I ran to rehearsal. His eyes are what give him away. In the midst of so many people, he’s the only one who’s a killer. A natural protective instinct tells me to fucking run, so I toss my innocent game, and my legs move before I can make a conscious decision. The foot traffic is too thick, and I struggle to turn around. I’m pushed forward in the throng of people.
Everyone crosses the street, but I shove my way back to the other side. I’m clear a moment later, back on the curb, yet I’m not sure how I’ll make it to my car. I don’t know if he’s still heading my way, but I know in my bones that facing him rather than running is a death sentence.
I look over my shoulder, and he doesn’t miss it. His smirk chills my blood, and any doubt I had about his intentions or what he’s doing here are eliminated. He’s coming after me.
A silly whimper escapes my throat, and for a second, I’m exactly what I pretend to be—a scared and ultimately silly girl. My legs feel weak as I start to jog. I look back over my shoulder again, finding his hand sliding to his waistband. He definitely has a gun.
Shit.
Flesh collides with flesh, the smacking pain of a bony surface against my head. The person I charged curses, but I don’t stop to see if they’re okay. The game is over. The jog gets tossed aside for a full-out sprint, and people move out of my way now, hoping they don’t receive the same treatment I just doled out. I don’t have time to apologize anymore.
His heavy footsteps strike the pavement behind me, and I can’t even tell if it’s real or an imagined product of my terror. I move even faster. I don’t look back again, too afraid to find the muzzle of that gun trained on me.
A few people curse loudly. Whether that’s because of my clumsy escape or his pursuit, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I need to get out of here. My legs burn after the intense workout this morning. My new role left me with something to prove, and now my legs are too tired to save my life. It figures I’ll never actually get to perform. If only my damn car wasn’t so far.
I’ve spent two years flirting with the criminal element in this city, always knowing that I was playing with something a little too dangerous for me, but that was the appeal. Now, it’s all coming back to haunt me, and I’ll be cursed with having to pay for everything I’ve done.
Cygnus found me. He found me. The words replay in my head like a broken record. It’s over. It’s all over.