Page 43 of Give Me Strength

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.

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