Page 6 of Swallow Your Sorries

“You didn’t land on the correct foot twice. Soften your elbows and work on your hand poses in the mirror daily. They should be relaxed yet precise. It should look effortless, not like you’re experiencing rigour mortis.”

I swallow. “T-thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll work on all of that.”

He lifts a brow as if surprised by my easy reception.

“That’s more feedback than I’ve gotten in two months here.”

He says nothing, disconnecting his phone as I grab my gym bag and fish out my phone. A relic from my twelfth birthday.

My father, Jarett, promised to pick me up today at five. Thirty minutes after class ends. Normally I take the bus so it surprised and terrified me when he offered.

I check my notifications, my heart accelerating for an entirely different reason than the lacrosse model standing beside me. Thankfully, it slows just as fast as it takes off. No calls from Jarett yet. I knew better than to call him. I knew better than to keep him waiting.I’llwait outside for thirty minutes before catching the last bus and sending him a text. It’s the best way to avoid conflict. Minimal contact at all times.

I shiver at the potential awkward car ride home and say a silent prayer that he forgets all about it.

“Is your class about to start?” I ask as we move down the hallway together. I’m headed for the exit, but there are four more studios before the exterior door. They’re all empty though. In fact, the entire studio is empty. I don’t think night classes start until six thirty. Maybe he’s taking a private lesson.

Before he can answer, a moan to our right stops us dead.

It’s coming from the girls’ locker room. I always avoided it. Madame brought enough attention to my breasts. I didn’t need to shower in front of my class and give the girls another reason to giggle as if I was some anomaly and not just a girl with C cups.

A man’s moan echoes next.

Is someone watching porn?

Curiosity gets the better of me, and without thinking, I step towards the door. I barely make it two steps before fingers curl around the neckline of my leotard and retch me back.

The boy slides in front of me, leading the way into the locker room. I want to protest, but the warning look he throws over his shoulder tells me to shut up and stay behind him as if I need protection.

Protection from what? Two students going at it? I’m not that naïve.

As I ease the heavy door close behind us, he looks around the tiled wall that hides the showers from view before quickly whipping his head back to face the door again. He’s even paler than before, his expression frozen in shock.

Maybe he’s the innocent one…

No, not with the way he touched me. So then what?

I brush past him and peer into the showers where the water is on full blast and a couple’s under the stream. The woman has her back against the tile, her legs wrapped around a man’s waist, her face hidden in his neck.

His neck… that has a tattoo of a hammerhead shark on it…

As the man drives into her and their slippery bodies slap together rhythmically, she lifts her face and moans, right in tune with my horrified scream that never leaves my lips.

Ringed fingers clamp down on my mouth, but we don’t move.

We don’t breathe.

We’re both glued to the spot.

Of all the things I expected to find, it wasn’t my dad fucking Madame Pelletier.

Minutes later, the boy’s grip slackens and so does my dread with every slosh and splash of water.

My dad was fucking Madame Pelletier…

My dad was fucking Madame Pelletier…

He was cheating on my mom…

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