Chapter 14
Rayne
Lost Along the Way—All Time Low
I was out like a light as soon as I got home, but I’m still exhausted when my alarm clock rings the next morning and Mae and Zoe come to pick me up for breakfast. Crying at Easton’s last night completely wiped me out.
My friends chatter nonstop on the way down to the dining room. Either they don’t register how quiet I’m being, or they can tell I’m not feeling well and are respecting my silence. Even though I slept soundly, the night was too short, and yesterday took way too much out of me.
Everything hurts, and when the first class begins, I’m ready to give up right there and then because my muscles are killing me. Of course I don’t, though. I grit my teeth and carry on.
It’ll get better, sweetheart. You can do it. Every day will be a little easier than the one before.
Mom’s words are burned into my memory. I was ten years old; we were practicing in her attic studio, and I had just burst into tears because I couldn’t lift my leg as high as all the other girls in my class in an arabesque.
She was right. It really did get a little better every day.
I got better, until I eventually reached my limits.
There are reasons that I’ve only practiced halfheartedly in the last few years.
This is my second day at the New England School of Ballet, and so far it’s not getting any better. My muscles are no longer accustomed to the constant tension and strain. It frustrates me even though it shouldn’t; I knew this would be difficult. Still, I feel like crying.
The fact that Easton is here stealing glances at me in the mirror doesn’t help.
It only distracts me. We don’t have time to talk today.
After our first class together, we both have other things to do.
He’s in a rush and gives me a quick smile before he disappears.
But that smile is enough. It makes me feel a little bit better.
Pointe class is just as much of a disaster as it was yesterday, even without pointe shoes. When we finally join the sophomores for pas de deux, all I want is to crawl back into bed.
Francesca, our teacher, assigns Chester to be my partner. He’s a slim, dark-haired boy with a friendly smile and kind brown eyes. He’s nice and doesn’t let on how awful it must be for him to have me as his partner. Still, I’m infinitely relieved when the day is finally over.
I spend the evening alone in my room with headphones on, reading a book. I’m not used to being around so many people all the time anymore. I need a break from their stares, their conversations, and the unspoken questions that so many of them clearly want to ask but fortunately don’t.
At some point I fall asleep, only to wake up in the middle of the night with my headphones still on and music playing. I don’t bother getting up and getting ready for bed; I just take off the headphones and go right back to sleep.
When I wake up on Wednesday, I feel better. My muscles still ache, but at least I can move without whimpering in pain.
“It went pretty well today,” Mae says cheerfully after pointe class.
“Hmm,” I say, and she gives me an encouraging smile.
“Really. You may not see it, but we do.”
“Mae, I’m not even wearing pointe shoes.” I take off my slippers and toss them carelessly into my bag.
“You’ll get there. Just give yourself time. Miss Chelsea probably wouldn’t let any of us dance en pointe in our first week back from a six-month break.”
I remain silent. I know that’s not the only reason. I also can’t dance en pointe because my technique is simply not there yet. It doesn’t matter that I was able to do it for three years before my world fell apart. Right now, I’m just not good enough.
“She definitely wouldn’t,” Zoe confirms, but there’s a sympathetic undertone in her voice that says she understands exactly how I feel.
I wish it made me feel better, but it doesn’t. Instead, I’m drowning in self-pity. It’s disgusting.
“You know, I’m a little jealous that you’re both taking Melanie’s class,” Mae says, changing the subject when I don’t answer.
I’m grateful to her for that, because I can’t deal with this right now.
“It’s not every semester you get the chance to work with a choreographer who’s worked with One Direction and Lady Gaga.”
“Why aren’t you in it?” I ask her, forcing myself to shake off thoughts of my failure and my miserable self-pity. I’ve only been here for three days. I really do need to give myself more time.
“Because Mr. Conrad assigns us to our classes, and he obviously decided that I’m not worthy of working with the fabulous Melanie Duncan.”
“Drama, Mae,” Zoe says dryly.
“I think drama is very appropriate right now.” Mae pouts and stands up. “But it’s okay, lyrical jazz is also cool. I have to go now, see you later!” She blows us a kiss and glides out of the room.
Slowly, the studio fills up again. Zoe and I change out of our tights and into black leggings and put on loose shirts over our leotards.
“Oh, shit,” she suddenly says softly. I follow her gaze. Two girls are just entering the room, one small and brunette and the other slightly taller, petite and blond and pretty.
“This isn’t good,” Zoe whispers next to me, but I don’t understand what she’s talking about.
“Why?”
“That’s Lia, Jase’s sister.”
“So?”
“Jase is in this class too, and the two of them don’t get along with each other at all.” Zoe’s forehead creases with worry. I’m about to ask more when Jase walks in with Skye. His laughter stops abruptly when he sees his sister. She sees him at the same moment and goes pale.
Seeing both of them together, the resemblance is unmistakable. The same blond hair, green eyes, and outrageously attractive features. Hers are softer than his, but now, when Lia sees her brother, her expression hardens. Her smile disappears just as quickly as his.
Jase stiffens, then comes over to us while his sister turns to her friend.
“Hey,” Zoe says quietly. He doesn’t say anything, just kisses her gently on the temple and looks at her in a way that makes me feel like I should look away.
She asks him a question, but I can’t hear what it is.
I look over at Skye, who just shrugs and then shakes her head with a barely audible sigh.
“Hello, everyone.” A bright, cheerful voice gets our attention.
A woman with short platinum-blond hair and bright eyes rushes into the studio.
She’s younger than I expected, maybe in her early thirties.
“Nice to see you all here! I’m Melanie Duncan, but please just call me Melanie.
” Some of the students begin to whisper to each other, but she continues speaking.
“I’m very excited to be teaching you this semester.
Does anyone here have experience with contemporary dance? ”
Most of the students shake their heads, and one boy raises his hand briefly.
“What about modern dance?”
Lia and her friend raise their hands, along with another girl and guy. Five out of thirty-five students.
“Great, then most of you are at the same level. That’s good. I’ll tell you what my plans are, and then we can get started, okay?”
We nod, and she gestures for us to sit down on the floor. She sits in front of us in one fluid motion and crosses her legs.
“I probably don’t have to tell you that contemporary dance is different from ballet; you already know that. But I’m going to say it anyway, because I’m sure that some of you are here even though you don’t necessarily want to be.”
She sizes us up, her bright eyes wandering from face to face.
Her gaze is open and friendly with no judgment, even though her words make it sound otherwise.
“In ballet, you strive for perfection. Cleanly executed moves are very important. You know what you’re aiming for and you follow the rules.
Contemporary combines elements of ballet with modern and jazz dance.
But we don’t have any rules. You make up your own.
It’s all about your interpretation. While ballet strives to defy gravity, we welcome it.
We focus on tension and release. We focus on your emotions. ”
Her words send a shiver down my back, and everything inside me freezes up. I don’t want to focus on my emotions. Not here. Not with so many people watching.
“Does that sound good?” She smiles at us, but the only answer is a subdued murmur that makes Melanie laugh quietly.
“I see that I’ll have to convince you that we’re going to have fun together.
We will, I promise. But of course it isn’t just about fun.
You’re here to learn and grow, and since I only have one semester with you, I’d prefer to make it clear right away what I expect from you.
I want you to approach this class with an open mind.
Contemporary dance isn’t ballet, and I know most of you dream of performing on the world’s greatest stages, and that’s fine.
But don’t forget that there’s more to life than ballet, and that this could actually help you.
That’s why you’ll all soon be choosing a song and developing your own choreography to it. ”
“But we already have choreography classes,” Lia’s friend says.
“I know,” Melanie replies. “I’m not asking you to come up with a perfect routine by the end of the semester.
I want you to choose a song and let your feelings speak, and then express exactly that through your dance.
If you want, and if it’s easier for you, you’re welcome to work in small groups.
But we’ll talk about that when the time comes.
In these first few weeks, I want you to loosen up a bit and get comfortable with this new territory.
” She stands up. “Shall we get started?”