Page 5 of The Good Girl

My mother insisted that I started pre-ballet when I was three, and then we moved onto formal lessons when I turned seven. Children’s bodies are too soft and malleable for proper ballet lessons until their bones begin to harden, otherwise I’m convinced she would have had me in classes as soon as I’d taken my first steps. It was supposed to help with my grace and poise, and I have to give it to her, she was right. My body was supple and limber after years of training, and if I was allowed to be a professional dancer, if that was ever an option for me, I don’t doubt that I could succeed. My father, however, just saw it as another one of my many talents, and it was useful for touting me around the political arena.

Slipping on one ballet shoe, I wiggle my toes painfully before wrapping the ribbons in place, wincing. It might not be a stress fracture, it could just be a muscle issue…but deep down I think it’s not. Which means I’ll have to take it easy in cheerleading practice too. My father will think I’m weak, and unable to fulfil my duties if I don’t at least try and push through the pain.

“A woman’s greatest strength is her body, you should know how to wield it like a weapon.” My mother once said after she’d sat in one of my lessons, looking every inch a starlet with her perfect hair, crimson lips and skintight dress. The red bottoms of her heels flashing with every elegant step, every sway of her hips as she walked away without making a comment on my routine.

She’d been right, of course. The Society expected us to know self-defense, how to handle weapons and, of course, to be physically fit. It wasn’t quite as organized as having actual classes for the Legacies, but more like we were encouraged to have particular hobbies to help sharpen our skills, like boxing, clay pigeon shooting, hunting, polo and dance. Athena and Atlas were judo 2nddan blackbelts, while Tabitha was an incredible gymnast and sprinter. God knows what Tristan’s chosen sport was, his father didn’t seem to be as invested in his offspring like the other Council members were.

“Warm up,” a soft French voice commands, and I get to my feet.

As expected of Silvercrest Academy, the dance studio was large, well lit and perfect for almost any kind of dance. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line one wall, while another let brilliant streams of light in through huge windows. I felt safe here, well…as safe and relaxed as I can considering Madame Alder is about to tear into me for my sloppy form. And she will, because as much as I can ignore the pain in my right foot, putting my full weight on it will be next to impossible.

Seconds later, as I lean across and stretch against the barre in the middle of the room, I wince and hear that French lilt again. “Why are you favoring your left leg?”

Grinding my teeth together, I play with the idea of hiding the pain from Madame Alder, but I know it’s pointless and my body aches as the stress of the day begins to wear me down. “I think I may have a fracture.”

We stare at each other for a moment, before her voice pinches. “Stop, I refuse to do pointe if you think you have a fracture. Remove your slippers, today we will do floor barre.”

She rubs her fingers to her temples, as though she’s the one in pain, and gives me a frustrated look. I can feel myself buckling under the weight of her stare. “I can do this.”

Holding a hand up to silence me, her eyes narrow. “No, I am the teacher here, Miss Montgomery. I do not care who your father is.”

“Please…” There’s a pressure in my chest, and I feel like I’m on the precipice of losing control today. I can’t have my father hear about this.

“No. Now get onto the floor mat or get out.”

Swallowing, I try again. I can’t let this stop me. I can’t fail. “I…”

“Out. Now.” With a wave of her hand, she dismisses me, and when I don’t move, she crosses her arms. “Leave, Elena.”

Grabbing my pumps, I storm from the classroom and run to the changing rooms before tears start spilling. At this time of day, it’s dead, everyone is either in their classes or in the common room for their free period, so I know no one is going to see me as I tear my shoes off and throw them at the lockers.

My eyes burn as hot, angry tears fall, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. The tightness in my chest builds until it feels like it’s going to consume me. I try to calm down, to breathe slower, but I can’t seem to suck in enough air. How did I get here? I was Elena Montgomery, cheerleading captain, on the debate team, ballet dancer, highest grades in the school, daughter of the mayor. I did not do crying. I did not do meltdowns. Except I’m still choking on my own tears as I suffocate on my frustrations. Heaving sobs mean that I barely register it when someone wraps their arms around me and guides me towards the shower. The warm jets come on, and I’m pulled to the floor, in a heap of limbs as someone strokes my hair and tells me to calm down.

It feels like an eternity has passed before my sobs become silent, morphing into deep breaths as I try to stop my bottom lip from trembling. I turn my head slightly, to lock eyes with Clayton Windsor, another Legacy here at Silvercrest. I didn’t really know him that well since he likes to keep away from us as much as he could. I did know however that he was the resident drug dealer, peddling his father’s pharmaceuticals and imports to the other students. His mother was the one to watch in the Windsor family, kind of like the unhinged aunt that everyone avoided at Christmas, and part of me wonders if that’s why he always tried to create distance between himself and us. Us. I’m not part of the ‘us’, since I do exactly the same thing.

“Wha…” I can’t get my words out, my throat scratchy and sore, especially since my screaming fit earlier on the roof with Tristan.

“Breathe, El, it’s just a panic attack.” El. He hadn’t called me that since we were kids. Hell, he hadn’t had a proper conversation with me since we were twelve. “Breathe. You’re going to be okay, just calm down and focus on my voice.”

When I’m calmer, I shift out of his lap and sit facing him on the opposite wall. My bruised and battered feet look awful, and when he sees them, he takes my foot into his lap and begins gently rubbing it. It’s strangely intimate for someone who purports not to care about The Society or the other Legacy children, but that’s just how things are around here. We’re programmed to look out for one another, even though we’re also taught to be wary of each other. I don’t push him away, because I know he won’t hurt me, and I’m hesitant to break our contact just yet. I need comfort, I’m aware of how touch-starved I am but I won’t find this at home. Dancing wasn’t going to give me the same release until my foot was healed and for five minutes I just wanted to not have to think.

“Please don’t tell anyone about this,” I whisper as the water continues to soak us both to the bone. I couldn’t have my parents finding out that I was in the changing room, hiding like a coward after having a meltdown. I was Elena, I didn’t have meltdowns. I was cool and composed at all times. I was a good girl.

“The panic attack or the foot rub?” he asks with a smile, his blue eyes looking mischievous, blond curls slick to his face as they become weighed down with water.

“The panicking. I don’t care about the massage. That feels nice.” I don’t ask him why he was lingering around the school during lesson time, because I already knew that he rarely went to class. I’m just grateful that he was passing the changing rooms at that exact moment.

“Calm down, I’m not going to say a word about this, and Tristan would cut my hands off if he knew they’d been anywhere on your body.” I snort at his words, and he chuckles in return. I was Tristan’s property in the eyes of The Society, and the others respected that, otherwise they’d risk offending the Radcliffe family. Placing my feet back down gently, his voice is soft as he says, “Get changed back into your uniform and then you can go on being Miss Perfect. No one will be any wiser.”

Heading over to my locker, I pull my bag and my uniform out. “I owe you, if there’s anything I can do to return the favor, let me know.”

He looks at me, face serious for a moment, and just as I think he’s about to say something about hiding a body or covering up a crime, his expression shifts. “Well, about the school’s no-smoking policy…”

With another laugh, I give him a playful shove. “Anything but that, Clay.”

“I had to try.” He holds his hands up and shrugs, before turning away and leaving with little more than a nod in my direction, and I know that everything is back to normal, meaning he probably wouldn’t speak to me for another six years.

With a deep breath that fills my lungs, I feel like a weight has been lifted, if only for a little while. Peeling my soaked dance clothes off, I get dressed and try to prepare for what I’m going to face when I get home.

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