Page 217 of Swallow Your Sorries

“Fucking hell,” Hale mutters again as Bae guides her head, with more gentleness than I’d expect, straight to his belt buckle that she licks clean. The big finale apparently because the hall erupts into cheers, much to Rin’s annoyance and humiliation as she straightens and storms toward the exit where at Bae’s nod, the boys let her go and I watch as she disappears into the dark.

But it’s not Rin’s retreating form that I’m staring at. It’s the teacup between Aria and I’s feet that my eyes lock onto. For a second, I swear I see Mum’s teacup, the destroyed one with the little red-haired girl on the front.

Mum.

Mum was porcelain.

Following my gaze, Gant swipes the mess out of view with his foot.

“See. I told you you don’t want to be porcelain,” he says.

It’s all so surreal.

Everything is.

“You…you’re not mad about Beaussip’s post?”

“Mad that you wanted everyone to know how obsessed with you I am? Never. I just followed your rule about keeping quiet because you asked. Because you planned everything so well. I’m proud of you, dove.”

“Are you Beaussip?” I ask, my voice wavering.

“No. I’m her favourite untouchable. She runs all articles related to me through me first.”

“When you were king.”

“I still am.”

I look at Hale. “So what? He’s your puppet?”

“It’s good for everyone to know their roles. Hale knows his deep down, and you know yours.”

“What am I?” I want to hear him say it. Again.

“My girlfriend. My dove. My doll. My princess. Because you don’t have to be Cinderella to become my princess, Elle. You already are.”

Elle

Gant may not be Beaulieu’s king anymore, but everyone's still following his orders to ignore me after a few days of sniggers, gossip, and clear contempt. Or are they just distracted because dress rehearsals are sheer madness?

Plays at Beaulieu are such grand performances that it seems like half the student population is involved in one way or another whether they are ballet dancers or not. There are costumes and set design, technical aspects with the lights and sound system, and even the constant shuffling of food carts thanks to the home economics students as Mistress will have a stroke if any of the dancers leave to eat in the hall.

Our lives are the stage now. No more theory classes. No more ringing bells to suggest the end of a session. No more anything but dance and no more Gant and I.

He’s always with Cinderella, Aria, and I’m always with the chorus.

Every waking hour has been a blur of aching feet, sweat, and tons of costumes that Ms. Trix and the drama costume department are still sewing finishing touches onto mid-pirouette. Ms. Trix had the brilliant idea to keep Cinderella’s bodices reasonably simple, adding far more sparkle and jazz to the adjustable tutus and headpieces. That way if I did get a chance on stage, I wouldn't be spilling out of the costume made for a petite Aria.

Not that there’s a chance in hell I’ll get the opportunity.

I watch the happy, newly married couple now as the music for the wedding guests comes to an end and I slip into the shadows with the rest of the chorus.

Aria looks absolutely beautiful with the stage lights streaming through her sheer veil and lighting up the gorgeous, silvery-white wedding dress beautifully. If I didn’t know it was a ballet, I would truly think Aria and Gant are in love because the way they’re smiling at each other seems like nothing sort of wedded bliss.

Wedding.

Family.

Grand Pa Pa.

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