Chapter 7
Rayne
Face the Music—Louis Tomlinson
My first day at the New England School of Ballet begins with Louis Tomlinson’s latest album and a firm knock on the door of my room.
“Just a minute!” I shout as I try to pin my hair into a tidy bun.
I didn’t think it would be possible to forget how to put my hair up properly, but apparently it is.
This is my fourth attempt, and there are still loose strands hanging out in every direction.
With a frustrated sigh I throw the brush in the sink and go to the door.
Zoe and Mae are standing in the hallway. Both are wearing the gray school sweatshirt, and have their hair tied back neatly. Very neatly. It feels a little unfair.
“Good morning,” Mae says cheerfully. “Are you ready for breakfast?”
I step aside so they can come in. “Not quite. My hair won’t behave.”
“Do you want help?” Zoe offers, and I sigh with relief.
“Please. I’m a bit out of practice. I haven’t danced in months and somehow—” I stop.
Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. No one, absolutely no one, makes it into an elite ballet academy after months of not practicing.
Especially if they didn’t take the lessons all that seriously even before the time off and only danced halfheartedly.
Every break takes its toll, and the longer it lasts, the harder it is to get back into it.
It doesn’t matter that Zoe and Mae and everyone else would have noticed sooner or later that I’m not at their level. How am I supposed to dance when I can’t even manage to tie back my hair properly?
“No big deal.” Zoe smiles gently. “I think all the teachers will understand.”
I just nod. Yes, maybe. Still, I feel uneasy. I’m not very good, and everyone will notice right away. And then they’ll wonder how I got in. They’ll find out who I am, who my parents were, and that I’m only here thanks to my grandmother. Then they’ll hate me because I don’t deserve to be here.
“Rayne.” Zoe puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. You can do this, okay?”
“Exactly. We’re going to help you.” Mae is standing in front of the dresser with the record player, holding an LP.
“First, let’s help you with your hair. I’ll be right back!
” She puts down the record and hurries out of my room, reappearing almost immediately with a brush that has much finer bristles than mine, a whole pile of hairpins, and a can of hairspray.
She gives everything to Zoe. “You do it, Little Miss Perfect. You can definitely do it better than I can.”
Zoe wrinkles her delicate nose. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I always do,” Mae says.
“I know.” Zoe sighs and points to the desk chair. “Do you want to sit down, Rayne?”
“Sure.” I do as she asks. Zoe steps behind me and runs the brush through my hair.
“I love your color.”
“Thanks,” I reply, a pang in my heart as I remember the first time Dad helped me dye my hair, just a few days before the accident.
“It suits you perfectly.” Mae sits down on my bed and smiles at us. “It’s like it was meant to be. Our colors go well together.”
“Actually, they clash a bit,” Zoe says dryly. She’s right. Copper, auburn, and purple don’t harmonize very well.
But Mae waves it off. “Nonsense.”
“Do I have to take out my piercings?” I ask, touching the tip of my nose and thinking about all the rings and studs in my ears.
“I don’t think so,” Zoe replies, tugging at my hair a little too hard.
But it’s exactly the level of pressure I couldn’t manage alone.
“Just wait and see if one of the teachers says anything. But I think you can leave them in during class. You’d have to take them off for the stage, but we’re not there yet anyway.
You should take off the bracelets and rings, though.
There, all done. You’d better do the hairspray yourself. ” She hands me the can and I stand up.
“Time for breakfast,” Mae says when I’m done, hopping off my bed. “It’s about time. I need caffeine.”
We go down to the dining room together and get our breakfast, sitting down at one of the round tables where a blond boy and a girl with dark hair are sitting.
I met a few people at dinner last night, but I couldn’t remember most of their names.
But I recognize these two as Zoe’s boyfriend, Jase, and Skye.
“You’re late,” Skye says as Zoe bends down to Jase and kisses him lightly on the lips. His green eyes glow.
“We had a little hair problem,” Mae explains and sits down next to Skye as I take the chair across from her.
“It looks like you were able to fix it.” Skye sizes us up and grins. Her long hair is still hanging loose over her shoulders. I take a sip of coffee while the others chat about their vacations and Christmas.
“How was it with Tristan and his parents?” Skye asks, and Mae blushes.
“Good. Very good, actually.”
“Just like I said it would be.” A smile of satisfaction spreads across Zoe’s face, and Jase shakes his head, laughing.
“Tristan is my boyfriend,” Mae explains when she sees my look of confusion.
“We haven’t been together very long, but he wanted me to spend New Year’s with his family and get to know them.
It was nice.” She sighs happily, and I have to smile even though I barely know her.
She looks so happy that I can’t help it.
“Griffin and Robyn are just so cute,” Mae goes on and tells us about Tristan’s much younger brothers.
Then the conversation turns to the coming semester.
I sit silently next to them and listen, but I’m not uncomfortable.
The others make an effort to include me in their conversation without bombarding me with questions that I can’t or don’t want to answer.
Right before eight thirty, we head to the practice studios so we can warm up before our first class. We say goodbye to Jase and Skye on the stairs. They have to go to a different studio because they’re a year ahead of us. Then we go up to the third floor and enter the last studio on the right.
When you enter a ballet studio, no matter which city or country you’re in, you can be pretty sure it’ll be set up the same.
There’s a mirrored wall and two walls with ballet barres attached to them, and sometimes freestanding barres.
However, large windows with a great view of campus make this room special.
The grand piano is to the left of the door in front of the mirror.
Everything feels familiar, even though I’ve never been in this room before, and my chest tightens painfully as I think of Mom’s studio in the attic of our villa.
We spent a lot of time up there together when I was a kid and had just started ballet.
At some point, I started going upstairs less often and went to Dad instead, listening to him record his songs rather than practicing with Mom.
But Mom was always there. She never performed on stage, but she never let go of ballet, either.
Dancing was for her what music was for Dad.
It was something that belonged to her alone, something she loved and was incomparably good at.
I see images in my mind’s eye, memories of Mom standing behind me, correcting my position. Her hands are on my shoulders and waist, gentle but firm. She was always patient with me, even on the days when I behaved badly out of frustration that something wasn’t working the way I wanted it to.
Watch your balance, sweetheart. You can do it, I know you can.
My skin prickles in goose bumps, and I feel tears building in my eyes again. I miss Mom. I miss her so much that I don’t know how I’m going to get over the fact that she’s gone. I can’t figure out how that’s supposed to work. There are no rules for it.
She should be here with me. I wish she were out there in the hall watching my first class, even if that’s silly, because the school doesn’t allow parents to watch. Plus, I wouldn’t even be here if Mom were still alive.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I can’t breathe.
For a moment, I forget where I am, that I’m in Boston and not LA.
A moment later, a slender hand touches my arm, and I’m pulled back into the here and now, trying to breathe to keep myself from losing it.
I can’t do that. Not on my first day, in front of all these strangers.
“Rayne?” Zoe sounds worried. “Are you okay?”
I blink frantically to hold back the tears and force a smile. “Yes, everything’s fine.”
She doesn’t seem convinced. She’s sensitive enough to realize I’m lying, but she doesn’t press the issue. “Are you going to join us?” She nods at the corner where Mae is already sitting on the floor, stretching.
I nod and follow her, feeling empty and numb at the same time. It sucks. It hurts. I determinedly push the memories and images aside. I must, there’s no other way. I have to focus on this moment, otherwise I might freak out completely.
I start my warm-up exercises with Zoe, and I quickly realize that I can’t even come close to stretching as deeply as she does. My muscles aren’t as supple as hers. I feel stiff and awkward and incapable, like I don’t belong here. Like I don’t deserve it.
“Don’t stress,” Zoe says so quietly that no one but me can hear her. Can she read minds? Probably not. It must be written all over my face.
“I’ll try,” I whisper back, but it’s hard because as I look around, I can already tell that everyone is better than me, and the class hasn’t even started yet.
The movements of the others are fluid, light, and graceful. It looks so easy when they do it. Much easier than it actually is. I can’t keep myself from tensing up, even though it only makes everything more difficult.
“Good morning.” I look up when I hear a deep, friendly voice. It’s a young man, maybe in his late twenties, who’s just come into the studio. He’s good-looking and has an infectious smile and bright eyes. “Welcome back, and happy new year.”
“That’s Mr. Conrad,” Zoe whispers to me, and helps me to my feet.
Mr. Conrad looks directly at me. For a brief moment, he sizes me up, and it feels like a test I can’t possibly pass. But then he smiles. “I hear we have a new addition. You’re Rayne Bellamy, aren’t you?”
Curious whispers ripple through the room, and I have to force myself to keep looking at Mr. Conrad and not give in to the instinct to run and hide, because now everyone knows who I am.
But I expected that. Dad’s name has been in the media for months, as has mine.
I was mentioned more often than I can count.
I’m trying not to think about the photos that were taken of me.
At the funeral. Every time I dared to leave the house.
I refused to look at any of the photographers, trying to hide my face and purple hair as well as I could under sunglasses and baseball caps.
Too many people know who I am and what I look like.
The fact that I didn’t want any of it doesn’t change the fact that the articles, photos, and videos that were posted online exist. The paparazzi only left me alone once I moved to Boston and hid out at Grandma’s house.
Mr. Conrad clears his throat, snapping me out of my reverie. I realize he’s asked me something, and nod belatedly, my mouth so dry I can’t answer.
“Welcome, it’s nice to have you here,” he says, a look of sympathy crossing his face.
But he doesn’t say how sorry he is that my parents died.
Thank God. I don’t think I could handle that, not here in front of everyone.
It already feels strange enough to be the only new student.
The others have had six months to get to know one another and find out how they fit in as part of this class.
I feel like an intruder, even though I know it’s unlikely anyone sees me that way. Still, I can’t help it.
Mr. Conrad gives me a quick, encouraging smile, then turns to the rest of the class. “Unfortunately, Deborah broke her hand during the holidays, so we needed a last-minute replacement to play piano for us.”
As if on cue, a tall, slender person enters the room. A very familiar person with dark hair and blue eyes.
“This is Easton Coleman. He’ll be taking Deborah’s place this semester,” Mr. Conrad continues, but his words barely register with me.
I can only stare at Easton. He stares back, his eyes wide, just as stunned as I am.
My heart is racing and I feel hot, uncomfortable, and nervous.
This is crazy. He can’t be here. What kind of weird coincidence is this, him working at my school?
It’s unbelievable. I don’t understand the world anymore.
I especially don’t understand why he didn’t tell me about it.
It’s stupid how much that hurts me. It’s unjustified and unfair of me, I know. But it still hurts, because he told me everything. Even when I didn’t answer, he still told me everything. At least, that’s what I thought. Obviously, I was mistaken.