Page 183 of Swallow Your Sorries

I thought I was used to rigorous ballet schedules, but my normal classes combined with double and even triple sessions with Gant, where we go over Cinderella’s choreography non-stop, are beginning to take its toll. Some of our classes are extremely technical and critical. Others are painful from the positions, others pleasurable from the positions. Sometimes it’s a combination of the two.

Still, I know it’s not enough if I want a chance in hell of landing even a minor role in the play. Gant insisted we practised Cinderella’s parts, but I’d be relieved to even land the role of fairy godmother or a stepsister. It’d give me enough stage time to hopefully catch a scout’s attention.

So I continued practising in the dorm without him, even when he harassed me to get some rest. I could afford a rest after the auditions. Besides, my persistence is clearly paying off because I’m no longer Mistress Errard’s target for every class. In fact, I managed to get through adagio without a singular negative comment and today when we performed petite allegro, she’d actually complimented metwice.

And to think, it’s largely due to Gant Auclair’s help.

I need these auditions to be over with. Not just because I need a break from all the practice sessions before we gear up for rehearsals, but because I’ve been spending an insane amount of time with Gant. And that time’s blurring the rules of the game way too much.

I’m getting too comfortable with him and I’m hanging onto every word.

“I want you to be more than just my doll.”

I hadn’t brought it up again because honestly, I don’t think I want to know.

I don’t want to get confused and that must be what he’s trying to do. Confuse me.

Just like Mum. Every time I call her, there’s background noise. Guitar riffs, clinking tankards, shooting pool balls and the wind as she slips outside to pretend she’s somewhere else but right up the street from me.

I haven’t confronted her. Each time I called, because she hasn’t been calling me, I’d hoped the phase would’ve passed. I’d hope to hear meat slicers and cargo trucks and Pearline yelling, “Swiss with honey ham on a rye, Jaime!”

Lately, we hadn’t been calling at all. Just texting. Short little quick messages where she could pretend to be home. Or at work. Or anywhere but just up the street.

“For fuck’s sake Elle, please go to sleep now,” Stassi says from her bed, squinting at me in the moonlight. “You’re going to put a hole in the floor if you keep spinning.”

I expect Aria to chime in with a retort too, but lately, she’s been painfully quiet. Keeping her head buried in her computer or beneath the covers.

“Sorry,” I say, then wince as I collapse on my bed. I need a minute before I can even bend down to take my pointe shoes off. I do take out my headphones, however. If I had to listen to Cinderella’s soundtrack one more time my ears would start to bleed.

The moment my head hits the pillow, my phone lights up with a text message.

It’s not a pep message from Mum wishing me luck on the auditions tomorrow. To be honest, I don’t think she remembers.

Open the left compartment of your gym bag.

I’m about to type. Whois this?But then I realise the number’s already saved in my phone asYour Grace. I roll my eyes and reach for my gym bag that’s peeking out from beneath my bed. Once I manage to unzip it with fingers that barely want to cooperate from sheer exhaustion, I pull out the last thing I could ever expect.

A little Gant doll. The kind where the heads are too big for the body and the face only has round eyes. No nose and no mouth. The hair’s made of fine black yarn, and the back’s buzzed off just like Gant’s undercut. Its naked body is soft like cashmere and the same pale colour as Gant’s skin. Thankfully, it doesn’t have a penis or nipples, though a bit of stitching in the rounded stomach that showcases an impressive set of pillowy abs.

Damn, I hate how fucking cute it is as I stare into its far-apart black eyes and a smile tugs at my lips.

My phone pings again.

Your Grace:I’m turning into a rag doll. Just like you. If I stay like this, I’ll stop cracking. You’ll be able to do whatever the fuck you want to me, and I won’t splinter anymore. I won’t shatter.

Yes, it has to be sheer exhaustion because why do tears prick at my eyes?

Another ping.

Your Grace:When you slept in my arms, like my little doll, I didn’t have any more nightmares that night. You didn’t have any either. Maybe because I’m your little doll too.

More eye prickling. More sniffling.

Your Grace:So sleep with me tonight and don’t have any nightmaresand I’ll do the same.

A picture of Gant sleeping with a little Elle doll with long red yarn hair, and spreadeagle on his face, pops up. The tip of his wet tongue is curled between the legs.

For a second, I think he’s wearing a salt and pepper ushanka, and then I realise it has eyes. Zoi. He’s curled along the top of Gant’s pillow, his belly covering half of Gant’s head.

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