Page 5 of Swallow Your Sorries

His matter-of-fact words draw a twang of shame within me because he’s right.

But so am I.

“Yeah, neither will she. With no critiques on my form.”

“Let’s see it then. Your form.”

“You know about ballet?” I internally cringe at my own question. How many teenage boys could identify a prima ballerina? He must be a dancer too.

“Danced it since I was two. I took last year off to focus on lacrosse.”

He’s the embodiment of what I’d picture a lacrosse player to be. Weren’t they plastered all over a storefront at some point in black and white photographs?

“Are you going to get back into it? Ballet? Is that why you’re here?”

“Something like that.” He plugs his phone into the aux cord near the speakers. “What song?”

“Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

He rolls his eyes as if I couldn’t get more cliche if I tried.

Ignoring him, I get into position and begin. My heart picks up speed with each turn and jump, and it’s not from the effort. His intense stare unnerves me as if he’s analysing me right down to every hair and pore on my body. Heat and something else I can’t identify coils tight in the pit of my stomach.

Suddenly I’m hyper-aware of my body. I didn’t think I could be any more aware than when I was under Madame’s scrutinising gaze. But I was wrong.

So wrong.

I find myself watching him, watching me, not following myself in the mirror, as I typically do. I want to look away from him, but I can’t, like a car wreck you can’t peel your eyes away from.

Not that he’s a wreck. Not by a long shot. But somehow, I feel the chaos brewing just beneath his pale skin. I know it like I know these movements I’ve danced two thousand times before.

But under his gaze, under my heightened sense of awareness, I don’t feel nervous like I always do with Madame. I don’t wish there were other dancers to hide myself amongst, hoping to blend in so much that I fade away altogether. No. I want him to watch me.

I wantallof his attention.

When the music ends and I land in an arabesque, I feel exhilarated. For once, I think I’ve nailed it because I wasn’t zoned in on the choreography itself. I was so focused on him focusing on me that I let myself flow with the music. It felt so natural. So—

A strong hand grasps my thigh, lifting it higher. Another clasps the back of my neck and gently pushes me down an inch, relieving some tension in my back.

“You’re going to injure your back if you keep it that straight,” he says, his fingers stroking down my spine. “You land at a ninety-degree, but you hold it for less than a second before dropping your leg to an eighty-degree. The Beaulieu staff at your audition will notice that.”

I nod. How hadn’t I noticed it?

My right leg trembles from holding the position too long, and my knee buckles, but he braces his leg behind mine. “And obviously, your support leg is weak. It’s evident during most lifts.”

I nod again, exhaling as he releases me. I want to fall on my ass and hug my legs to stop the dull pain throbbing within them, but I listen intently, giving him my full attention. Not that I have to try hard to focus. His gaze beneath heavy lashes is magnetic,inescapable.

“You land with the force of a baby elephant.”

The magical, magnetic, inescapable connection miraculously snaps. Tearing my eyes away, I stare at the floor.

He tips my chin up, forcing me to look at him. “And that has nothing to do with your body size,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “It takes skill to land gracefully. Another thing you need to work on if you want to get into Beaulieu.”

At the school’s name, I straighten and nod again, a hunger spreading through my belly. There’s noifabout it. Beaulieu is as much of my dream as ballet itself is. “What else?” I ask.

“Your turns are sloppy.”

I struggle not to flinch. No, this is exactly the feedback I want to hear. That I need to hear.

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